[Silthara Palace — Night — Emperor's Private Chamber]
Night had fallen over Zahryssar, but the palace did not sleep.
The desert wind moved across the golden towers like a long whisper, carrying heat even in darkness, yet inside the emperor's chamber the air felt cold, heavy, and restless.
A single lamp burned near the obsidian table.
Scrolls lay open, records of the western border. Reports from the vault. Names of nobles. Seals of houses.
Zeramet sat alone.
His posture straight, one arm resting on the armrest of the carved throne-chair placed inside his private chamber, the long silver coils of his half-serpent form resting across the floor like living metal.
He had not moved for a long time, not since the bond had tightened, not since that moment when his chest felt as if something inside him had been struck.
His fingers pressed slowly against his sternum again; the feeling was gone now, But the unease remained.
His jaw tightened faintly.
"…Did his pheromones weaken…?"
