Supreme Spouse System.

Chapter 486: Blood Upon the Moon

Blood Upon the Moon

The moon still hung above the ruins like a pale wound in the sky, spilling its cold light over the city that once called itself Vellore.

Leon stood at the edge of what used to be the palace courtyard, the ground cracked and dark from his earlier landing. The air carried the faint scent of burnt stone and iron—a quiet reminder that peace hadn’t been kind to this place in years.

Beside him, Natsha sat on a broken step, her cloak draped loosely over her shoulders, her head bowed. The moonlight touched her black hair, turning it silver at the tips. She hadn’t said much since the crater. Her silence wasn’t cold anymore—just empty, like someone still listening to echoes of screams that had already faded.

Below them, the capital stretched out like a bleeding heart.

Vellore—once called "the city of light"—was now painted in red. The main river that cut through its heart ran thick with blood, carrying away the bodies of the rebel dead. The smell of iron clung to the air, thick and heavy. Torches burned along the walls, their glow reflected in the crimson water, as if the whole city was drowning in its own sin.

Natsha’s voice broke the silence, low and raw. "You’d think death would silence them," she said. "But it doesn’t. The city still groans."

Leon looked down at her. "Cities remember," he said quietly. "The stones, the air, the people—they hold everything we leave behind."

She gave a faint, bitter smile. "Then Vellore must be screaming."

Leon didn’t argue. He just stood there, his hands behind his back, eyes fixed on the distant palace that now burned under siege. From this far, it looked almost beautiful—like gold flames eating away an empire’s pride.

The royal palace, once the seat of the Vellore kings, now roared with chaos. Shadows of men moved across the battlements. Flashes of light—magic, explosions, desperate strikes—flared and vanished. The sound reached them as a faint rumble beneath the night wind.

"Rebels are finished," Leon said quietly. "But the nobles still haven’t learned."

Natsha glanced up, her eyes dim. "They never do. Power makes them deaf."

She wasn’t wrong.

Inside the capital, behind their marble walls, the surviving nobles were already at each other’s throats—arguing not about the dead, but about who would inherit the ashes. Some called for surrender. Others whispered of raising their own banners. And a few, those with too much gold and too little honor, were already plotting to sell the city to whoever promised survival.

Leon could almost hear their voices through the wind—schemes cloaked as speeches, cowardice wrapped in pride.

But there was something else, too. Something older.

Beneath the palace, deeper than the chambers of state or the vaults of gold, a pulse of mana trembled—slow, heavy, unnatural. The kind that didn’t belong to mortals.

Leon’s golden eyes flickered once, but he said nothing. Not yet.

He turned back toward Natsha, who still stared at the blood river below. Her hand rested loosely on her knee, knuckles bruised, her skin pale in the moonlight. She looked fragile now, like the anger had burned out of her, leaving only smoke.

"You should rest," he said.

She didn’t answer, just leaned her head back against the cold stone. "You know, I used to think fighting was the only way to live. That if I just kept killing, the world would make sense."

"And now?"

"Now," she said with a hollow laugh, "I just feel tired."

He looked at her, really looked this time. The sharpness she’d always worn—the fire, the bite—was still there, but faint, flickering like a candle against the wind.

"You’re still breathing," he said again, softly. "That’s enough for now."

Natsha exhaled, closing her eyes. "You keep saying that."

"Because it’s true."

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. Just... honest. Two people sitting at the edge of what they’d destroyed, watching the night bleed itself out.

---

Across the capital, another storm was forming.

Alina stood before her soldiers—the men and women who had followed her through fire, through disguise, through the madness of rebellion. Her armor was streaked with soot and blood, her silver insignia barely visible beneath it. Yet her eyes—those fierce, determined eyes—still burned clear.

The campfires behind her flickered low, casting light on faces that were loyal but uncertain. They knew her as Aden once—the man who had led them when no one else could. But now that the truth stood before them, unveiled and undeniable, the silence was thick.

"I never lied about what I fought for," Alina said, voice strong despite the crack at the edges. "I only lied about who I was. If that makes me unworthy of command, then say it. But if it doesn’t—then stand beside me. We still have a kingdom to rebuild."

For a moment, no one spoke.

The men exchanged glances. The old officers shifted uneasily. Their society had always taught them that men were born to lead, women to follow. That strength belonged to one side of the sword.

But then, one soldier stepped forward—a younger one, his voice rough but steady. "We followed you when you were Aden. We’ll follow you now, Captain."

Another voice rose, then another. Soon, the murmurs became a rumble of assent, the sound of hearts choosing truth over tradition.

Alina blinked once—relief and disbelief crossing her face all at once. She nodded slowly. "Then by the grace of heaven... we rise again."

No one asked why she hid her name. No one asked what she was before. They didn’t need to. She had bled beside them, led them, saved them. That was enough.

"Leon’s camp will move before dawn," she continued. "We join them at the eastern gate. The rebellion dies tonight."

Her soldiers saluted as one, the sound of armor clinking like distant thunder.

And for the first time in years, Alina allowed herself a quiet smile—small, almost shy, but real.

By the time the moon began to sink, the fighting had dwindled to whispers. Smoke curled through the narrow streets, rising over broken rooftops.