Supreme Spouse System.

Chapter 487: The Morning After the Storm

The Morning After the Storm

Natsha looked at him, her voice barely above a whisper.

"For who?"

Leon didn’t answer.

The silence said enough.

The capital of Vellore breathed again—slowly, painfully—like something reborn into a world that had forgotten kindness. Smoke still rose from the western quarter, curling above rooftops that had once glimmered with pride. Now they were ash and ruin. The red river that cut through the heart of the capital no longer reflected the moon—it ran dark and heavy, dyed crimson by the blood of those who fought for rebellion and those who died defending it.

Leon stood on the terrace overlooking the city, his cloak tattered, his eyes distant. The wind carried the metallic scent of blood and burnt stone. His fingers flexed unconsciously, as if the memory of battle still pulsed through his veins.

Natsha watched him from the side, the faint morning light tracing the curve of her face. The exhaustion in her eyes couldn’t hide the quiet steadiness beneath. She had bled for this city too, though her war had been a different kind—a war of masks, of guilt, of hidden truths.

Leon’s voice came, low and simple, cutting through the stillness.

"For me... and for my family."

Natsha froze.

The words were soft, almost too plain for the weight they carried. But in his tone, she heard everything—the years of loss, the ghosts of those he couldn’t save, the endless burden of choices that scarred the soul more than any blade.

She didn’t reply. Her gaze drifted toward the horizon where the first light of dawn pushed against the clouds, faint and hesitant. The sun’s edge glowed faintly, brushing the crimson-stained river with hints of gold.

Leon turned to her then. His face was drawn, tired, but there was a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips—a smile that held no joy, only quiet determination.

"Come on," he said softly. "We need to go. Give your sister her final goodbye before I meet with the council this afternoon."

Natsha blinked, as if the words needed a moment to sink in. "My sister..." she whispered. Then her voice broke just a little, the sound trembling in her throat. "You mean—"

He nodded. "Yes."

She swallowed hard, eyes glistening. "I... I thought I wouldn’t be able to."

Leon’s expression softened. He reached out, his hand steady despite the tremor in his body from fatigue. "You’re stronger than you think."

For a heartbeat, she hesitated—then her hand found his. The contact was small, but it silenced the storm in her chest.

His voice dropped, quiet but certain. "I’m always with you."

Natsha’s breath caught. Something inside her, something buried under layers of guilt and loss, began to shift. She nodded slowly, eyes wet, unable to speak.

Leon’s magic stirred—an almost invisible current of power rising from beneath their feet. The air around them shimmered faintly, particles of light gathering like dust in the dawn. He raised his hand slightly, and the ground answered. Their bodies lifted gently from the blood-soaked stones, suspended by his mana.

Natsha’s fingers tightened around his hand as the earth fell away beneath them. Her heartbeat thudded in her ears, not from fear, but from the strange peace that came with the wind brushing her skin, with the warmth of his palm anchoring her in the air.

They drifted higher, above the ruins, above the scent of iron and smoke. The wind caught her hair and scattered it behind her like a black ribbon. Below them, the city stretched wide—rivers of blood glinting in the sunrise, rooftops broken, banners torn. The once-proud symbol of Vellore—the golden lion—lay toppled in the central square, half-buried in dust.

Leon’s voice came again, steady despite the ache beneath it.

"This isn’t victory," he murmured. "It’s survival."

Natsha turned her gaze to him. The light of dawn caught his golden eyes, and for a brief moment, he looked less like a conqueror and more like a man who had seen too much.

She wanted to speak—wanted to tell him that survival was enough—but the words never formed. Instead, she let the silence speak between them as they descended.

The courtyard below was scarred by battle. Broken pillars and shattered blades littered the ground. The scent of magic still clung to the air—remnants of spells unleashed in desperation. A few soldiers were stationed near the gates, weary but alert, their armor dented and faces streaked with soot.

When Leon’s boots touched the ground, several of them straightened immediately.

"My lord," one of the guards called, stepping forward with a hand pressed to his chest. His armor was blood-smeared, the insignia of the lion barely visible beneath the grime. "The streets are secured. Rebel cells have been suppressed through the southern district. We’re finishing the last clean-up near the river quarter."

Leon nodded slightly, his voice even. "And the nobles?"

"Most of them are gathered in the palace hall," the guard said. "Waiting for your word. Some... are still in shock."

Leon exhaled slowly, his jaw tightening. "Let them wait."

The guard bowed, then hesitated before adding, "Sir, the people... they’re restless. Rumors are spreading that the throne’s empty. They’ll need to hear something soon."

Leon’s gaze flicked toward the distant palace where smoke still coiled upward from the ruins of the west wing. "They’ll hear it this afternoon."

The guard nodded and stepped back, glancing briefly at Natsha before leaving.

When they were alone again, Natsha turned to him quietly. "You mean to stand before them? After all this?"

"I have to," Leon said. "Someone must speak before the silence grows teeth."

Her brows drew together. "And if they don’t listen?"

He looked at her, that same weary half-smile tugging at his lips again. "Then I’ll make them."

For a moment, she could almost see it—the fire that burned in him, the same one that had carried him through every loss, every impossible choice.

But beneath that fire was something else. Something human.

He looked away, toward the rising sun bleeding across the sky. "The kingdom needs order, Natsha. Before the vultures arrive."

Her hand brushed against his sleeve, a small, grounding gesture. "And you’ll carry that weight alone again, won’t you?"

Leon didn’t answer.

The silence between them was thick but not cold. It felt like the quiet after a storm—fragile, uncertain, but alive.

Finally, he turned to her. "Rest while you can. The capital’s about to wake."

She nodded faintly, her eyes trailing up toward the palace towers where smoke mingled with sunlight.