Supreme Spouse System.

Chapter 490: The Voice in the Square

The Voice in the Square

The afternoon sun hung high, burning through the thin veil of smoke still clinging to the capital. Vel, once proud and golden, now wore its wounds openly—blood dried into the cobblestones, broken banners fluttering weakly in the faint wind. The air smelled of ash, iron, and a kind of uneasy silence that always came after battle.

Everywhere Leon’s army had passed, the world bore scars. Swords lay half-buried in mud, the stone paths streaked red where soldiers had dragged bodies toward the pyres. The sound of distant hammering echoed faintly—repairs beginning even as the echoes of death refused to fade.

By the time the sun began to tilt westward, people had started gathering in the city’s heart—the Grand Square of Vel. Once it had been a place of music and commerce. Today, it looked like a half-buried grave. The fountains had run dry. The marble statues of the Lion of Vellore were cracked, their proud faces smeared with soot. And the people... they came quietly, eyes sunken, steps hesitant.

Farmers, merchants, soldiers too young to remember why they fought—all drawn by a rumor. That something was to be announced. That someone new would speak for the kingdom.

They filled the square in small, nervous clusters. Mothers kept children close. Men muttered behind hands, their voices rough with exhaustion and suspicion.

"Is it over?"

"I heard they hanged the nobles who betrayed the crown."

"No—someone said the royal line isn’t dead. A woman, they said. From Aden’s blood."

Each whisper fed the next until the square felt alive again, but not with hope—more like the nervous pulse of prey before the storm. Faces turned at every sound. The wind carried murmurs and the faint tang of blood still fresh between the stones.

Then came the sound of boots. Heavy, synchronized. Metal glinted in the sunlight.

A unit of soldiers entered from the north gate, their armor burnished but bare—no lion insignia, no royal crest. Only simple steel and discipline. They marched in silence until the crowd parted instinctively, the fear of the unknown driving them back.

At their head walked a woman.

Her hair caught the sun in streaks of soft pink, and her eyes—sharp, round, and unflinching—swept the square like she was memorizing every soul before her. She wore a fitted commander’s coat trimmed with silver thread, her movements precise and measured. Behind her trailed two banners, pure white, symbol of peace—or surrender, depending on how one chose to see it.

The woman stopped at the center dais where once the king’s edicts were read. She took a breath, let the silence hang, then spoke, her voice clear as glass:

"My name is Alina," she said. "Granddaughter of Sir Aden Vellore."

The words hit the square like a thunderclap.

For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then the murmur started again, spreading like fire through dry grass.

"Granddaughter?"

"Sir Aden had no heir!"

"She’s lying."

"Maybe not—look at her eyes. There’s something..."

Alina didn’t flinch. Her soldiers formed a perimeter around the dais, shields locked, though no one dared move against her yet. She waited until the noise peaked, then raised a gloved hand. The crowd quieted, though the air still trembled with disbelief.

"I stand here not to seize what was never mine," she continued, "but to preserve what was left in ruin. My grandfather fought to keep this land from tearing itself apart. And I—I have come to see that his legacy is not lost to blood or greed."

Her words were calm, but beneath them was steel. She had rehearsed this moment for weeks, maybe months. She had known the doubts would come.

A man’s voice rose from somewhere near the front—a hoarse, older voice that carried a kind of weary courage.

"You claim to be Sir Aden’s kin. Yet everyone knows he never took a wife. Never had a child. What proof do you offer us, stranger?"

Alina’s gaze flicked toward him. He was a smith by the look of his hands—broad, scarred, blackened with soot. She met his eyes, and for the first time, her voice softened.

"I do not blame you for doubt," she said. "In a kingdom where lies were once law, truth is a hard thing to trust."

Then she reached into her coat and drew out a folded document sealed with a deep blue wax sigil—the crest of Vellore, unmistakable even through years of dust and blood.

"This," she said, holding it aloft, "is my proof. A declaration written by Sir Aden himself. It bears his signature—the same mark every soldier in his command once swore by."

She broke the seal, and one of her guards stepped forward, unrolling the parchment carefully. The crowd surged closer, straining to see. The ink was faded, but the handwriting—bold, slanted, and disciplined—was unmistakable to any who had served under the old king.

Gasps rippled through the people.

"That’s his writing..."

"It can’t be—he died before the siege!"

"No one could forge that signature. Everyone knew how he drew the final line across the A."

But not everyone was convinced. Another man pushed through the crowd—a merchant with a crooked jaw and a soldier’s posture hidden beneath fine robes. His eyes were sharp with defiance.

"Anyone could copy a mark," he said. "Words mean nothing. I served under Sir Aden in his last campaign. I still carry his autograph—he gave it to me when he blessed my family for rebuilding the southern bridge after the flood."

He pulled a small piece of aged parchment from his sleeve, the edges frayed but the ink still dark. "Let us compare," he said loudly. "If your letter is truth, let the writing prove it."

The square went silent. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

For a moment, Alina said nothing. Her face gave away nothing—no fear, no irritation. Only a calm, deliberate acceptance.

"Bring it forward," she said.

The merchant hesitated, then stepped closer. Two soldiers parted to let him through. He climbed the dais, his hand trembling slightly as he placed the small parchment beside the larger one. The two signatures rested only inches apart.

The difference was barely visible—the same looping A, the same diagonal slant, the same confident downward stroke that only Aden Vellore had used.

Someone in the crowd gasped. Then another.

"They’re identical..."

"It matches perfectly."

"By the gods—it’s true."

Alina stepped back, letting them see. She didn’t smile. She didn’t need to. Her silence was a weapon sharper than any blade.