Supreme Spouse System.

Chapter 496: The Handwriting of a Ghost

The Handwriting of a Ghost

The square fell into silence the moment the letter was unsealed.

The faint sound of parchment unfolding cut through the morning air like a blade. Thousands watched as the royal scribe lifted the page, his voice trembling, reading aloud the words written in an unmistakable, flowing hand—Sir Aden’s handwriting.

The ink had faded in some places, but the strokes... the shape of each letter... there was no doubt. Even the way he curved his "R" and pressed too hard on his "T" carried the man’s mark.

Gasps rippled through the crowd like wind through dry leaves. Some stumbled back in disbelief. Others froze, their mouths half-open, hearts hammering in their chests.

"No... it can’t be..." whispered an old knight from the front line, his voice shaking. "That’s truly his hand."

The square’s noise died completely. What remained was the faint, cold wind brushing over marble, and the steady pulse of tension that held everyone still.

From her place at the center platform, Alina watched them, eyes sharp but calm. She held the letter in her gloved hand for a long moment, letting them see it with their own eyes.

"As I said," she began quietly, her voice echoing across the square, "you all doubted me. But now, you believe?"

Her tone wasn’t proud—it was tired. Controlled. Yet her gaze pinned them with quiet authority.

Slowly, the murmurs shifted. Heads began to nod. People glanced at one another, searching for words.

A young man from the merchant guild shouted from the second row, "We believe...! But—where is Sir Aden now? If that letter is truly his... where is he? Why didn’t he come himself?"

The question rippled through the masses. All eyes turned to Alina.

Kian, standing near the front beside the guards, looked uneasy. Her lips trembled before she spoke. "Yesterday... during the attack at the Vellore Palace..."

Her voice cracked. She swallowed, forcing the rest out. "My guardian father fought alongside our people. The intruder—the one calling himself the new king—brought warriors, unknown ones, with strange sigils and foreign steel. But in the end... Sir Aden fell. My father saw it himself."

A collective hiss rolled through the square.

"Impossible!" someone yelled.

"Sir Aden defeated? Never!"

"He was the Shield of the North!"

The crowd’s disbelief turned to outrage, a mix of denial and fear.

But Alina didn’t flinch. She let their noise burn itself out before she spoke again.

"It’s true."

The words hit like cold water. She raised the letter high, her silver hair catching the sunlight. "When Sir Aden fell, he made a pact—a royal accord—with the one who defeated him. A promise sealed by his own blood and oath. He exchanged not vengeance, but peace... in the name of our nation’s future."

The crowd’s uproar stilled again, confusion replacing fury.

Kian’s eyes glistened. "He handed me this letter before dawn," she said softly. "And then... he vanished. The new king tried to find him. We all did. But it’s as if the world swallowed him whole."

Whispers spread, a current of fear and sorrow winding through every face.

"He vanished?"

"Vanished how?"

"No body?"

"No trace?"

Someone fell to their knees, sobbing. Others simply stood, stunned, staring at the flag fluttering weakly above the palace towers.

Then came the shouting—grief turning to disbelief again. "You lie!" "This is staged!" "Where is his proof!"

The tension threatened to explode again—until Alina raised her hand.

Her magic rippled outward, a soft blue pulse that washed through the air and silenced all noise.

"Enough."

Her voice was low, but it carried weight, every syllable honed like a blade.

"Do not dishonor the one you claim to love with such doubt," she said, stepping forward, eyes glowing faintly under the morning light. "Sir Aden was no coward. He chose this path knowing what it would cost. If you cannot trust his last words, then you have already lost more than your king—you have lost your faith."

The crowd’s fury melted into uneasy stillness. Some bowed their heads. Others simply looked away, ashamed.

Even Xiro, who had been pacing near the back with his arms crossed, said nothing now. His crimson cloak rippled in the wind, his expression unreadable.

Alina turned slightly toward him, catching his gaze.

"Leave this matter for now," she said firmly. "We can mourn him later. But the realm still stands—and it needs a ruler."

Her voice softened, almost like a whisper. "The time has come."

A hush swept the entire square.

Xiro tilted his head, eyes narrowing, but said nothing. The guards shifted uneasily, glancing between Alina and the shadowed archway behind the platform.

Alina took one step back, facing the crowd again. Her tone grew ceremonial, her every word slow and deliberate.

"People of Vellore," she said, voice resonant now, "today you stand in the presence of change. You have seen the letter. You have heard the truth. And now... you shall meet the one chosen to carry that truth forward."

Her silver hair caught the light as she turned toward the grand stairway that led up to the palace balcony.

"My sire," she called, bowing deeply. "The stage is yours. Bless this kingdom with your gracious presence."

The crowd collectively turned, following her gaze.

The marble arch at the balcony shimmered faintly, light rippling across the air like heat. A presence began to form within it—dark at first, then outlined by gold.

A murmur spread like wildfire.

"Is that...?"

"It can’t be..."

"That aura..."

The very air changed. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

The figure stepped forward—slowly, deliberately. The cloak he wore was black trimmed with gold, its fabric heavy and regal. The faint glimmer of runes along its hem pulsed like heartbeat.

His boots struck the marble—one step, then another—and with each sound, the crowd grew quieter.

When he came into full light, gasps rippled again.

Golden eyes. Jet-black hair that caught the sun. A face the people had seen once before, long ago, carved in memory and in myth.

Leon Moonwalker.

But not as the shadowed warrior they remembered. This was something else—calmer, colder, more composed. His presence alone seemed to bend the air.

For a heartbeat, the crowd didn’t breathe.