Supreme Spouse System.

Chapter 513: The Court of Shadows and Dawn

The Court of Shadows and Dawn

The grand hall was hushed beneath the soft glow of torchlight, their flames bending faintly in the draft that whispered through the high arches. The air smelled of stone and polish, of an old kingdom reawakening under a new ruler’s quiet fire.

Leon sat upon his throne — not as a conqueror, but as a man who had already seen the weight of crowns. His golden eyes caught the flicker of light from above, calm but unreadable, his expression carved somewhere between command and restraint. The great sigil of Vel shimmered faintly behind him, its edges traced by dawn that hadn’t yet reached the horizon.

A soft echo carried through the court doors — boots meeting stone.

"Call Ronan," Leon said.

His voice was low, but it carried through the hall like steel cutting air.

Moments later, the heavy doors creaked open. Ronan stepped through, posture straight and eyes alert, the weight of years and battles written across the scar on his cheek. He was dressed in his old military uniform, now polished and tailored anew, though his movements carried the easy confidence of a man long accustomed to chaos.

When he stopped before Leon, he bowed deeply — hand to chest, gaze lowered.

"My king."

Leon’s lips tugged slightly upward, a rare smile softening his normally steady composure. "You still bow too deeply, old friend."

Ronan chuckled, straightening his back but leaving his hand at his heart. "And you still sound far too calm for someone sitting on a throne that could kill a man with its politics alone." His grin widened. "Now you don’t need to burden these old shoulders anymore, my king."

Leon let out a breath that was almost a laugh. "You underestimate how much I relied on those old shoulders, Ronan."

Their gazes met — not as king and subject, but as brothers who had walked through fire together. There was no need for long speeches between them; years of unspoken trust bridged what words could not. Still, a faint shadow passed through Leon’s eyes. He’d lost many — too many — and the few who remained carried pieces of him he couldn’t show anyone else.

"Come," Leon said, rising from his throne. His boots echoed lightly on the marble as he stepped down the dais. "Don’t stand so stiff. You make the rest of them nervous."

Ronan gave a half-smile. "If they’re nervous, they’re paying attention."

Leon tilted his head, amused. "You’ve learned diplomacy without ever being a diplomat."

Ronan’s grin faded a bit, sensing something beneath those words. Leon’s tone shifted — softer, personal. "You’ve been beside me since before I had this title. Before they called me king. You saw me bleed, fail, rebuild." He paused, searching Ronan’s face. "Now, I need you again — not as my general, but as something else."

Ronan’s brows furrowed slightly. "What do you mean?"

Leon looked at him squarely, the flicker of candlelight catching in his golden eyes. "Lord Ronan, I want you to serve me as the Diplomatic Minister of Vel."

The hall stirred faintly — murmurs rippling through those standing along the pillars. Ronan blinked, stunned for a moment, as though he’d misheard.

"Me?" he asked finally, his tone carrying both disbelief and reluctant amusement. "You’re serious?"

Leon’s expression softened into a confident smile. "There’s no one better. You’ve fought men, but you also understand them. You know when to hold a sword and when to lower it. That’s rarer than loyalty."

Ronan stared at him for a heartbeat longer, searching for a trace of jest — but Leon’s sincerity was absolute.

Then, slowly, the old warrior bowed once more, this time less formal, more genuine. "As you wish, sire."

Leon reached out, placing a hand briefly on his shoulder. "And as I wish, so it will be."

The warmth of the moment lingered between them — the king who carried the world on his back, and the soldier who’d carried him through it.

Ronan stepped back, eyes gleaming faintly. "Then I’ll make sure our enemies learn to speak peace before they remember war."

Leon chuckled under his breath. "That’s the spirit."

When he looked back up, his eyes swept across the chamber. The rest of his court stood waiting — the faces that would shape the coming dawn. Among them, Alina stood nearest the steps, her pink hair glinting faintly under the torches, her posture poised yet uneasy.

Leon’s voice carried again, steady and warm. "Lady Alina."

She straightened instantly, eyes meeting his. "Yes, my king?"

Leon smiled, not the cold smile of a ruler, but one that felt almost human — disarming, teasing, alive. "Like I promised before — I’ll grant you the position of Prime Minister. But first, you’ll need to travel across the noble houses. Inform them that Vel’s throne has been restored. I want them to kneel, not out of fear, but choice."

Alina blinked, clearly caught between pride and disbelief. "You... you trust me with that?"

Leon nodded. "If you fail, don’t worry." His tone softened, a sly smile touching his lips. "I’ll still make you Prime Minister. Because if I don’t, I’ll have trouble keeping you out of my court."

Laughter rippled faintly around the hall, but Alina just stared — a bit dumbfounded, her pink eyes searching his face as if to see whether he truly meant it.

Finally, she smiled — small, uncertain, but genuine. "Understood... my king. I won’t fail you."

"I know," Leon replied simply.

For a moment, the tension of the court melted. The air seemed lighter — laughter blending with quiet admiration. Around Leon, the women and nobles of the court exchanged glances, some smiling, some whispering about how the new king’s charm and confidence made the room itself breathe again.

Leon let his gaze sweep over them — Rias, her crimson hair glowing like flame; Aria, cool and elegant with her violet gaze; Cynthia, composed as shadow; Syra and Kyra, both radiant with quiet confidence; and the others — Nova, Mia, Lira, Sona, Tsubaki, Natasha — each unique in their bearing, their presence both alluring and disciplined. The maids stood at the edge — Fey, Rui, Mona, Lena, and Mira — black hair gleaming beneath the torchlight, eyes lowered but attentive, loyal to the pulse of their king’s will.