Supreme Spouse System.

The Apology That Broke Us

The storm hadn't let up. It screamed against the walls, slamming wind into the shuttered windows so hard the wood shuddered. Rain pounded the cliffs outside like it was trying to carve them down to bone. There was something ancient in it, like a curse still being spoken. And yet, inside—inside this house of thick stone and old timber—a fragile warmth clung to the air. Barely there. But it didn't let go.

Lanterns hummed low along the walls, casting soft halos against the beams and laying gold across the worn floorboards. The scent of meat stew, warm rice, and crushed herbs drifted through the hall—faint, but steady. Comfort, somehow. A whisper that they were still alive. For people who'd been soaked in fire and blood hours earlier, it was enough. Just enough to breathe.

They gathered close now—soldiers, merchants, maids, street hawkers. No names. No coin. No caste. Just the living, scraped clean. Dirt washed from their skin, wounds bound, burns eased by the strange little pills Leon had handed out like something holy. They sat wrapped in simple linen robes, still damp in places but clean. The soldiers, who'd barely made it back, rested along the far wall. Their armor had been cleaned—polished, even—but none of them sat straight. No pride in their shoulders. Just silence. They knew better than to carry victory into a room full of ghosts.

The safehouse had been a shelter. That was all. But now it felt... different. Like the grief had bled into the stone. Like something sacred had cracked open inside it. No one looked at anyone's hands. No one asked names. They were just people, breathing. The scent of bread rolled in warm from the kitchen, thick with rosemary. It mixed with the stew. Made the whole place feel almost safe. Too safe. Like it didn't belong here. And yet no one turned it away.

Maids moved quietly across the floor, soft-footed and pale-eyed. Children curled into mothers' robes. Some had fallen asleep; others just stared at the hearth like the fire would speak. A few men sat on the benches near the back, whispering with hands clasped, their faces newly scrubbed but still hollow. The pain was gone from their bodies, mostly. But their eyes carried something else. A weight that no hot water could touch.

Laughter came, once or twice. But it never stayed long. In one corner, a handful of maids tried to joke, stifling giggles behind their hands. The sound was soft, brittle, but real. Across the hall, a little girl with sleeves too long for her arms sat tapping a wooden spoon on the floor, quiet and content, while her mother braided her hair with slow, deliberate fingers—like if she moved too fast, the world might fall apart again. There was peace here. But not joy. Not yet. The air still held something heavy—something no one could name. A pressure that lived in the silence between words. Grief sat in every corner. Every still hand. For every smile in that room, there was someone not there to see it.

Black, Ronan, and Johny moved quietly through it all. Like shadows with purpose. They checked the rooms, gave soft orders, carried blankets and water. Their faces looked carved from exhaustion, but none of them showed it. They wore fatigue like armor. Tight. Hidden. Necessary. Rest didn't exist for people like them. Not yet.

And then—with a thick, low groan—the heavy door at the far end of the hall swung open.

A hush fell.

From the shadowed corridor beyond, footsteps echoed. Slow. Steady.

And then he appeared—Leon Moonwalker.

But not the way they remembered him.

The sight pulled something sharp and sudden from more than a few hearts in that room.

He wasn't draped in black and gold. No flowing cape, no shining crest. The robes that once marked his power were gone. What he wore now was plain. Modest. The kind of robe any man could wear. And yet, somehow, the change didn't strip him of anything. It added to him. Deepened him. The space around him still pulled the eye—commanded attention. His hair, long and black as night, was loose now, brushing over his shoulders. His eyes—those still, golden eyes—moved across the room with quiet clarity. Like he saw everything. Like he carried every story written on their faces.

His eight wives were at his side.

They, too, had left behind the shimmer. No jeweled gowns. No silks. No glittering pins. Just loose robes, soft and clean. Nothing rich. Nothing heavy. And behind them followed five of the maids, dressed the same. All except Lilyn and Chloe, who still wore their proper uniforms. The rest had chosen simplicity.

And all together—it was striking.

A unity stripped of class. Stripped of wealth. And in its bareness… there was beauty.

Something shifted in the safehouse the moment they entered. The air pulled tight. All movement stilled. Conversations broke off like snapped threads. Even the stew bubbling in the kitchen seemed to quiet. A current passed through the room, invisible but real, as every head turned toward the new arrivals.

Every eye found Leon.

Black stood near the front, and his breath caught when he saw the change. But only for a moment. Then he stepped forward, Ronan and Johny beside him.

"My Lord," Black said, bowing low.

Ronan and Johny followed, heads down.

And then, like a slow wave, the rest of the room followed. One body after another lowering in silence.

Leon nodded in return. Quiet. Measured. His gaze slid to Black's hand. It still trembled, though not as bad as it had in the night. A sign of recovery. But also a reminder.

Ronan and Johny each gave a nod, but Leon didn't answer right away. Instead, he stepped forward. His steps took him to the heart of the room—toward the survivors. Toward the breathing proof of all that had been lost and all that still lived.

Black watched, unsure. "My Lord?"

Leon let out a slow breath. "Black. Call everyone to the center. I want to speak."

There was a pause. Black's brow lifted slightly. The Lord's voice was soft. No command in it. No edge. Just… quiet honesty.

But Black nodded firmly. "As you wish, my Lord."

He turned and motioned to a guard, his voice sharp now.

A moment later, a louder voice rose, layered with a light echo spell: "Everyone—our Lord wishes to speak. Please come forward. Stop what you're doing and gather in the center."

The room stirred.

In the kitchen, bowls were set down. Two women with trays paused, placing them gently before stepping forward. Men along the walls stood slowly, brushing dust from their robes. Children followed, gripping sleeves, holding hands. No one remained behind. Limping, leaning on others, wrapped in gauze and bandages—they came.

Lines formed—not perfect, but close. Honest. A half-circle of waiting souls began to take shape in front of Leon. Apprentices moved fast to help the weaker ones forward. Despite the pain, despite the exhaustion, despite everything—they came.

A servant brought over a chair. The best one in the house. Its cushion was old. The legs a little scuffed. But still, it was a leader's chair.

Black motioned to place it beside Leon.

Leon's eyes landed on the chair. Something like a smile touched his lips. Amused. Faint.

Then he looked back at Black.

"No need," he said, soft but sure. "I'll stand."

Black opened his mouth, about to protest. But that look—the calm, unmoving certainty in Leon's eyes—stopped him cold. He stepped back.

Leon stepped forward.

No spell lifted his voice. No magic carried his words. But the moment he spoke, it felt as if the walls leaned in to hear him.

"People of Silver City."

Silence folded over the room like a warm blanket. No shifting feet. No whispers. Only breath. Stillness.

"…Today, we lost much."

He looked at them. All of them. Tear-streaked cheeks. Blank eyes. Shoulders too heavy with grief.

"Mothers without husbands. Girls without brothers. Soldiers without commanders. Children with no one left to hold their hands…"

His voice faltered. Thickened.

"And by what I see before me… I know… I lost more than half my people in a single night."

A low gasp moved through the crowd. A ripple of soft sound, fragile as glass.

Leon held still. His jaw clenched. He drew in a breath that felt heavy in his chest.

"So first—before anything else…" His gaze moved across every face. "…I want to apologize. As your Lord… no—" his voice cracked, low, raw— "as a man who failed to protect all of you… I'm sorry."

The air shifted.

It hit them like a wave—his apology. Not rehearsed. Not polished. Just real. Some stared, not knowing how to process it. Some shook their heads, stunned.

Ronan stepped forward, alarm rushing into his voice. "Lord—what are you doing? My Lord, don't—! You mustn't bow! This isn't your fault—"

But Leon looked at him, calm and grounded.

"I know I didn't cause this," he said, soft. "And yet… it's still my fault, Ronan. Completely mine. I may have saved many… but I couldn't protect them all."

Ronan came closer, jaw clenched. "But you did save us," he said, voice rising. "If not for you, we would've all been—"

Leon smiled, just a little. Worn, but kind. "But still… I feel I must apologize. For those I couldn't save. For those who won't ever walk through that door again."

"Please, Lord—" Ronan's voice broke. But Leon lifted a hand gently.

He didn't get to speak again.

A voice rose from the crowd. Hoarse. Fragile.

An old man stepped forward, leaning hard on a stick. His beard was white, and his eyes shimmered with tears that hadn't fallen yet. "Duke Leon, please… don't apologize."

Leon's head lifted at the sound.