Supreme Spouse System.

Why Are You Abandoning Us?

"You stood between us and death like a platinum wall," the elder declared. "You are the best Duke this city ever had. You didn't run when fire fell from the sky; intruder attack us in night. You could've fled, but you stayed. You fought—for us. Not once, but twice. You've staked your life more than any man ever could. If not for you, we'd all be ash. So please… do not bow to us."

A young woman clutched her child, nodding through grateful sobs. A burly citizen raised a fist. "We owe you our lives, not the other way around!" Another voice, soft yet firm, added, "You're our saviour, not our failure." A boy barely of age clenched both hands to his chest. "Don't carry guilt that's not yours, my Lord. We're alive because of you."

Their warmth struck Leon silent. Behind him, his wives—radiant in their evening gowns—smiled through glistening tears, hearts swelling to see such devotion for their husband. Ronan chuckled, relief loosening his shoulders. "See, Lord? None of us blame you. Don't carry the guilt alone."

"…Thank you for you love and words," Leon exhaled, voice softer than a sigh. "Still… let me carry just a little of it, so accept my apologies." He faced the crowd, gaze solemn. "We all lost someone tonight. I know you've lost loved ones—parents, siblings, children, friends. Soldiers. Maids. And… I've lost many of mine as well."

He swallowed hard, trying to steady the tremor building in his chest. Then he found his voice. "So, in their memory, I ask... no, request you all for one thing. Just seven minutes. A silent prayer. For those who didn't make it. Let us mourn their souls. Let us remember them—not just as names, but as hearts."

His hands came together over his chest. Then he lowered his head.

The hall responded in stillness. Not a single protest, not a moment's hesitation. One by one, heads bowed. Hands folded. Breaths held. The kind of silence that doesn't just settle—it claims you. As though even the act of exhaling might disturb the sacred gravity now pressing down over the marble lobby like fog.

The hush moved like something living. Gentle, but full of weight. A silken veil laid over grief. No one shifted. No one dared. Even the small, flickering sounds from the kitchen hearth—normally so steady—seemed to pause at the threshold, unwilling to cross.

Only the slow, distant murmur of the storm made itself known, low and steady, as if the sky itself was grieving. It rumbled like a countdown in mourning, echoing through the walls.

Seven minutes passed. Not in haste. Not like a clock ticking forward, but like time itself had sunk into the hush. Each second soaked in silence, each breath deeper, heavier. Every heartbeat felt like a whispered prayer. Like a thank you. Like a goodbye. Grief and reverence sliding through the air, warm and cold all at once.

Then Leon opened his eyes.

And just like that, as though silence itself had taken one slow breath, he lifted his head. His black hair shifted slightly with the motion. His voice followed—not loud, but deep. Strong. And tired.

"I pray… you all find peace. And that those we lost… find light beyond this world."

He whispered those final words as though sending them out into the afterlife.

From the crowd, voices murmured in response, a quiet chorus of shared hope. "May they find peace…" someone said, and others followed, their words catching in their throats. A few gentle sobs escaped the lips of maids and soldiers alike, raw and genuine. But as the murmurs faded, Leon's tone shifted—subtle, yet sharp enough to pierce through the hush again.

Black stepped forward cautiously, his tone gentle, almost pleading. "Lord… that's everything. Please…"

Leon glanced at him as the man approached once more, holding out the chair that had remained untouched the whole time.

Leon let out a faint chuckle, a short breath of something almost amused but wearied at its core. "Black, stop offering that chair. I'm still standing."

Black blinked, caught off guard by the reply, and muttered quickly, "Yes, Lord…"

But even as he answered, Black's brows drew together. Something was different. Leon's tone had shifted once more—softer this time, uncertain. There was a slight tremble in the way he breathed before speaking again.

"There's something else," Leon said.

That was when his wives moved closer to him. They didn't speak. They didn't need to. They simply stood at his sides, silent and composed, each one watching him with a gaze full of quiet strength. Most wore gentle smiles, serene and knowing. Except for Lilyn and Chloe—their eyes shimmered, reflecting something deeper. Worry, perhaps. Or the ache of knowing what was coming.

From where he stood, Ronan caught the tremble in his daughter's eyes. His heart clenched. Chloe, always so composed, now looked almost fragile. There was a heaviness in her gaze that he'd never seen before. Something wasn't right.

Leon turned again to face the hall, his expression calm, his golden eyes unwavering.

"From this moment on… I am no longer your lord. You may call me Leon."

The words hit the crowd like a bolt of lightning.

The entire room froze.

Gasps tore through the stillness like broken glass. Eyes widened, some trembling. And then the murmurs began—hushed, confused, desperate.

"I am not the Duke of Silver City anymore," he continued, voice steady, resolute. "Nor your ruler."

Black took a sudden step forward, the disbelief plain on his face. The air around him tensed like a bow drawn too tight.

"Wait—what…?!"

"My Lord?!!"

"You can't!"

Voices echoed from the crowd, cracking under the weight of disbelief.

But Leon simply raised a hand.

"Please. Let me finish."

That single gesture silenced them again. Black stood still, lips pressed into a tight line, unwilling but unable to defy him.

Leon turned his gaze toward the grand window, where streaks of rain still trailed down the glass like tears. "Right now, it's noon already… but the storm hasn't eased. In fact, I feel it's only growing heavier. Maybe by tomorrow morning, it'll pass. When it does… I want you all to leave. Find new homes. Somewhere quieter. Somewhere far from the borders. Far from war."

The silence this time felt different. It wasn't reverent—it was stunned.

"My wives and I… we're leaving for Blackthorne City. That's where our path lies now. And as for all of you…" His gaze swept across the line of officials and soldiers who had served him with unwavering loyalty. "You are free. Every one of you. You are released from duty."

Black's jaw clenched. Ronan inhaled slowly. Johny didn't move.

Leon looked to them, each one a man he trusted with his life. "Black. Ronan. Johny. You too… are free from duty."

His voice held no bitterness. Only peace.

He smiled—softly, almost fondly—as he looked once more upon the crowd. "I wish you the best of luck in whatever lives you choose from now on."

Behind him, the women closest to him mirrored his expression. Their smiles were calm, warm, even proud—because they had already known. He had told them his plan the night before, when they were finally alone in their private chamber, the doors locked and the world quiet outside.

That night… had been fire and thunder.

His women—his fierce, loving, untamed wives—had screamed at him, argued with him, even wept. Not out of weakness… but because they loved him too much to let him risk himself so carelessly. Some had slapped his chest in fury, others had cried silently, curling into his arms while demanding explanations. The maids weren't quiet either—shocked by the secrets he'd kept hidden, especially the truth of the darker forces tied to his holy powers, and the shadows he still carried within.

But in the end, he'd silenced them all—not with anger, but with kisses. With arms wrapped tightly around trembling bodies, with lips brushing soft foreheads and whispers that promised more than comfort… they promised truth. He laid bare the full breadth of his plan: leaving Silver City not in defeat, but as the beginning of something greater. A conquest—not of lands held by dukes—but of kingdoms. A dream no longer caged by titles or borders.

Even Lira… even the one who had never bowed to anyone, who would have stood against gods if they threatened him—she hadn't tried to stop him. Perhaps because in her heart… she already knew.

Even Lira had not stopped him.

Because deep down, she knew he was right.

But now—Black stepped forward.

The thud of his boot against the polished floor cracked through the stillness like a shot, echoing across the hall with the sharp, cold weight of confrontation. He didn't stop until he was just inches from Leon, his eyes locked in. Not furious. No, what gleamed there was something far sharper. Pain.

His voice came next, low and unsteady, cutting clean through the hush like a blade dulled by too many strikes.

"Why?" Black asked softly.

Leon didn't answer.

The question didn't just hang in the air—it hit him. You could see it. A flicker behind his golden eyes, quick and raw. Like something inside had shifted. Like the words had touched a place he hadn't braced for.

Black's voice came again, rougher this time, thick with all the nights they'd never talked, all the weight they'd carried alone.

"Why are you abandoning us?"

That wasn't just a question. It was a crack right down the middle of the room. A wound, torn wide open.

Leon tried to speak again, but the words caught.

"Do you think we're a burden now?" His voice wavered, bitter and bleeding.

And Leon— That small smile he'd worn earlier, the one that had carried such quiet strength, slipped. It didn't fall, it just… stiffened. Hollowed out. Like it had lost its shape and forgotten what it meant.

The question didn't just echo. It hit, hard. It filled the room like thunder waiting to break open the sky.

Still, Leon said nothing. Not out of defiance. Not pride.

But sorrow. A sorrow that rooted him to the floor, so deep and wide it left no space for words.

He just stood there, frozen, unreadable. Every breath in the room paused—caught between waiting and fearing what might come next.

And the hall, once wrapped in the quiet warmth of unity, now sat hushed in a silence that no longer felt reverent. Only hollow.