Supreme Spouse System.

Chapter 139: King Aurelian Moonlight

King Aurelian Moonlight

Leon trailed Natasha through the thick door, which shut softly behind them with a dampened thud, severing the corridor’s dying light and muted noises. The royal study stretched out before him—a cavernous, airy room suffused in quiet, warm glow from scores of tiny, magical spheres suspended lightly near the ceiling. A large chandelier swayed quietly overhead, its crystals picking up pale reflections from the spheres, casting fragile patterns on the luxuriantly carpeted floor.

The aroma of fresh jasmine and faint whispers of lavender pervaded the air, creating a soothing scent that was at odds with the gravity of the moment. Lines of worn tomes stood on the rows of towering bookshelves along the walls, and heavy velvet drapes boxed the long, open window allowing in the light of morning, pouring gold across polished wood and comfortable furnishings.

Leon’s gaze cut across the room—toward the middle a tremendous oak desk stood, its surface buffed to a mirror finish, strewn with neatly stacked papers and sealed envelopes. A high-backed leather chair rested behind it, imposing yet unoccupied at the time. To the left, against the towering windows pouring light onto the floor, a group of rich, cushioned couches made up a space that seemed both extravagant and intentional. And there—sitting with unmistakable authority—was the man who dominated it all. His stance was erect, but his bearing seemed to emanate quiet power, as if the room itself curved slightly to frame him.

Wearing a flowing royal cloak of white and dark blue, picked out with delicate silver embroidery that shone faintly in the soft illumination, the man wore an air of quiet, untroubled mastery. His face was sharply defined—a sturdy jaw softened by well-maintained beard and mustache, dark hair nicely framing a high, dominant brow. But his eyes dominated the room—frosty blue, glacial and still, filled with unspoken intensity. They focused now on Leon, tranquil but calculating, with a small flicker of interest underlying as if already sizing the man up before him.

That was King Aurelian Moonlight—ruler of the Moonstone Kingdom, a Monarch Realm farmer whose authority and presence were recognized and feared across the entire kingdom. Even from afar, Leon could feel the burden of his authority, the aura of a man who had forged his throne through strength and unyielding will.

For a moment, Leon did not move, felt this strange weight fall upon him. There was something pointed and charged in his chest—a still excitement, the tug of competition. The room’s soft floral fragrance did nothing to subdue the tension that hung between them like a drawn line.

The King’s eyes did not blink. Cold and piercing, they fixed upon Leon with the heavy silence of judgment and assessment —attempting to add up his value, not merely for himself, but for the danger he could present to his throne and to the kingdom he sat upon.

Silence hung between them for a few moments more, heavy with unspoken tension. Then the King’s voice cut through the quiet, low and heavy.

”Duke Leon Moonwalker. Sit down.”

The voice jerked Leon violently back to reality. He saw he was still standing by the door; eyes fixed on the King’s unbreakable stare.

Taking a deep, respectful breath, Leon bent into half a bow. ”Duke Leon Moonwalker salutes the Crown of Moonstone Kingdom and its monarch, Aurelian Moonlight. I bring you my respects, Your Highness.”

The King gave a slight nod, a quiet sign of acceptance — but his eyes cold, sharp, and unreadable. ”You may rise, Duke.” he said, his voice measured and distant.

Leon raised his head slowly, his eyes locking into the King’s with unruffled demeanor. While he did notice the flicker of contempt hiding behind those icy eyes, he did not so much as blink to show it. Instead, with measured tread, he begins to walk towards the huge couch where the King sat like some unyielding statue. A charged air hung between them, but it was still one of peace.

And as the instant he approached the couch, Leon’s eyes spotted Natasha—the King’s secretary who had led him through the royal study — glide with practiced elegance to the side of the King. Then, to Leon’s astonishment, she changed position smoothly and sat down elegantly on the couch next to the King, as if her position there was natural and to be expected.

As Leon approached the couch, his eyes caught the King’s secretary, Natasha, move effortlessly to the King’s side. Then, to Leon’s complete surprise, she moved easily and sat down elegantly right next to the King, as if she had every right to be there.

His thoughts reeled in amazement. How was it possible for the person who held the position of mere secretary to occupy such a well-known seat so near the King? There was no flicker of astonishment, no ripple of annoyance from the King—only a cold, unforgiving rigidity, as if the King had no issue with Natasha’s being near him. The King sat stiffly, his face expressionless, but Leon felt a silent acquiescence that unsettled him profoundly. This was something much more intimate, an intricate setup cloaked in a mask of royal propriety.

Leon’s gaze shifted between the two. Natasha’s serene smile never departs her lips, serene and composed as always, and the King stayed stone-faced, his icy stare fixed unflinching in front of him. The still comfort between them hit Leon abruptly—this was no casual working relationship.

A gradual realization fit into his mind, mixed with a slight amusement So... the King made his little mistress his personal secretary—kept her close, clad in duty, concealed in plain view where no one else can touch. The pieces fit too neatly to overlook.

He laughed to himself at the King’s cunning—but outwardly, he was unruffled and serene. One had to keep one’s head here. Whatever thoughts he had in private, they would remain just that—private. He let the moment go by with a single, unblinking blink, as if ridding his eyes of the amusement.

The King’s voice cut into the silence just then—efficient, commanding—yanking him abruptly out of his reverie.

”Duke, sit,” he repeated, his voice brooking no argument.

Leon looked toward the King, presenting a serene smile of politeness that suggested appreciation. He nodded respectfully and moved forward and sank into the couch facing the King with deliberate ease—respectful, composed, and absolutely under control.

Though it was his first time to meet the king in person, Leon displayed no hint of nervousness. His stance was relaxed, shoulders easy, back straight—neither stiff, but firm. No fidgeting of fingers, no pacing. He stood there as if he had spent countless times in this room.

As Leon sat down onto the couch, his actions smooth and leisurely, his eyes briefly scanned the room before focusing on the two people sitting in front of him.

Aside from the King, Natasha glided with quiet poise. Still seated near the monarch, she leaned towards the lovely glass table where a ceramic tea set had been placed invitingly on a side tray. With practiced refinement, she started brewing the tea, her hands fluid and confident in every movement.

The gentle, soothing aroma of leaves brewing wafted through the air, faint but reassuring. A moment later, she filled the warm liquid into three cups—one smoothly delivered into the King’s hands, the second laid in front of Leon and the last one she takes for herself.

The King took his own cup without looking in her direction. Rather, his cold, calculating eyes locked onto Leon.

”Duke,” he started, his tone even but underlaid with implied gravity, ”how is Silver City going? And the regions nearby in your duchy—are they peaceful?”

Leon was not surprised. He had anticipated this line of inquiry the moment he was called. As a Duke, he was responsible for submitting monthly reports to the Crown—records indicating his city’s financial welfare, agricultural production, trade flows, and infrastructure developments. That the King mentioned it now only served to affirm the formal dance that they were about to embark on.

He lifted his cup calmly, letting the gentle steam rise into his face before inhaling its soothing scent. Then, in an even, respectful tone, he spoke.

”Your Majesty, Silver City remains strong. Trade routes through the southern corridor have reopened after the spring storms, and revenue has recovered accordingly. The main roads leading to the outer villages have been reinforced, and food stores are holding steady. We’ve also begun reconstruction on the older water canal systems in the lower district—something long overdue. Overall, the duchy is stable and growing steadily.”

With that, he brought the cup to his lips and drank a judicious sip. The heat of the tea diffused upon his tongue, further anchoring him in the present moment.

Then, He set the cup down carefully on the saucer with a soft clink, then raised his eyes—meeting the King’s icy glare without even a blink.

The King heard his response in silence, his features inscrutable, but with a slight nod after Leon’s report—missing, reflective, as if his thoughts were already elsewhere. He gazed beyond Leon for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly, as if considering something.

Then, without change of tone or appearance, he resumed speaking.

”Your duchy continues to be productive, that’s to be praised. Within the next few months, some policies will be implemented throughout the kingdom—tax changes, militia assimilation, and tighter controls on regional trade licensing. These will impact border regions such as yours. We anticipate obedience and speedy adjustment.”

Leon heard patiently, neither challenged nor impressed. The exchange went on—not because he was interested, but because he had to. Even if the King decidedly favored him not at all, propriety insisted on a proper exchange. For one thing, Leon was not some lesser lord—he was a Duke, positioned just below the throne on the scope of the kingdom.

Their dialogue dragged on for hardly twenty minutes. The King probed with pointed questions regarding local administration, population, harvest estimates—mechanical, numerical. Leon answered each with patient elaboration, never wavering in tone or attitude.

Natasha at the King’s side drank her tea in silence, watching the give-and-take. She didn’t say a word, but her eyes followed every utterance like a clerk writing down something unsaid.

At last, after Leon replied the King’s last question regarding grain distribution in the outer towns, the King nodded slightly. His eyes flicked over to him, and his voice had a slightly more relaxed lilt—though still clipped and formal.

”So, Duke. the mansion assigned to you in the capital—is it to your satisfaction?

Leon presented a serene smile, subtle but warm. ”It’s quite cozy, Your Majesty. Indeed... lying there is like home.”

His tone contained just enough thankfulness to appease royal vanity, but under it, something else settled—a hint too elusive to describe. Not insolence, not sarcasm... but a touch of something that prompted both the King and Natasha to hesitate for the space of one second.

The King gave a short nod, then leaned back, his expression unreadable once more. ”You may now leave, Duke. Enjoy your stay in the capital—and attend tomorrow’s events.”

Leon rose smoothly at the dismissal. He gave a low, respectful bow.

”Thank you, Lord. I’ve enjoyed my stay very much.”

The phrases were courteous, elegantly phrased—yet held an ambiguity that neither the King nor Natasha quite grasped. Amusement? Irony? A joke shared in private? Whatever it was, it flared for but an instant in the air before both pushed it aside.

And then, as though the silence had just fallen, Leon presently cleared his throat and spoke, ”Ah, I beg your pardon, Your Majesty.

The King’s icy stare flickered to him, brows furrowing in puzzlement. ”What are you apologizing for, Duke?”

Leon’s eyes met the King’s, a small, enigmatic smile playing on his lips. For one instant, the room froze—then he didn’t say a word.

The air was heavy with tension, unspoken and thick, as the two men sized each other up in silence.