Supreme Spouse System.
Chapter 195: Before the Banquet

Chapter 195: Before the Banquet

Before the Banquet

Evening had almost come.

Outside, the sky over Moonspire was bathed in purples and pale rose—twilight’s gentle fingers sweeping the capital in subdued loveliness. Magic lanterns drifted upwards like fireflies, their light gentle and dreamlike, casting glints over marble spires and blossom-hung balconies. The spheres glimmered like stars too impatient to wait for darkness. A soft breeze caressed the flowers, transmitting the distant, musical hum of sound drifting up from the city’s core, where nobles and commoners had started to converge beneath the dying sun.

The city thrived, alive—its grandeur in full display.

But in Leon’s great mansion, quiet prevailed.

Elegant. Silent. Waiting.

Within his blue-and-white decorated room, Leon stood before his mirror. The room was filled with the faint aroma of sandalwood and citrus—his personal cologne in the air like a memory. Golden sun filtered through the delicate curtains, shining a warm halo on his form.

He was majestic—each inch of him sculpted in grace and strength.

Raising his hand, he cinched the last adjustment to his outfit: a gold-adorned ceremonial clasp, holding in place the mantle pinned on his shoulder. The material glowed softly where it was caught by the light.

Tonight’s banquet attire was simply stunning.

He had on a rich midnight black robe, with delicate gold thread embroidery in the form of coiling phoenix feathers across the chest and arms. Underneath, a tight tunic of obsidian velvet clung to his body, the material rich and silky, adorned with the same exquisite phoenix pattern—this time even more detailed, as if infusing life into the pattern. The high collar rose upright, rimmed by sapphire edging mirroring the gemstone ring on his right hand. A black leather belt, carefully fitted to his waist, from which a ceremonial sword hung—ornate, sure, but unequivocally deadly in his hands.

A silken black cloak, deep blue and gold-lined, fell squarely over his shoulders, secured by a carved lion-shaped clasp that shone with subdued pride. Drifting over it, a shining cloak of gold streamed like the sun over armor, held secure by dual silver wolf brooches—each bearing a crescent moon carved on their foreheads, his House’s unmistakable sign. His gloves, which completed the outfit, hung under his arm currently—saved, perhaps, for that moment when form would give way to function.

His dark hair was pulled back loosely at the nape of his neck, a few rumpled strands left loose to dance around his sharp face. Golden eyes—level, unwavering, and expressionless—looked into the mirror with serene assurance.

He was the very image of the Duke that he was destined to be.

For an instant, a small smile played on his mouth as he examined his own reflection.

"That’s done," he whispered, pushing a misbehaving hank of hair out of his face. His eyes lingered, gentler now, the weight of the night in them. "Alright... let’s go."

He let out a sigh—not one of fatigue, but one of the peculiar, seething energy that coursed beneath his skin. He was... impeccable. Regal. Authoritative. With each aspect of his banquet gear precision-fitted to absolute perfection—the high collar trimmed with silver thread, the midnight blue cloak fastened with the sigil of Moonspire’s southern border—he was a man cut for authority.

Tonight, several hearts would most certainly break. He was not ignorant of the stares, the whispers, the gaze of women—and the occasional man—upon him at every function. And tonight, at this, they would stand no possibility of averting their eyes.

This night, though, was about more than impression.

His gaze strayed to the desk, where an invitation lay crumpled and unopened. The royal seal impressed into red wax was unbroken—although its significance bore down on him.

The Princess’s Banquet.

Power. Politics. Each step he made would be watched, each word weighed.

Still... he had to go. Because tonight was the key—maybe the single most important piece in his strategy for securing the Moonstone Kingdom.

And he would not see it get away.

He took a slow breath, squared his shoulders.

He took a slow breath, squared his shoulders.

"Alright.," he whispered, pushing a hank of his bed-messaged black hair out of his face. His eyes stayed in the mirror for a moment, then softened with a slight smile. ". let’s go."

He turned away from the mirror.

As he went towards the door, the cape behind him flowed behind—its heaviness a silent reminder of the position he held and the eyes that would be upon him this night.

The sweeping staircase lay before him, still and silent.

But as he descended into the wide living room, he halted.

Silence.

The mansion, normally filled with footsteps, laughter, and the gentle hum of maids’ activity, now seemed to vibrate with a near-sacred stillness. No movement flicker. No chirping whispers from the corridors. Not even the gentle ring of silver trays or the rustle of skirts.

It wasn’t vacant—it was waiting.

Focused. Poised. As if even the walls could sense a great night was coming.

Leon’s mouth curled ever so slightly.

"Everyone’s still primping, I imagine," he murmured to himself.

He imagined Rias masterminding the pandemonium like an old campaign commander. Aria wrapping herself in perfume and silk and already scheming her trouble. Cynthia making a final prayer under the light of a candle. Syra and Kyra—stuck in some trivial fashion disagreement, no doubt.

The vision made him grin.

He came down with measured serenity, his feet tapping softly in the golden glow of the chandelier overhead. Twilight dyed the world with violet shades through the tall windows. Vases were brimming with newly harvested moon-lilies, their white flowers unfolding as though awakened by the enchantment of night.

At the foot of the stairs, he stood still.

He had seen them disappear up the stairs earlier in a whirl of color and chatter. Gowns over arms, jewels in hands, smiles full of excitement. The maids trailed behind, arms loaded and heads bobbing.

"They’ll be down soon," he muttered.

His words hung in the silence, the only noise in a mansion waiting with bated breath.

He pushed at his sleeve, then looked toward the sweeping window along the wall of the living room. Outside, the sky was wrapped in midnight black velvet—but Moonspire burned as bright as noonday. Lanterns hung suspended, silver and purple banners danced from balcony railings, and gold light flowed across marble courtyards like liquid flame. A faint smile played on his lips.

With a languid sigh, Leon strode to the couch in the living room and sank gracefully onto the soft velvet cushions. He leaned back, his head lightly resting on the carved wooden backrest, his shoulders falling into ease.

Upstairs, he had last watched Rias and the other girls disappear in a whirl of conversation—makeup, hairpins, giggles, and nervous voices about gowns and sparkles. Maids followed behind them like an upscale storm, arms laden with satin gowns, cleaned shoes, jewel-colored cosmetics, and perfume trays that sparkled like dew in candlelight.

For a second, Leon just sat there in silence.

His gaze drifted up, following the strokes of the ceiling mural—a dragon twisted through clouds, its wings spread in eternal flight. Slowly, he breathed out, tension seeping from his body.

"Tonight’s going to be long," he muttered to himself.

His eyes wandered over to the side table beside him, where a group of photo frames sat silently—little windows to memories. One framed Rias laughing mid-embrace, her hair disheveled from motion. Another had Syra and Kyra elbowing each other with identical smirks. And there—Nova, caught off guard, leaning in the bend of his arm, her smile scant but completely true.

His face relaxed. A warm silence welled in his breast.

Then—click-clack.