Supreme Spouse System.
Chapter 203: The Queen’s Gaze, The Slave’s Smile

Chapter 203: The Queen’s Gaze, The Slave’s Smile

The Queen’s Gaze, The Slave’s Smile

Queen Sona, at the King’s side, gave a gracious nod—controlled, unruffled. But her eyes swept across the wide courtyard, moving through the crowd like a quiet wind. It stayed.

On Rias—brash, red-haired, her eyes flashing with proud courage.

On the rest of the women who clustered about Leon, each one shining in her own way, like stars gravitating inexorably to their sun.

And then, it fell on Nova.

For an instant, something flared in Queen Sona’s eyes. Not jealousy. No resentment.

It was softer—longing. A sorrowful pain.

Not for ownership, but maybe for a dream clung to once too hard... or an opportunity never seized.

No one saw. Her face, like the rest of her, stayed masterfully calm.

Across from her was Natasha.

She took half a step aside the King, still, keen, and watchful—her stance relaxed, her glance cutting like a sword unsheathed in repose. Each move was calculated. Each breath, contained.

And yet, if she caught sight of Leon’s company... she blinked.

Once.

But under that solitary blink, under the impeccable mask and high polish, a tempest raged. Her eyes went wide—narrowly, yet it sufficed.

Yes, she’d heard rumors of his wives. She’d known they were there.

But she’d never seen them.

Not like this.

Not face to face.

Not in this impossible array of loveliness.

They stood side by side—beautiful, otherworldly, impossibly poised.

Each one a work of art.

Rias, regal and commanding like a queen.

Aria, a mystery of seduction and beauty.

Cynthia, calm as a frozen lake—unshakeable.

Kyra, gentle on the surface, but she could feel the forged steel beneath.

Syra, eyes like green fire—ferocious, devouring.

Mia, young and innocent, with a sweetness that was not meant for a court of power.

And Nova.

Storm herself. A vision of power and control.

Natasha’s throat constricted. Her breath caught.

That man—the one who had beaten her, disgraced her before an audience of the world—loomed in the midst of it all as though he were meant to be there.

Leon.

The same man who had defeated her when he was only a Grandmaster level when she was Monarch-level. The humiliation still lingered on her bones.

The same man who had slave-marked her.

And yet now. now he stood as a shining embodiment of nobility—beloved, revered, with women for whom empires would fight.

She ought to have despised him.

She ought to have seethed with rage.

But instead.

There it was.

Desire.

Not for power. Not for freedom.

But for him.

She had given herself to him before—willing to obey, if only he would claim her as his own.

But when he made her a slave, she’d felt anger. Or perhaps. annoyance. Hurt pride.

And yet, deep inside—beneath it all—she’d hoped.

Hoped fate would turn again.

But somehow, some way.

They might become normal.

But now.

Only now does fate realize—if she still had hope, or if it was too late now.

Natasha didn’t allow the storm within to reach her face. Her mask remained firm—elegant, unreadable, serene. She stood poised, lips faintly smiling in neutrality, eyes dark and unmoving.

Queen Sona didn’t say a word, but the truth found its way through the tiniest detail: the soft curl of her fingers at her sides.

She had prepared for tonight.

Each strand of her dress had been selected with attention—a midnight blue gown with silver thread, hanging elegantly off her pale shoulders. Her silvery hair, styled to one side, cascaded like moonlight. Her face, calm and collected, was a fragile beauty—arched brows, high cheekbones, a gentle jawline powdered with the faintest blush. About her neck hung his pendant—a brooch she wore so seldom, except on evenings when she dared to hope he might catch a glimpse of it.

She had wanted him to see it.

But now, looking at them around him—those women with eyes for him alone, who stood so near, who had already taken pieces of him she never could...

Something unaccustomed welled up within her.

Not wrath. Not grief. But something rarer still—an emotion unknown to a queen who had ever been above such emotions.

Jealousy.

Her head drifted aside. Her face went cold, lips softening into tranquil serenity once more.

And below, where silence fell and the courtyard inclined low in respect before the royal trio, King Aurelian Moonlight spoke at last—his voice low, commanding, and forged of steel:

"Rise."

The word rang out like iron on still water.

The nobles rose as one. Heads came up. Eyes opened.

Leon rose first among them, slowly, elegantly. His golden eyes wandered toward the royal dais—and caught on hers.

Sona.

And in that moment, he saw her.

Saw her, really.

Her gown glimmered in the moonlight that streamed off the chandeliers, each crease ironed to perfection. Her stance—graceful and kingly—was one of a woman destined to reign. But tonight it was more than that. Every inch of her had been rehearsed for this evening.

And then he saw it.

The pendant.

His pendant.

Lying just over the beating of her heart, it shone against the paleness of her skin like an unspoken admission.

Leon’s brow rose, a spark of mirth flashing in his eyes. He hadn’t thought she’d wear it. But she had. And it only added to her breathtakingness.

He smiled—weak, secluded, respectful.

It becomes her.

Not only the pendant itself, but the intention behind it. As though she’d claimed something neither of them had been brave enough to name out loud.

Queen Sona, even now steady by the side of the King, caught his eye.

And for that, she gave the softest of nods.

A wordless recognition.

Their conversation went by unspoken.

Unremarked by everyone.

Everyone except one. Natasha.

She observed them both—Leon and the King. Her eyes darted between them, keen with interest, considered, inscrutable. But she didn’t say anything.

Then Leon’s gaze wandered—to Natasha.

And she lingered.

She looked different tonight.

A white wedding gown lay perfectly against her form with soft elegance. The neckline was trimmed in dainty lace, and the sleeves glinted like mist-kissed fog. Black, shoulder-length hair fell around her pale face and pointed chin. Violet eyes, edged in dark lashes, examined the world with a serenity that was more incisive than any blade. Her lips were a color between rose and dusk.

A cold beauty.

Graceful. Deadly. Uncommon.

Leon lingered his glance a beat too long. Then—he smiled, weakly.

Perhaps, he reflected, if she had not assaulted me yesterday. Perhaps—no—certainly, I would have already taken her for my harem.

He sighed, softly. But how?

Natasha met his eye and mirrored it with a gentle nod and courteous smile—like nothing had ever passed between them.

But in that instant, something unspoken began to stir: possibility, caution. perhaps even fate.

And then her gaze wandered past him—to his wives.

Their gazes were hard, narrowed, possessive.

Not welcoming.

Natasha’s smile went pale, almost guarded.

She knew she was balancing on a tightrope.

And when she locked eyes with Nova?

Nothing crossed between them. No words. No smile. Not even a blink.

Just stark, hard acknowledgment.

A queen of frost.

A tempest of silence.

At last, the King shifted. Spoke not a word. Didn’t even appear to notice tension—or refused to.

Then he moved a step into the courtyard.

His cold, commanding eyes raked the nobles in the front row. and lingered—just for an instant—on Leon and his friends.

But he did not speak.

The King, the Queen, and Natasha advanced, their boots ringing loudly against the marble. The crowd parted for them like water disturbed by a quiet ripple.

They walked past Leon. Past Edric. Past Nova.

And as they did, both women gave glances—not lengthy, not obvious, but heavy with meaning.

Heavy. Fleeting. Subtle.

Leon smiled. Once.

Then they climbed.

The stairs of the great dais rose up before them—golden, broad, each step an act of ritual. Their progress was purposeful. Each gesture heavy with unspoken significance.

The seventh step supported the three lesser thrones—raised, but still beneath the King’s own.

But King Aurelian did not hesitate.

He ascended to the highest level.

There, under the crescent moon cut into ancient stone, he sat—imperial and still.

Queen Sona arrived behind him, her silver-white hair glimmering as she sat upon the phoenix-carved seat beside him.

Back of them, Natasha remained—fingers clasped, back straight. A statue of unspoken power.

Silence fell over the hall.

Nobody dared breathe.

Then came the chamberlain—a man of age and gravitas, his silver hair wisping like smoke, his voice as bell-clear.

"With His Majesty and Her Majesty now on the throne," he announced, bowing low, "the Court of Moonstone welcomes its dukes."

He turned, tradition weighing every syllable.

"Duke Edric of House Starlight.

Duke Leon of House Moonwalker.

Duchess Nova of House Nova.

Step forward."

And so they did.

Edric stepped first, shrouded in ocean-blue robes, smooth as a tide.

Then Leon—steadfast, authoritative—enveloped in black and gold, the emblem of his house shining on his chest.

And last Nova, ensconced in deep teal silk, with each step emanating calm authority.

As he strode, Leon looked back—toward the border of the hall, where his wives waited like sentinels.

He encountered the eyes of each of them. One nod transferred between them—unspoken, unyielding.

They did not follow.

This was the law.

Dukes and duchesses alone were called to the lower thrones under the King’s seat. Wives, loved and powerful though they were, were kept separate. For now.

But that would change.

They all knew it.

One day, when the world came around to Leon’s vision, their station would no longer be behind—but beside. Or above.

And on that day, the world would get it, finally, about who his wives really were.

As Leon stepped ahead, his ceremonial robe flowing behind him like a midnight curtain across the marble floor. Nova walked beside him to his right, her dignity like a drawn sword. Edric led the way by a pace—but only slightly.

Their very presence altered the air.

Three pillars of the realm.

The nobles’ sea instinctively parted for them, as tide before stone. There was a silence, interrupted only by the sound of echoing footsteps climbing toward the stage.

From the raised seat, King Aurelian observed—his expression unreadable, his crown capturing shards of moon. But when his eyes scanned upon the manner in which Leon and Nova walked almost shoulder to shoulder, with Edric just marginally ahead, his eyes squinted with unsaid thought.

He knew the language of alliances.

He had made dozens himself.

But this one?

Different.

It thrummed with something deeper—like iron threaded beneath velvet.

Stronger.

Deadlier.

He spoke not a word. But his eyes—cool, unblinking—haunted. Weighing. Estimating.

He stayed aloof. For the moment.

The three climbed.

Their footsteps whispered softly up the velvet stairs, commanding every eye in the hall.

And at the seventh step—just below the lesser throne—they stopped.

With solemn dignity, they bowed. A communal movement of respect. A silent thankfulness for the privilege granted.

The King nodded slightly, measured and regal.

They rose and sat.

Leon to the right—his eyes keen, watchful.

Edric to the left—still and serene, as stone.

Nova at the center—composed, shining, unapproachable.

Beneath them, the assembled court watched in rapt silence.

Then the old chamberlain approached and held up his hand, voice ringing out clear:

"Let the Grand Banquet. officially commence."

A clap of thunder and a storm of cheers shook the hall.

But beneath, the tension wound tighter.

For power had just stepped onto the stage.

And the game had indeed begun.