King Vellore is going to make a move on the Moonstone Kingdom."
The name struck Leon like a pail of ice water. His face immediately went hard. His golden eyes slit up into vertical slits as he glared at her—dark, unblinking, and far too serene.
"Explain," he growled.
Natasha breathed deeply, the weight of her words crushing down on her like iron.
"Vellore is on the march. At last. In a matter of days, maybe weeks at the outside, they’ll attack Moonstone’s borders with their troops."
Leon’s air grew thick. A stifling silence hung between them.
He didn’t speak initially, taking in the gravity of her message. Then, hardly above a whisper, he asked, "Why now?"
Hadn’t you explained to him earlier that Vellore had not yet managed to completely rot Moonstone from the inside? Why send the full invasion now?
Natasha’s lips twisted into a mixture between a grimace and a sour smile. "Perhaps they believe they’ve done enough. Perhaps the corruption’s rotten enough to rot the rest on its own.
She crossed her arms, her tone deepening. "And what I do know... is that the majority of this kingdom’s noble families have already given silent allegiance to them. They’re waiting. Waiting for the call. The moment Vellore strikes, the rebellion within Moonstone will flare up."
Leon’s heart began to pound. The tempest wasn’t coming onto the horizon—it was waiting in the ground beneath.
She continued, her voice biting with contempt. "When the king is compelled to look inward to quash turmoil, Vellore will attack from without. It’ll not be even a war—just an execution. Moonstone will collapse from within before swords even meet."
His jaw was locked so tightly that it throbbed.
If what she said was true, they weren’t ready. Not nearly.
His thoughts whirled—not only about war, but about those he loved. How would he keep them safe if war did break out? His duchy. his wives. He had not even completed setting the groundwork for his schemes. The flood would sweep everything away.
He shut his eyes and focused. No panic. No delay.
Vellore had not come to fight a war. They came to bury a kingdom.
When he opened his eyes once more, they burned with determination.
"Anything else?" he spoke quietly.
Natasha shook her head. "No. That’s all I know. For now."
Leon didn’t question her any further on this. He just nodded, allowing the gravity of what she’d said sink within him. A silence hung between them, icy and tense under the moonlight. Then he looked at her once more, his eyes gentler than ever before—nearly infused with thankfulness.
"Thank you for your information."
Natasha raised an eyebrow, the edge of her mouth twisting into something hard and bony. A stiff, in-the-know smile ensued.
Don’t thank me," she said with a chill. "If you hadn’t stamped me with that slave seal, I never would have said a word to you. And if I didn’t." Her hand drifted along the side of her throat, where the silver fire tattoo—burned in firelight and magic—glowed barely perceptibly in the moon’s full gaze. "Well, the seal would’ve killed me.
Leon breathed out through his nose, a flash of amusement dancing in his eyes. Nova’s previous warning lingered at the back of his mind, a whispered warning of this woman’s loyalty. But he didn’t budge. He looked at Natasha levelly, impassive.
She moved closer, each step fluid and calculated, like a predator stalking its prey. Her voice lowered, and her breath, heavy with wine—smoky and intoxicating—whispered over his skin.
"Still," she spoke softly, her voice low and inviting, "if you truly want to repay me... perhaps offer me something worth having?"
Leon tilted his head, one brow furrowed. "What, precisely?"
A gleam flashed in her eyes, wicked and daring. Her lips curled into a taunting smile as she leaned forward even closer, their shadows coming together.
"Something your wives possess," she breathed, her voice tracing the line between temptation and defiance.
Leon’s eyes narrowed, fixed on hers. He inspected her eyes—not only their color, but the purpose behind them. Her words hung there, heavy with implication. His smirk came back, slow and measured, shaping his lips with quiet surety.
He snorted softly, the sound low and velvety.
"Then earn it," he stated, his voice heavy with meaning. "As I instructed you earlier."
Natasha let out a soft, theatrical sigh and straightened, her shoulders rolling back with deliberate grace. The pout she wore was practiced, almost charming in its falseness.
"You’re unreasonable, my lord," she said with a slight tilt of her head.
Leon didn’t answer. He merely smiled, silent and assured.
Her eyes sparkled as she spoke next, and though her tone remained light, there was a flicker of tension beneath it.
Natasha shook her head. "No. That’s all I know. For now."
Leon did not question her further. He merely nodded, allowing the force of her words to remain within him. A silence lay between them, crisp and tense under the moonlight. Then he faced her once more, his eyes more tender than before—nearly warmed with gratitude.
"Thank you for your information.
Natasha raised an eyebrow, the edge of her mouth twisting into something acidic and pointed. A pinched, wry smile followed.
Don’t thank me," she said icily. "If you hadn’t sealed me with that slave mark, I wouldn’t have said a word. And if I hadn’t." Her fingers stroked the side of her neck, where the thin silver stamp—cut into firelight and compulsion—glowed softly under the moon’s indulgent gaze. "The seal would’ve killed me.
Leon breathed in through his nose, a glint of pleasure darting across his eyes. Nova’s previous warning rang in the back of his head, a warning whisper about the loyalty of this woman. But he didn’t react. He held her gaze levelly, inscrutable.
She moved closer, each step fluid and calculated, like a predator stalking prey. Her voice lowered, and her breath, wine-scented—rich and intoxicating—brushed over his flesh.
"Still," she whispered, her voice low and inviting, "if you truly wish to thank me... perhaps give me something worthwhile?"
Leon tilted his head, a brow going up. "What exactly?"
A glint danced in her eyes, playful and audacious. Her lips curled into a wicked smile as she leaned in even closer, their shadows mingling.
"Something your wives possess," she breathed, her voice sliding between temptation and challenge.
Leon’s eyes narrowed, focusing on hers. He looked into her eyes—not only their color, but the meaning behind them. Her words hung there, heavy with innuendo. His smile came back, slow and calculated, wrinkling his lips with understated assurance.
He breathed softly, his laughter low and velvety.
"Then earn it," he replied, his tone heavy with import. "Like I said before."
Natasha let out a soft, theatrical sigh and straightened, her shoulders rolling back with deliberate grace. The pout she wore was practiced, almost charming in its falseness.
"You’re unreasonable, my lord," she said with a slight tilt of her head.
Leon didn’t answer. He merely smiled, silent and assured.
Her eyes sparkled as she spoke next, and though her tone remained light, there was a flicker of tension beneath it.
"I should return. That idiot king will notice I’m missing soon. And then he’ll send guards sniffing around."
Leon didn’t answer right away. He just stood there, watching as she stepped away—her posture straight, her movements calm and deliberate. For a fleeting moment, their faces nearly touched. Then she turned, her dress sweeping behind her, and slipped back into the glowing, crowded ballroom.
He followed her with his eyes, unreadable.
"If I hear anything more," she said over her shoulder, her voice low but clear, "I’ll find you. Until then... take care, Lord Leon."
"You too, Natasha," he said, barely above a whisper.
She disappeared into the swirl of laughter, music, and warm light—just another shadow among many.
Leon stayed on the balcony. The breeze brushed gently against his face. Overhead, the twin moons hung in the sky, pale and quiet.
He didn’t move. His face looked calm, but inside, his thoughts spun. The war was coming. Vellor’s threat wasn’t far anymore—it was closing in fast. And he still didn’t know if he was truly ready.
But for now, he stood alone under the stars. Just a man caught between what was and what’s to come.
There was no peace in his eyes.
He let out a quiet breath, letting the night settle around him. Whatever lay ahead—victory or ruin—he would meet it on his own terms.