Whispered the wind across the balcony as Leon stood by himself, his hand on the stone railing, the other toying with the wine in his glass. The silver glow of moonlight illuminated his face, and the gentle night wind caressed his skin. His dark hair, rough-knotted, had hair escaping the tie, now prancing in the wind, stroking his cheekbones.
He brought the glass to his lips, the ruby liquid reflecting the dancing torchlight, shining like melted rubies against the intricately curved silver latticework. The heat of the wine was a contrast to the coldness in the air—but it did little to melt the frigid weight in his chest.
His eyes didn’t glance up to the stars in the sky or the dual moons that stood in silence above. No, they were not in the heavens. His mind was down below, in the lavish ballroom that still rang with music and laughter. The party went on without him—dancing, cheers, whispered flirtations—but all were a recollection that he couldn’t grasp.
Things had been perfect earlier that evening. Regal, beautiful, full of flirtations and possibility. Until Natasha’s voice had shattered the fantasy.
Her warning remained in his mind like a damned tune—whispered, freezing, and irrefutable.
"Rebellion simmers in the heart of Moonstone," she had breathed, her voice desperate under her prim mask. "And Vellore... Vellore Plan to fight a war against Moonstone Kingdom.
He raised the wine to his lips and sipped it slowly.
The banquet for him had become a calculation rather than celebration. A natural-born strategist and burdened by it, Leon was aware that the danger lay near no more. And tonight, danger had made contact with him in silken gloved hands and honeyed tongues as he knew.
He hadn’t gone back to his wives—not because he’d forgotten their warmth, their presence—because the portion of him that danced and laughed had been stripped bare by one bit of news: war wasn’t coming; it was already here.
His golden eyes, lidded in half-suspense, but radiating with intellect, pinched down as he watched the sea of ballroom. Pawns, enemies, and allies mixed through a haze of perfume and politics. Among that throng, Vellore’s seeds were already planted.
That’s what he needed now. Because he knew—a good tactician could dance within chaos, but only if clarity would ultimately reassert itself.
Leaning closer to hold onto the chill stone railing, Leon smiled calmly to an onlooker. But his mind seethed behind that serene façade like a tempest raged behind glassy waves. With each breath he breathed came the burden of a score of possibilities. What would Vellor play next? Which decisions in the court would turn first? And how could he respond to them all without showing the trump cards he had not yet played?
Another breeze rustled through—chilly this time. It buffeted his face and teased the stray strands of hair that had escaped the knot at the nape of his head. His eyelids closed for an instant, as though to hear the wind’s own secrets.
The great ballroom glimmered in candlelit softness, brimming with velvet dresses, shining armor, and masked motives.
From his perspective from the balcony, Leon’s eyes inevitably found them.
Nova. Lira. Rias. Aria. Syra. Kyra. Cynthia. Mia.
They stood together—his women—laughing and sharing light joking, a starry array of beauty outshining all jewels decorating the hall. Even Lira, though still recently integrated into the group, exuded an unusual ease among them. Their happiness was natural, their presence attractive.
Several noblemen lingered nearby, captivated but hesitant. Some admired from afar, their confidence withering under the sheer aura that surrounded the group. A few braver souls attempted to approach—until Nova’s gaze met theirs. The moment her cold eyes locked onto them, they faltered.
Being the Duchess and a Grandmaster cultivator, she never had to raise her voice or even lift a hand. Being present alone sent a message. And they got it loud and clear.
Leon sneered, a flash of amusement crossing his face. Seeing them scatter was satisfaction enough. He sipped his wine and muttered under his breath, "Still got it."
But the tranquility did not last long. His eyes kept on scanning the crowd below, and soon fell on Duke Edric.
The black-haired duke was amidst a group of lords, laughing freely, lifting his goblet with practiced ease. Everything he did was done with deliberation—carefree, yet controlled, like a man who practiced every word before speaking it. Leon observed him intently, studying the hidden signals—the tension behind the smile, the manner in which his eyes never relaxed. It was an act, expertly honed, like the cloak upon his back.
Edric was not drinking. He was managing.
Leon scanned her for a moment with his eyes unreadable and then Leon’s eyes moved again—this time to the far side of the ballroom, where the crowd was dense.
It was where King Aurelian was.
Tall, commanding, enveloped in authority as naturally as his royal cloak, the king was ringed by ministers and nobles who held to his words. He didn’t smile—he didn’t have to. His deep voice rumbled through the hall like faraway thunder, his nods rare but heavy with finality. Behind him, the court smiled politely and cast nervous glances, waiting for approval.
Standing beside him now was Natasha.
She had stepped away from Leon’s side mere minutes before, but now stood as if always at the king’s shoulder. Her stance was queenly, her face impassive. Yet, despite her guise as loyal servant, there was intent in every step. She leaned in slightly, her words braiding themselves along the fabric of conversation, sliding between policy and flattery.
And yet, she wasn’t merely standing next to the king.
She had cut a niche with him—on par. She was commanding, not boisterous, but unmistakable. As though she was no longer a servant of the crown—but a presence within it.
Leon raised a brow, not able to conceal the flash of admiration that came up within him.
"Smart girl," Leon grunted, a small smile curling at the edge of his mouth as his gaze watched the woman making her way through the court with subtle elegance.
But the smile didn’t linger.
Because then. he saw her.
She stood immediately behind the king—calm, majestic, and aloof. Her silver-white locks fell down her back in flowing waves, shimmering like moonbeams under the crystal chandelier. Wearing a midnight blue dress that hugged her curves like poured velvet, she appeared otherworldly... inaccessible. About her neck was a filigree amethyst pendant—the one he had given her.
Leon’s grin grew wider for an instant.
But that grin was lost just as fast, his keen instincts surging to the fore.
From his perspective, it was impossible to ignore. The distance between her and the king chilled. Measured. As if she weren’t a queen but an onlooker geared up for the moment. A statue positioned for charm. An ornament that carried no gravity in the room.
Her smile was soft, elegant even, but to Leon—a man trained to detect the faintest fissure in a facade—it was all too recognizable. That smile was untrue. Coiffed. Rehearsed. Hollow. Her gaze was unilluminated, their attention wandering not to her husband but to the ground, the walls... the featureless multitude.
She smiled, standing there.
Something was shattering.
Then, something changed.
Queen Sona leaned forward to the king, lips curled in a whisper no one heard. The king nodded curtly, his mind already back on his courtiers.
And just like that, she turned.
Beautiful. Calm. Her heels tapped softly on the marble as she made her way towards the door of the ballroom, her gown rippling behind her like the last strains of a song.
As she walked, her head tilted slightly—nearly imperceptibly. Her silver-blue gaze swept the hall one final time. For someone then she turns and exit hall.
Leon’s backbone stiffened.
He couldn’t define it, but something deep within him reacted. The same quiet tug he’d experienced before—like gravity shifting its trajectory.
Why now? Why depart in the midst of a royal feast?
His chest constricted. His mind sharpened.
Without hesitation, he finished the last of his wine, placed the glass on the tray of a passing servant, and moved away from the balcony.
He didn’t go back to the nobles. He didn’t join in the laughter or the dance.
He trailed after her.
No one saw his leaving. The ballroom was still a whirl of sound, voice, and clinking glasses. His wives were absorbed in giggles with Lady Lira. The nobles were too engrossed in their games and rumors.
Sitting beside the king, her dark eyes had seen Queen Sona’s leaving... and then, a moment later, Leon’s unobtrusive leaving.
Her brow lifted, entertained.
A sly, knowing smile spread over her lips.
She leaned slightly toward the king, though her words never left her mouth. "Looks like someone’s about to cuck tonight..." she mused inwardly, her gaze still fixed on Leon’s path.
The king glanced at her, puzzled. "What was that?"
Natasha blinked innocently, her smile unfading. "Nothing, Your Majesty. Just... an idle thought."
Aurelian chuckled and turned back to his ministers, his wine and ego both dangerously high.
She’d noticed the stares. Felt the buzz in the air. Saw the hesitation. The way Queen Sona had looked around before she walked off... and the way Leon had followed.
She knew, as only a woman could.
And her smile grew keener, cut with wily curiosity.
Leon pushed through the crowd, dodging engrossed nobles and giggling dancers. The ballroom doors groaned, just beginning to close behind Sona’s receding figure.
The orchestra continued to play.
Laughter arose like perfume.
But beneath the taffeta gold and velvet. something unsaid bubbled.
A new thread had been pulled loose.
And whatever lay beyond that door—
Leon could no longer look away.