Supreme Spouse System.-Chapter 234: In the Arms of Dawn

In the Arms of Dawn

The sun was already up over Moonspire, the Moonstone Kingdom’s capital, casting a warm golden cascade over the towering spires and the arching rooftops. Its early rays streamed across the ivory domes of the palace, casting gentle reflections on polished glass and gilded stone. Down in the city, the cobblestone paths rumbled with carriages, the merchant stalls rang open with a clinking, and the temple square’s bells rung in the hour with mellow tone.

From lofty balconies, birds heralded the dawn with their trilling chorus, while inside palace walls, life was lived in subdued, measured pace. Servants glided with practiced ease, their slippers whispering across marble. Silver trays balanced with steaming breakfast treats were borne down long corridors, the aroma of honeyed oats and fresh bread curling through the air. Incense wafted from intricately carved containers, blending with the subtle scent of rosewater as servants buffed mirrors and set out new lilies near windows.

In the southern fields, armor rang with every blow and riposte as knights practiced their morning drills, their shouts piercing on the wind. The kitchens rang with activity—pots banged, spoons stirred, and laughter burst from beneath-breath jibes as firewood crackled under copper cauldrons.

But amidst all the order and design, hidden away in the very center of the palace—the location where few ventured feet uninvited—time moved with the quietened reverence.

The Queen’s own rooms, buried deep within the central palace, remained untroubled by the day’s momentum. Protected by velvet-draped corridors and patches of silence, this sanctum was holy ground, a world insulated from the world beyond.

Here, sunlight in the morning did not burst in—but filtered through sheer, embroidered drapes, casting soft shadows on pearl-white walls and woven carpets. Dust motes slowly danced in the golden shafts, and the air was no longer filled with the smell of spiced kitchens or fresh lilies, but with something warmer, deeper—such as skin grown out from under silken sheets, such as the residues of whispered dreams.

The great bed at the room’s center, made of silverwood and shrouded in folds of chiffon, wore the look of a morning untouched. The coverlet was drawn halfway, the sheets creased slightly. And beneath those bleached, rumpled linens, two bodies lay entwined—motionless, silent, as if even the sun did not dare break the stillness over them.

There was no movement but the rise and fall of breath.

Time itself appeared unwilling to break in on what had passed during the night.

The morning light seeped delicately through heavy silk curtains as deep a red as if dyed from the cochineal, sloping between their folds to stain long golden streaks across the burnished floor. The beams worked slowly up, catching upon carved posts of the mighty canopied bed and overflowing softly upon its surface. On the bed, the silk sheets were in silent tangle, the smell of the night still clinging drowsily in the air—a mixture of sweat, heat, skin, and something heartbreakingly intimate. A scent that spoke in whispers of secrets exchanged in the dark, of caresses too gentle to be uttered.

The white sheet, creased and damp against the bodies underneath, just managed to cover up the shape of two forms clasped in the middle. The sheet hugged loosely over them, thin and smooth, showing just a glimpse of the fluid curve of arms and legs all mixed up in sleep.

They were motionless—silent, unflinching—as if the outside world no longer existed.

Under blankets, the contours of two naked bodies wrapped around each other like vines for the sun. There was no gap left between them. No space. Only heat. Only air. Only body against body.

And only one face was seen, lying in the light.

A woman—beautiful in a way that took breath and wouldn’t return it. Her long silver hair spilled across the pillows like molten starlight, catching golden threads of sunlight in each strand. Her back was tucked snugly against a broad chest, her arms folded close as though still holding something invisible. Her breathing came soft, steady, untouched by worry or weight. Her pale skin shone where the sun had kissed her, and her face, normally set and queenly, was soft into something achingly tender.

Queen Sona of Moonstone.

No crown to wear. No robes. No armor of silence or speech. Just a woman—naked, serene, undone in a way only love could.

In the arms of the man she had waited a lifetime for.

His name was Leon. The man who once stood by her side as a childhood companion, who had protected her from darkness even when her heart had been locked up in silence. Now, he rested behind her, the lines of his body pressed into hers like it had always fit there.

His dark hair, rumpled and silky from sleep, blended with her’s on the pillow, silver accents intertwining with her moonlit hair in a lovely mixture of dark and light. His arm was around her waist, holding her near as if in sleep he already claimed her, fingers lying just below the crease of her belly. The other was under the pillow they shared, cradling her head. Even sleeping, his piercing was firm—possessive in the softest manner.

His breath touched the back of her neck. His chest lifted in sync with hers.

They had not slept all night.

Not until dawn colored the heavens in pale pinks and the first bird chirped in the window.

Love had flowed from them, silent and bottomless. Years of secret yearning, hidden behind obligation and silence, had poured into each kiss, each breathed name, each shuddering breath. Again and again, they’d grasped for each other—until their bodies shook and their hearts succumbed to fatigue. Until the pain dissipated, leaving only the sear of love too deep to be called.

Now they slept. Two naked souls swaddled in comfort and quiet, body to body under the morning sun.

A holy quiet covered the room.

But then—

Knock. Knock.

A harsh and unexpected knock on the chamber door—a jarring sound like the crack of a branch in a forest too still. It cut through the stillness like a knife, bursting the cocoon of quiet that had enveloped them.

Neither stirred.

Their bodies were too weighed down by the excess of passion, with the pain of sleeplessness, with the sort of intimacy that seemed like a loss upon waking. The knock lingered in the air, unheeded.

Knock. Knock.

This time harder, more impatient.

Leon’s brow flickered. A faint furrow creased between his brows. His arm flexed in a fraction more around Sona’s waist.

Sona woke, though not really. Her fingers moved where they lay along his arm. A sigh slipped past her lips, though they were still closed.

There was a second knock, and it was louder. Third time.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Leon’s golden eyes slowly opened, unwilling. Light flooded them, gold to gold. He blinked, jaw tightening slightly at the trespass. At the audacity of it. At the world intruding too fast, as if the world had any business shattering this moment.

He did not stir. He merely gazed at the woman in his arms.

And then she woke. Her heavy lashes quivered and after a slow blink, opened—blue, gentle, sleep-dazed. They were lightly rimmed with red, proof of everything she’d felt and given the previous night. Her eyes blinked slowly, blurry at first... until the knock came once more.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

This time more firm—no longer hesitant, but commanding.

Sona’s eyes snapped open. Blindingly blue flames in the warm sunlight streaming through the edge of the curtain, they blinked as she shielded them from the soft light. A moment after, Leon stirred beside her, his golden eyes opening with a flicker of awareness.

They were both stunned for a moment, still caught between the fog of sleep and the residual heat of the previous night. Their gazes slowly rotated in tandem—captivated by the origin of the noise—to the doorway.

There was more knocking. Faster. Harder.

They rose together, reflexes sharpened through years of training taking precedence over the softness in their limbs.

The sheet slipped off Leon’s waist as he stood up, exposing the sculpted muscles of his torso, his bare chest scarred with faint pink welts—scratches that were already starting to heal, courtesy of the silent, persistent miracle of his regenerative power. Sona moved more slowly, but the motion dragged the sheet with her, exposing her upper body.

The dawn sunlight stroked the contours of her breasts, each one bearing the gentle imprint of love bites, puffing like bruised rose petals against her alabaster skin. Her collarbone, shoulders, and neck were etched with the bruised remains of his kisses—testament to the fervor they’d finally given in to.

Leon’s body was a reflection of hers. Where her caresses had hung on him the longest, pale pink pathways lingered, already dissipating.

They looked into each other’s eyes.

For a heartbeat, they didn’t say a word. The silence beat between them—tense, heavy, shaking.

Then Sona breathed, her own voice soft and jagged, "Leon... who is it at the door?"

Her lips opened with the words, still rosy and a little swollen from last night’s endless kisses. Her breath came sharply in, and the flash of fear in her eyes did not pass unobserved. Her cheeks were rosy—not from blushing, but from terror.

Leon leaned forward just a little, his hand seeking hers beneath the blankets. His fingers closed over hers, warm and unyielding.

"It’s okay," he whispered, steady and low. His face never changed, but inwardly, he was thinking too.

His golden eyes flashed toward the door once more briefly; furrowed brows in wordless calculation.

"Don’t panic," he repeated, his voice firmer now, tinged with a quiet sureness—like he already knew precisely why she was bracing herself. A faint tension creased his jaw as he added, "If it were the king... he wouldn’t knock."

The words carried a chill.

And both of them knew he was correct.

This was the most intimate room in the Queen’s personal wing—only a few devoted attendants were ever permitted to get this close. And yet, even so, if the King were to suspect, if he were to come himself. he would not knock with soft raps. He wouldn’t have to.

Leon’s jaw hardened.

The King might have long since stepped out of Sona’s world—cold, distant, and emotionally detached—but that did not diminish the danger he represented. His authority was absolute. As a Monarch Realm cultivator, he could scythe through the whole palace with his senses in one breath. He didn’t require eyes to observe. He didn’t require doors to intrude.

Sona gulped, her face contorting with silent horror.

Even now, clad in the tatters of a night that had rearranged everything, she could sense the presence of that pending threat seeping through the quiet.

Leon sensed it too. He was not intimidated by the King as a fighter. If it were to come to battle, he would hold firm. But that was not the fight he desired—not here. Not after this one.

He glanced at Sona once more, eyes softening. freewebnσvel.cѳm

"So... relax," he breathed once more, voice low, studded with tranquility. His fingers wrapped tighter around hers, providing a soft reassurance she hadn’t realized she required. "It’s not him."

The heat of his hand attempted to hold back the fear widening in her breast, but it merely delayed the wave for a heartbeat more.

Then—

Knock. Knock.

The voice was low, courteous even, yet in the stillness of morning, it fell like thunder on her ears.

And a voice followed.

Soft. Melodic. Indistinguishably familiar.

"My queen... are you awake?"

Leon’s brow furrowed. That voice—he knew it. He had heard it previously, once or twice, during fleeting court matters.

Sona bristled immediately. Her breath lodged in her throat as her eyes opened wide and flashed towards him.

"Leon," she breathed, urgent. "It’s Tsubaki."

His golden eyes snapped into focus. "Lira’s personal guard?"

She nodded jerkily. "She wouldn’t be here so early unless something was wrong."

Her voice was strained, but the fear had already left her eyes. It was replaced by a new clarity—a sharp certainty that only those deeply attuned to palace rhythm could grasp.

If Tsubaki was present, then it wasn’t by chance. It implied that she had a mission, a message. And most importantly—no one else was aware of what had occurred between Sona and Leon.

Which made them safe. For now.

Leon’s jaw clenched as his eyes darted involuntarily to the curtains of the window, the pale morning light filtering through.

Sona did not lose another moment.

"Hide," she whispered,

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