Supreme Spouse System.

The Silent Song of Roses

The garden held its breath.

A breeze moved gently through the air—soft and cool—like it was brushing past with a secret it couldn’t quite say. It caught in the silver strands of Sona’s hair, lifting them for a moment before letting them fall again. The trees swayed slowly, their leaves rustling with the hush of distant thoughts. The scent of roses filled the air—sweet, heavy, romantic. Almost too much to take in.

Between Leon and Sona, silence stretched long. Not tense. Not cold. Just fragile. Like spun glass.

Neither of them moved. Neither of them spoke. It was the kind of silence that said everything without needing to say a thing.

Only the breeze and the soft sound of water trickling from a nearby fountain touched the space between them.

Leon stood still behind her. Quiet. Watching.

She didn’t turn around. Her hand hovered over a rose, fingers barely brushing the soft edge—like even beauty could hurt if you touched it wrong.

Then, finally, she spoke.

Her voice soft. Like moonlight touching glass.

"Tell me, Leon..." she began, the words wrapped in some distant sorrow, "in this grand garden, among so many flowers... have you ever heard a rose sing?"

Leon blinked, brow knitting faintly. The question floated in the air, strange and out of place, like a dream spoken aloud.

"A rose?" Leon repeated softly, uncertain. "They don’t sing—they just bloom, then fade away. I always thought that was all they did."

Sona’s lips curved into a faint, bittersweet smile—a smile touched with sadness and understanding.

"Not with a voice you can hear," she said gently, "but with a language all its own—through its colors, its fragrance, the way its delicate petals reach for the sunlight. A rose sings its story silently. It tells of beauty... but also of pain hidden beneath its thorns."

Her eyes softened as she looked down at the rose beside her, distant yet full of meaning. "But if no one takes the time to truly see or listen... that song is lost, unheard."

Leon’s face softened as understanding dawned. "So... you mean even the most beautiful things can suffer in silence, simply because no one listens?"

At that, she turned just enough for him to see her profile. Her lips curved into something that might have been a smile—if only it held warmth.

"Exactly," she murmured.

Her fingers drifted lower on the rose’s stem, trailing too close to a thorn. Leon saw, but said nothing, unsure whether to stop her. Her silence was not hollow—it was chosen, deliberate, and sacred.

"Roses are adored for their petals," Sona continued, voice quieter now. "Praised. Picked. Arranged in vases. Always admired. Never truly heard."

She looked up at a distant tree where a lone bird perched, feathers fluffed against the breeze.

"But that bird..." she whispered, "he returns to me often. I offer him crumbs, and he sings—not for the crowd, not for a throne. Just for the wind. Just to remind himself he still can."

Leon’s chest tightened.

"Sona... are you trying to tell me something?"

She didn’t answer directly.

Instead, her fingers moved in a slow, absent rhythm across the rose petals—gentle, almost reverent. As if the petals were too fragile to bear even the lightest pressure.

And yet, just beneath that delicate rose... a hidden thorn pierced her skin, leaving a faint, unnoticed scratch and a whisper of blood along her finger

She didn’t even seem to notice when the thorn had pierced her skin—nor did Leon.

But her hand never faltered. She kept stroking the rose, her touch tender, almost reverent.

Then—her voice came again. Soft. Unhurried.

Not meant to be heard loudly. Only felt.

"Some thorns," she whispered, "hide beneath the softest petals. You only see them when it’s already too late."

Leon stood still.

His golden eyes stayed on her. Calm, but searching. His brows pulled in, just a little. The breeze curled around them, soft and slow, tugging at her gown. Leaves above rustled faintly. The garden held its breath. Still. Silent. Like the whole world had paused—just for them.

He tried to understand her words. He tried to make sense of them.

Thorns? Petals? She was speaking in riddles.

And yet—something in her voice...

There was weight behind it. A weariness. Not just poetic reflection.

But grief. A kind that had no sound.

A moment passed.

And then—it struck him. Like a sharp breath. Like light piercing shadow.

He understood.

The rose she touched—that was her.

Delicate, beautiful... yet hiding pain beneath soft petals.

The bird she’d spoken of, its silent song—

was not about melody, but about thoughts unspoken.

Longing. Loneliness. Things too heavy for words.

The flower vase, the crown, this palace...

symbols not of grace, but of confinement.

A beauty arranged, admired—never truly heard.

And the thorn...

The thorn was the life she lived here.

A quiet ache beneath the elegance.

A wound no one cared enough to see—until it bled.

Leon opened his mouth to ask if she was alright — if it had anything to do with the king or something else troubling her. But then his eyes caught something unexpected.

Her finger was stained with blood, brushing softly over red rose petals. She didn’t seem to notice it at all.

"Sona," he said suddenly, her name slipping from his lips—high, but soft. Gentle. Laced with surprise, touched with concern.She turned to him slowly. Her eyes met his, searching. A quiet "Hmm?" left her lips, small and questioning, like she was asking, "What is it?"

Without hesitation, Leon stepped closer, each movement calm and sure. Reaching out, he took her right hand gently in his, his touch warm and steady—without words, without hesitation.

Sona’s eyes widened in startled surprise. Her heart skipped, a sudden thump echoing deep within her chest, cheeks flushing with a delicate blush.

"What—what are you doing, Leon?" Sona’s voice trembled softly, shy and uncertain, like a fragile leaf caught in a gentle breeze.

Leon’s gaze softened instantly, filled with a tenderness that made the world around them blur into quiet stillness. He gently took her bleeding finger in his hand, his touch careful and warm. "You’re bleeding, silly," he said quietly, his voice low and laced with affection—and a flicker of concern that only she could ever truly feel.

"Oh," she said softly, as if trying to brush the moment away, with a faint smile, she said "I didn’t even notice when I got scratched."

Leon stared at her for a long moment. Quiet. Still. His eyes traced the small stain of blood—disbelief flickering, concern shadowing the edges. Then came a soft, wary smile. "Unbelievable," he murmured, voice low. A little stunned. A little something else.Sona felt it—the quiet weight of his hold. Not tight. Just there. Gentle in a way that tugged at something in her chest she didn’t expect.She glanced at their hands. Then up at him.Slowly, she tried to pull free her hand. Her voice stayed calm, even. But softer now."Let go, Leon. This scratch will heal on its own."

But Leon continues held her hand gently, as he remembered—how, even as a child, she’d always acted brave. How she’d hide her pain behind proud smiles, even when her knees were scraped or her fingers nicked. She hated showing weakness. Even back then.

And the original Leon... he had always noticed. Always been there with quiet care, gently bandaging her scrapes, whispering silly comforts only she ever heard.

A particular memory bloomed in his mind—vivid, warm. The two of them beneath a canopy of autumn leaves, laughing as they played. She’d scrateched her finger on a jagged branch. Before she could hide it, he’d grabbed her hand and, with childlike instinct, gently sucked the blood from her finger to stop bleeding. She froze. Eyes wide. Flustered. But she didn’t move. Didn’t pull back her finger.

That moment had stayed with him, buried deep.

Now, standing here again—her hand in his, her blood on her fingertip—Leon felt something stir.

Perhaps... recreating this closeness, this simple intimacy, might bring a flicker of that comfort back. Not just for her, but for them both.

A soft smile curved his lips.Slow. Careful.Leon raised her bleeding finger, bringing it to his mouth. His lips closed gently around the tip—warm, soft, almost too tender. He sucked lightly, just enough to stop the bleeding.But the tenderness in his touch caught her completely off guard.