Regret.

A regret so profound it could overwhelm the entirety of one's being.

When it came to heightened emotions, the Dragon Clan had a tendency to act impulsively, often in ways even they couldn’t control.

Which ancestor had embedded this unbreakable flaw deep into their DNA? And after tens of thousands of years, why hadn’t it been fixed?

At breakfast, Roswitha appeared noticeably disheveled.

Her hair was unkempt, her face was bare of makeup, and faint dark circles hung under her eyes.

After impulsively throwing out her photo with Leon last night in a fit of emotion, she hadn’t been able to fall asleep.

Leon, on the other hand, seemed to have only crawled back into bed just as dawn broke and slept for barely half an hour.

When Anna knocked on their door to call them to breakfast, the couple lay back-to-back in bed.

Both were wide awake, aware of the other’s sleeplessness, yet neither took the initiative to say a word.

They were unsure if this counted as a fight.

If it did, why wasn’t it like their previous arguments—sharp-tongued and full of cutting jabs, followed by an exhilarating "man-versus-dragon showdown" that ended with everything resolved?

And if it didn’t count, how were they supposed to explain the uncontrollable emotional turbulence each of them was feeling?

At the breakfast table, even Muen seemed to sense that something was off between her mom and dad.

She ate her breakfast quietly, refraining from her usual antics designed to charm or amuse them.

In her little dragon heart, she thought to herself: maybe later, when Dad’s teaching me magic, I’ll ask him what’s going on.

She didn’t understand concepts like pride, tsundere behavior, or marital conflicts.

She only knew that when situations like this arose, it was often only after Dad and Mom had some distance from each other that they might start talking about what was on their minds.

Leon nibbled on his toast bit by bit, while Roswitha occasionally took small sips of water. The supplements and fruit on her plate remained untouched.

This was the quietest breakfast the Melkevi family had experienced in months.

When Muen had finished her meal, she got down from her chair. “Daddy, I’ll be waiting for you at the practice field.”

Leon blinked in momentary distraction. “What? Oh… yeah. Daddy will be there soon.”

“Mm-hmm.”

Muen left.

Leon’s gaze followed her for a moment before shifting to Roswitha. He glanced at the untouched fruits on her plate and lightly gestured toward them with his chin. “You should eat some of that; otherwise, it’ll go to waste.”

“Mind your own business.”

Yep, she was truly angry.

Sure, Roswitha had been mad at Leon before, but her anger back then was quintessentially "Dragon Clan"—proud and explosive, brimming with a “This queen won’t waste her breath arguing with you; you’re not worth it. This queen will just annihilate you now” kind of majesty.

But this time… the way she was angry made Leon feel like he was experiencing déjà vu—like he was watching his master’s wife sulk with his master.

Leon vividly recalled that one time when his master had promised to take his wife shopping. That day, she had dressed beautifully, even donning a gorgeous dress she rarely wore because she found it too extravagant.

But then his master got caught up in work and bailed on her last minute.

The result?

Three. Straight. Days.

She did not speak a single word to him for three whole days. No matter what tricks, apologies, or displays of remorse his master tried pulling, her responses boiled down to a single syllable:

“Oh.”

It wasn’t so much anger as it was pure sulking.

And Leon? He had no idea how to handle sulking women.

Neither his master nor his esteemed dragon-slaying academy had ever taught him how to soothe an aggrieved dragoness.

He was great at dealing with stubborn mules, though. A couple of bundles of hay, and bam—the mule would wag its tail and get back to pulling the plow.

But alas, dragons and mules were decidedly not the same species. Comparisons were futile.

What made matters worse was that Roswitha was currently pregnant with their second child. Her mood swings were naturally more erratic, leaving Leon at an even greater loss.

While he hesitated, wracking his brain for a solution, he noticed Roswitha slowly eating the fruit on her plate.

Leon finally exhaled in slight relief.

But after she finished, Roswitha didn’t say another word. She simply stood up, returned to their bedroom, and shut the door behind her.

Leon scratched his cheek and finished off his last bite of toast.

Should he go after her and try talking to her?

No, he thought bitterly. If his prediction was correct, Roswitha wouldn’t even bother opening the door.

Leon knew her well; once her stubborn streak kicked in, not even a team of oxen could change her mind.

He furrowed his brow, reflecting. Resolving a problem required finding its root cause first, didn’t it? If he wanted Roswitha to stop sulking, he needed to address why she was upset in the first place.

Winning back a woman’s favor couldn’t solely rely on sweet-talking her.

In the past, Leon wouldn’t have cared whether she was mad or not. If she wanted to puff herself up like a pufferfish, so be it.

But… well, she was pregnant now.

And anger wasn’t good for the baby.

The sooner he could dissipate her anger, the better—for her, for him, and especially for the little one growing inside her.

With a plan taking shape in his mind (and after coming up with a perfect excuse to justify his actions), Leon made his way to the practice field.

Muen saw her dad walking toward her and ran up to greet him.

“Today, what would you like to learn?” Leon asked with a gentle smile as he crouched to lift her into his arms.

“Daddy, did you and Mommy have a fight?” Muen cut straight to the point.

Leon froze. Looking at his daughter’s earnest little face, it was clear that even at the breakfast table, she had sensed the tension between him and Roswitha.

Though Muen often played the role of a cutesy little trickster, Leon knew her well enough to discern that she, like her older sister Noa, was deeply sensitive and perceptive.

The difference was that while Noa coped by presenting a more mature demeanor, Muen leaned into the innocence of childhood.

Leon’s heart softened. Smiling faintly, he pinched Muen’s chubby cheeks. “No, baby, Daddy and Mommy didn’t have a fight.”

For Muen, their family had to appear harmonious—happy and free from conflict.

This was an agreement Leon and Roswitha had come to long ago.

Their love and quarrels as husband and wife were never to affect the two little girls, who were innocent bystanders.

Which was why Leon didn’t tell the truth.

But Muen, sharp-witted as always, pressed on. “Really, Daddy?”

“Of course,” Leon replied, feigning surprise. “Would Daddy ever lie to you?”

“But this morning, neither you nor Mommy talked to each other. Normally, you have so much to say.”

Leon blinked. “Normally… we talk a lot?”

Muen nodded confidently. “Yup, uh-huh. Even though you don’t see each other much during the day, whenever you do, the two of you always talk and talk. It’s like you never run out of things to say.”

Leon had never noticed this before.

He and Roswitha… talked that much when they were together?

Surely not. He must’ve remembered wrong. Or more likely, Muen remembered wrong. That had to be it, Leon reasoned to himself.

“Maybe Mommy wasn’t feeling well today and didn’t feel like talking,” Leon explained. Then, with a reassuring pat on her head, he added, “But Daddy promises—by tomorrow morning, Mommy and I will be back to our usual selves.”

Privately, he prayed fervently that he could soothe Roswitha within the next twenty-four hours.

Muen blinked her big, beautiful eyes at him. Hugging his neck, she spoke with deliberate seriousness.

“Daddy.”

“Yes?”

“I think you and Mommy are like two porcupines.” Her tone was earnest, her childlike innocence giving way to surprising insight.

Leon froze.

What kind of strange metaphor was that?

How did porcupines even relate to the two of them?

“And why would you say that?” Leon asked, genuinely intrigued.

“Because both you and Mommy have spikes and needles on the outside, but you’re soft on the inside.”

“Huh… interesting.”

Leon didn’t quite know how to evaluate this whimsical analogy, so he settled for a mildly affirmative response.

What Muen said next, however, completely struck a chord with him.

“But unless one of you puts your spikes away, you’ll never be able to hug each other for real. It’ll either be you hurting Mommy, or Mommy hurting you.”

Using the simplest words a child could muster, Muen articulated a deep truth that Leon himself had never thought of before.

“So, unless you both put your spikes away at the same time, Daddy and Mommy will never be able to hug each other. Isn’t that right?”

Leon was stunned. Speechless.

He and Roswitha had always presented a façade of affection and harmony in front of their daughters. Even so, somewhere deep in Muen’s little heart, she still thought of her parents as “porcupines.”

Leon had never considered how he and Roswitha might appear to their daughters—not romantically lovey-dovey like they assumed, but… something else entirely.

Leon hugged Muen, standing there in silence for a good long while, before exhaling softly. “Alright. Daddy understands now. Thank you, Muen.”

Hearing him say this, Muen’s serious little face finally blossomed into a smile. “You’re welcome, Daddy!”

“But tell me, where’d you pick up such a strange metaphor? I don’t remember teaching you anything like that!”

“From *Little Dragon Tales for Growing Minds!* The story of ‘The Porcupine Couple!’” Muen replied with total sincerity.

It sounded like something plucked straight out of an elementary school-language reader.

But often, the simplest stories carried the most profound wisdom.

Wisdom so profound that adults couldn’t grasp it—only children could.

Thank you, author of *Little Dragon Tales for Growing Minds.* Thank you, porcupine couple!

After clearing his thoughts, Leon began their lesson for the day with Muen.

...

Late that night, as the man beside her slumbered soundly, Roswitha slowly sat up, shifting the blanket aside as she carefully got out of bed.

She wore soft pink couple’s pajamas and her dragon-wing slippers as she tiptoed out of the bedroom.

With temperatures dropping as winter approached, the chill in the air made her tug her sleepwear snugly around her body. Evading the sentinel guards outside the sanctuary’s back entrance, she sneaked off toward a nearby patch of grass.

Glancing upward, she confirmed that directly above her was indeed the balcony attached to her bedroom. She then lowered her gaze and began searching in earnest.

She was looking for that photograph.

Really, her sulking wasn’t purely Leon’s fault.

It was also partially due to herself.

Why was she so stubborn?

Why did she care so much about saving face?

If only she had softened her stance a bit earlier and told Leon, “I want to keep this picture. What’s it to you?”

Then the issue would’ve resolved itself, and she could’ve kept the photo without fuss, couldn’t she?

"Why bother fumbling in the dark to find the photo now?"

Ah, being prideful is satisfying in the moment, but staying that way leads to trouble.

"Whatever mess I created, I’ll just have to clean it up myself."

"Once I find the photo, I must hide it somewhere he absolutely can't get to!"

Roswitha thought to herself.

But it had been over twenty hours since Her Majesty had casually tossed the photo aside, and during that time a breeze had blown through. Who knows where the photo had been carried off to by the wind.

And now it was night; it was impossible to see anything on the ground.

After searching for around twenty minutes, Roswitha still hadn’t caught a glimpse of the photo.

She crouched down in disappointment, wrapping her arms slowly around her knees and burying her face into the crook of her elbow.

The chill of the night crept up around her. Her long silver tail drooped powerlessly onto the ground beneath her.

The photo was a candid shot, one of a kind in the world. If she lost it, it would be gone forever.

She didn’t even know why she cared so much about that photo.

Initially, she hadn’t known what to do with it, but as the days passed, the photo seemed to take on a new and profound meaning for her.

It was hard to describe—a feeling inexplicable, murky, unclear.

Perhaps only by retrieving the photo would Roswitha be able to make sense of it.

However... the chances of finding it were slim.

“Are you looking for this?”

A familiar voice sounded beside her.

Roswitha froze in place, and then slowly lifted her face from the crook of her elbow.

The photo she had been searching for so desperately was now held right before her eyes.

In the photo, she and her captive were gazing into each other’s eyes, smiling faintly. Sunlight poured through the photo studio’s window, illuminating her silver hair and reflecting off the man’s dark eyes, making them shine brightly.

The man beside her squatted down as well, leaning close to her side by side.

Holding the photo, he brought it to the center of their view. “I picked it up when I took Muen out for practice today. Listen carefully—it was purely coincidental, okay? Not like you, coming out here intentionally looking for it.”

Roswitha suppressed the smile tugging at her lips and replied, “I wasn’t intentionally looking either. I was just... taking a walk.”

“Oh? Your Majesty, you took a walk straight into the bushes? Did you get lost?”

“Go to hell,” Roswitha muttered as she nudged Leon’s shoulder.

Because they were both squatting, maintaining balance was tricky, and Leon ended up falling backward onto his behind.

Instead of getting back up, he casually crossed his legs and sat on the ground fully, lowering his gaze to the photo in his hand.

“Hey, do you know what Muen said about you?” he murmured.

“What did he say?”

“Said you’re like a hedgehog.”

Roswitha’s eyes shifted as a sly smile played at her lips. “Don’t lie to me. Muen was definitely talking about both of us.”

Leon burst into laughter: “Haha, wife, you’re so smart.”

“Shut up! Who’s your wife?”

Roswitha stood up and kicked Leon in the rear, then walked toward the entrance of the sanctuary without looking back.

Leon promptly scrambled to his feet and trotted after her.

The guard at the back gate nearly thought he was hallucinating when he saw Her Majesty and His Highness coming inside at such a late hour dressed in matching sleepwear.

“Your Majesty, Your Highness, good evening!” the guard greeted.

Roswitha nodded slightly and responded with a soft “Mm.”

As Leon passed by, he patted the guard on the shoulder. “Yup, we were just inspecting the post. You’re doing a fine job—promotion tomorrow.”

Inspecting the post in matching sleepwear?

The guard straightened up proudly. “Thank you, Your Highness!”

The couple entered the bedroom one after the other.

“Where should we put the photo?” Leon asked.

“Wherever. I don’t care.” Roswitha burrowed into the blankets.

“Tch, good intentions wasted on stonewalling. You don’t care? Then I don’t care either.”

Leon casually tossed the photo he had painstakingly retrieved onto the bedside table, then slid into bed himself.

That night, the two of them slept soundly.

The next morning, Leon woke leisurely.

Roswitha was already seated at her vanity, dressing herself.

He slowly sat up, his gaze drifting toward the bedside table.

There he saw that their photo had been placed in a delicate frame—and was now displayed beside the four-person family portrait.