Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 439: The Lord Alstan of East

Morning arrived with a soft, golden glow that filtered through the expansive windows of Lord Alstan Ferindale’s office. The city below bustled with its usual rhythm—merchants setting up stalls, laborers hauling goods, and soldiers patrolling the streets in a lethargic manner that mirrored their lord’s demeanor. Inside the lavish chamber, however, the atmosphere was anything but industrious.

Alstan leaned back in his oversized chair, its crimson cushions embroidered with golden threads that shimmered in the sunlight. Around him, the room radiated opulence. Ornate tapestries lined the walls, depicting exaggerated scenes of his family’s supposed victories. A crystal chandelier hung above, casting a soft, refracted glow across the polished marble floors. Gold-trimmed furniture and an array of jeweled trinkets were scattered about, a testament to his obsession with wealth.

A servant approached, bowing low as he presented a tray bearing a steaming goblet of spiced wine. Alstan waved a pudgy hand dismissively. "Later. I’ve more important matters to attend to." His tone dripped with disdain, though he had yet to even glance at the documents piled on his desk.

The double doors of the office creaked open, and a harried messenger stumbled inside, his tunic damp with sweat. "M-my lord," the man stammered, clutching a scroll in trembling hands. "Urgent news from the frontlines."

Alstan frowned, his plump fingers drumming the desk’s surface impatiently. "Speak, then, and be quick about it. I detest interruptions."

The messenger unrolled the scroll, his voice quivering as he read aloud. "The southeastern front has fallen. The Astellians... they have routed our forces, my lord. Their tactics were—"

"What nonsense is this?" Alstan’s voice boomed, cutting the man off mid-sentence. "Routed by farmers and peasants? Do you take me for a fool?" He snatched the scroll, scanning it briefly before tossing it aside in disgust. "This is propaganda, meant to shake our resolve. Those Astellian dogs couldn’t breach a barn door, let alone our defenses."

An older advisor standing nearby cleared his throat, his expression cautious. "My lord, the report is credible. Our scouts confirm the southeastern defeat. Perhaps we should consider fortifying our own defenses... just in case."

Alstan’s laughter rang out, rich and derisive. "Fortify? Against what? A horde of starving peasants armed with pitchforks?" He gestured grandly toward the window overlooking the city. "Look at these walls! They’ve stood for centuries, impervious to far greater threats than a few emboldened serfs."

The advisor’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he said nothing further. Alstan’s mood was as unyielding as his girth, and it was clear that reason would find no purchase here.

"Dismissed," Alstan barked, his voice carrying the sharp, final tone of a man unaccustomed to being questioned. He waved a hand, the gesture as dismissive as it was impatient, as though swatting away an insect that dared linger too long in his presence. The messenger hesitated, his lips parting as if to offer a rebuttal, but the lord’s glare—cold, hard, and piercing—snapped his mouth shut. The weight of Alstan’s disdain was almost palpable, pressing down on the man like a physical force.

The messenger’s hands trembled as he gathered his courage, the scroll crinkling in his grip, but his resolve faltered under the oppressive gaze of the lord. He managed a low, deferential bow, his shoulders hunched as though trying to shield himself from the sting of Alstan’s scorn. His retreat was slow and reluctant, each step echoing heavily in the lavish chamber. The weight of unsaid words hung thick in the air, but he dared not risk further wrath.

As the heavy wooden doors creaked shut behind him, the opulent room fell into a strained silence, broken only by the faint, rhythmic tapping of Alstan’s fingers against the armrest of his chair. His expression softened into one of smug satisfaction as he reclined further, allowing the plush cushions to embrace his corpulent frame.

"Imbeciles," he muttered, his voice dripping with derision. "Always fretting over the smallest setbacks. This city’s walls have stood for centuries; they will not fall to a rabble of deluded farmers."

____

The afternoon sun cast a decadent glow over Alstan’s private quarters, where indulgence had been elevated to an art form. A sprawling table dominated the room, buckling under the sheer weight of its lavish spread. Roasted pheasants gleamed with golden-brown perfection, their juices pooling enticingly around sprigs of fresh herbs. Platters of candied fruits sparkled like jewels, and loaves of bread sat crusted in fine salt and flecked with aromatic seeds. At the center, a silver decanter brimmed with wine so rich and dark it seemed almost black, reflecting the flicker of candlelight from ornate candelabras.

Alstan reclined on a plush divan upholstered in crimson velvet, his corpulent frame half-draped in a silk robe that barely contained his bulk. In one hand, he held a goblet adorned with emeralds, swirling the wine lazily as though contemplating some profound truth. In the other, he gripped a drumstick, tearing into the succulent meat with a ferocity that betrayed his genteel surroundings. Around him, slaves moved with practiced grace, refilling his goblet, adjusting the pillows at his back, or fanning him with long, gilded plumes. Their faces were blank masks, their eyes trained on the floor to avoid their master’s gaze.

"More wine," Alstan commanded, his voice thick with indulgence, slurring slightly from excess. A young woman stepped forward, her hands trembling as she refilled the goblet. She moved with the precision of someone who had learned through painful experience that the slightest spill could bring wrath. The rich aroma of the wine filled the air, mingling with the feast’s heady scent.

"Ah, perfection," Alstan sighed as he raised the goblet to his lips, the ruby liquid disappearing in one indulgent swig. He tossed the drumstick’s bone onto a golden plate, wiping his greasy fingers on an embroidered napkin that probably cost a soldier’s yearly salary.

The doors swung open abruptly, shattering the languid atmosphere. Alstan scowled, the deep creases of his face darkening as his personal reverie was interrupted. Standing in the doorway was his chief advisor, the same man who had dared suggest fortifying the city earlier that day. His face was pale, his hands gripping a sheaf of papers as though clinging to a lifeline.

"My lord," the advisor began, his voice tight with urgency. "We must speak at once. It concerns the Astellians—"

"Not this again!" Alstan bellowed, slamming his goblet onto the table. Wine sloshed over the rim, staining the pristine linen. "I told you, I will not have my leisure disturbed by cowardly drivel."

"But my lord," the advisor pressed, stepping further into the room despite the guards’ hesitant glances, "the situation is dire. Reports confirm that the Astellians have taken the southeastern front. Their forces—"

"Enough!" Alstan’s roar reverberated through the opulent chamber, silencing the advisor mid-sentence. He rose from the divan, his bulk swaying slightly as he adjusted his robe. His face twisted into a sneer as he pointed a fat finger at the trembling man. "Do you think I am some trembling peasant to be frightened by tales of rabble armed with pitchforks? This city is impenetrable. Its walls have withstood sieges from far mightier armies than those filthy Astellian dogs."

The advisor’s mouth opened, but no words emerged. His gaze flickered briefly to the table, where a platter of untouched candied fruits gleamed mockingly, a stark contrast to the looming threat he spoke of. "My lord, if we—"

"Guards!" Alstan bellowed, his face reddening with rage. Two armored men appeared at the doorway, their stoic expressions betraying a flicker of discomfort at the scene. "Remove this fool from my presence. Let him stew in his cowardice elsewhere."

The guards moved forward, gripping the advisor by the arms. He struggled briefly, his voice rising in desperation. "You must act, my lord! The Astellians—"

His words were cut off as the guards dragged him toward the door, their boots echoing ominously on the marble floors. Alstan watched with a smug expression, his chest puffing out as if victorious in some unseen battle.

"Cowards and fools," he muttered under his breath, sinking back into his seat. He reached for another goblet, this one already filled to the brim, and drained it in a single gulp. The warmth of the wine spread through him, dulling the lingering irritation.

A slave approached tentatively, holding a damp cloth. She leaned forward to wipe the spilled wine from the table, but her hands trembled, causing the cloth to slip slightly.

Alstan’s eyes darkened. "Clumsy wretch!" he snarled, grabbing the goblet and hurling it to the floor. The fragile glass shattered, shards skittering across the tiles. The slave flinched, falling to her knees to gather the pieces. Alstan waved a dismissive hand. "Get out of my sight."

As the girl scrambled away, Alstan leaned back with a huff. His eyes roved over the table, seeking something to restore his mood. He seized a golden plate of candied oranges, their syrupy sheen glinting in the fading sunlight. Popping one into his mouth, he chewed slowly, savoring the sweetness.

"Let them come," he muttered to himself, his voice dripping with arrogance. "Those peasants wouldn’t dare challenge me. They’ll find nothing but death waiting at these walls."

He chuckled, the sound low and self-satisfied, before gesturing for more wine. The servants moved quickly, refilling his goblet and ensuring his comfort. Outside, the city’s walls stood tall and silent, unaware of the shadows gathering beyond.

____

Night fell, and Alstan retired to his opulent bedchamber. The room was a monument to excess, with its silk-draped canopy bed, gilded furniture, and walls adorned with tapestries depicting his supposed triumphs. He settled into the plush mattress, sighing contentedly as the day’s frustrations melted away.

Sleep came quickly, but it was not restful. Lord Alstan Ferindale found himself standing in the heart of his city, surrounded by his treasures. The golden coins and jeweled ornaments that he had hoarded with such pride gleamed momentarily under an otherworldly light, before melting into molten slag that bubbled and hissed around his feet. Panic gripped him as he stumbled backward, the heat searing his flesh, though his skin remained unburned in the surreal nightmare. The sturdy walls of his city, which had stood for centuries, began to crack ominously, fissures snaking along the stones until the entire structure collapsed into choking dust clouds. The once-imposing defenses vanished, leaving him exposed and trembling.

Shadowy figures emerged from the swirling haze, their movements fluid and menacing. Each step they took reverberated like a drumbeat, the sound hollow and foreboding. They seemed to mock him, their presence oppressive and suffocating. One figure among them loomed larger and more distinct. He carried a gleaming glaive, its blade dripping with a dark, unnatural substance that hissed as it touched the ground. The man’s eyes were sharp and piercing, glowing faintly with an inner fire that seemed to see straight into Alstan’s soul.

Alstan’s heart pounded as recognition flared in his mind. He had dismissed reports of this man, finding the tales absurd and infuriating. Lyan Arkanium Evocatore, the so-called Devil Baron of Astellia, the hero of the goblin king uprising. The mercenary-turned-noble who had risen through the ranks with unprecedented speed, a figure surrounded by rumors of invincibility, cunning, and unmatched strength. He recalled the infuriating details: a man said to be as powerful as a dragon, wielding his glaive with deadly precision, commanding armies with ease, and surrounded by eleven wives. It was all too ridiculous, too impossible—yet here he was, the embodiment of every troubling report, standing before him in this vivid nightmare.

The man stepped closer, his glaive raised with deliberate menace, and Alstan’s knees buckled. A wave of icy terror crashed over him as the shadow of the weapon fell upon his chest. The sheer weight of the man’s gaze made him feel like prey cornered by a predator, every fiber of his being screaming to flee. But he couldn’t move; he was paralyzed, pinned under the man’s burning stare. The closer the figure came, the more his surroundings seemed to dissolve into chaos. The ground beneath him crumbled, the molten slag rising as if to consume him whole.

Alstan opened his mouth to scream, but no sound emerged. The glaive gleamed in the distorted light, the man’s smirk twisting into something cruel and inescapable. At the moment the weapon seemed poised to strike, Alstan jolted awake, his body drenched in cold sweat. He gasped for air, clutching his chest as though he could feel the shadowy weapon’s imprint against his heart. The oppressive weight of the nightmare lingered, its vividness refusing to fade.

He staggered to the edge of his bed, gripping the intricately carved post as if it could anchor him to reality. "A dream," he muttered, his voice shaking. "It’s just a dream. Nothing more."

But the cold terror in his veins told him otherwise. Somewhere deep within, he knew that the man from his nightmare was more than a figment of his imagination. And for the first time, the lord of the city felt a crack in the fortress of his arrogance.

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