Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 445: The Take Over (End)

Inside the old city palace, the war council convened. The walls were scorched and battered, windows broken and jagged at the edges, their stained glass melted in patches from the fires of the recent siege. Yet in that ruined majesty, soldiers moved in disciplined coordination, carrying fresh torches and sweeping aside rubble so the commanders had room to work. Despite the damage, a single oak table—scratched and pitted—had survived. Upon it lay a map of southern Varzadia, held down at the corners by broken bits of marble. It was all they needed for this meeting, and more than enough to plan the next step of their campaign.

Wilhelmina stood at the head of the table, her ledger in hand. Soot smudged her left cheek, but she looked as composed as ever. The slender, regal bearing she possessed contrasted sharply with the state of the palace, making it seem like she was meant to command in times like this. When she spoke, her voice was low but carried across the chamber with sharp authority.

"Funds seized from the treasury and hidden vaults," she announced, tapping a page in her ledger. "Enough to fund four months of operations, including recruitment and repairs. We can pay new recruits, buy building supplies, feed the city’s population in the meantime. It’s a solid start." Her tone was factual, but there was a note of relief beneath it—resources always spelled possibilities.

Josephine stood next to her, leaning one arm on the table. Her other hand tossed a handful of scrolls onto the surface, the old parchment unrolling slightly to reveal rows of cramped handwriting. "These are correspondence between Alstan and half the corrupt nobles in the region. Bribes to suppress revolts, forged reports, villages left to starve. Names, places, details... He never trusted memory when he could write it down, apparently."

She smirked, and Lyan noticed the slight curl of satisfaction at her lip. Josephine loved unearthing secrets, especially those that could topple bigger foes. Her eyes darted to Lyan, as if checking his reaction. He gave a silent nod—he appreciated her thoroughness. These documents would be a powerful weapon in a war fought on more than just battlefields.

"We use it," Emilia said immediately, looking up from the portion of the map she’d been studying. Her hair still smelled faintly of smoke from the night before. "Print it. Distribute it. Turn their lies into a confession in the public’s eyes. Let them see how deeply their nobles betrayed them."

A hush fell in the room for a beat. The idea of printing and distributing materials that exposed Varzadian corruption was bold. It would inflame tensions among the local aristocracy, but it might also rally the common folk to Astellia’s side.

Abraham, tall and broad-shouldered, stood beside the table, arms folded in a posture of contemplative strength. He dipped his head in agreement before shifting the conversation. "Next city’s a fortress," he said, pointing to a spot on the map with a calloused finger. The location was circled in charcoal. "Three days northeast. River-controlled. They’ve got warships patrolling. They won’t be as easy to surprise as Alstan’s city was."

A mild tension crackled in the air—nobody liked hearing about a well-prepared enemy, especially not one controlling a major waterway. But the group seemed unfazed. They were forging a path of conquest, one city at a time, and each city brought new challenges.

"Then we make this our root," Alice said, stepping forward so she could see the map more clearly. She brushed a lock of hair behind her ear. "Train recruits from the civilians here, let them witness the changes we bring. If we press too fast, we burn ourselves out, especially if the next city is well defended. Let them think we’ve stalled while we rotate troops and recover."

She tapped the city they currently occupied. "We invest here, show stability, and strengthen our ranks. Meanwhile, our illusions of inactivity will lull the Varzadian commanders into waiting. Then we strike where they don’t expect."

Raine, who had been standing off to the side sharpening a dagger, grinned at Alice’s words. She set the blade down and placed her hands on her hips. "I like it. Give them just enough rope to hang themselves. They’ll get cocky if they think we’re just sitting around licking wounds. Then we swoop in, remind them we’re not that predictable."

"Overconfidence kills," Surena said simply. She had pulled her dark hair into a high ponytail, exposing a fresh scar along her jaw from the night’s scuffle. Her cavalry had ridden through the city’s main gates first, and she had the scratches on her armor to prove it. "This place is quiet," she added, glancing around the palace with narrowed eyes, as if scanning for a hidden threat. "Too quiet. But I’d say a week will be enough time to root out any leftover pockets of trouble and set up a workable command structure."

Lyan watched them speak. He stood slightly apart, arms folded, posture relaxed but eyes alert. In the morning light streaming through a broken window, bits of dust and ash glinted around him like stray embers. The scene felt surreal—a scorched palace, half in ruins, yet here they were, calmly discussing finances, intelligence, and the next siege. He saw not a city taken by force, but by unity. By the synergy of illusions, infiltration, cavalry strikes, and logistic brilliance. By each of them offering their unique skills at the moment it mattered most.

(This didn’t fall because we were strong,) he thought, briefly closing his eyes to recall the previous night. The illusions he’d spun. The infiltration led by Ravia, the sabotage orchestrated by Raine, the unstoppable cavalry charge from Surena. All culminating in Wilhelmina and Josephine ensuring the city rose intact the next day. (It fell because we were together.)

That was the difference. Once, he might have tried to do everything himself: illusions to confuse the gate, infiltration on his own, summoning monstrous creatures to break the walls. But now, he had companions whose brilliance rivaled his own, each a master of a different battlefield. A faint, rare sense of pride welled up inside him, tempered by the knowledge that the war wasn’t over.

He opened his eyes to see the others awaiting his input. A hush settled. Wilhelmina looked at him expectantly, ledger still clutched under her arm. Alice tilted her head, waiting to see if he’d refine her plan. Josephine tapped her foot softly, curiosity shining in her eyes. Abraham simply watched, his expression unreadable but respectful.

"We hold here," Lyan said aloud, letting the words resonate in the scorched chamber. "One week. Then we march."

_______

The fires were gone. The streets, quiet. In the wake of the fierce battle, a hush fell over the city that felt almost surreal. Where chaos had reigned only hours before, now a subdued calm took hold. The pungent scent of ash still lingered in the air, and faint wisps of smoke coiled from the charred rooftops into the dusky sky. But the screams had vanished, replaced by hushed conversations and the low shuffle of feet on cobblestones.

Civilians received bread from soldiers. A line formed near what once served as a grand fountain, its basin now cracked and empty. There, an Astellian officer supervised the distribution of loaves. The bread was warm and simple, yet for many, it was the first proper meal they’d had in days. A middle-aged woman knelt beside her child—a boy with a fresh bandage on his calf—thanking the medic who had tended to him. The soldier, looking only a few years older than the child’s teenage sister, offered a reassuring nod before moving on to find the next patient.

Merchants, some trembling from the shock of the siege, began to cautiously set up again. Their once-flamboyant stalls were gone, replaced by crates and boards scavenged from wreckage. Yet the people welcomed even these makeshift stands, driven by a collective need to remember normalcy. They whispered in half-disbelief at how quickly the city’s ruling hand had changed, but they were practical: work still had to be done, trades still had to be made, children still had to be fed.

Lanterns flickered gently as dusk returned, each glow a tiny island of warmth against the deepening shadows. Some sat atop iron brackets on the battered walls, others perched on wooden posts near corners of the streets. Their light cast pools of amber on the cobblestones, illuminating faces that passed like half-seen phantoms in the twilight.

Lyan walked alone down one such street, his steps measured, almost cautious. Despite the hush, he could sense the undercurrent of tension that still thrummed beneath the city’s skin—like a chord not yet resolved. His clothes bore the stains of soot and sweat; remnants of the night’s conflict clung to him in the form of a faint, acrid smell. He had pulled a fresh cloak over his shoulders, but it did little to hide the smudges of ash that streaked across his arms.

A boy, no older than five, watched him from a narrow alleyway. The child’s face was smudged with dirt, his clothes torn at the sleeves, yet there was an innocent brightness in his wide eyes. As Lyan approached, the boy straightened, his tiny back stiff with an almost comical seriousness. Then, in a gesture that was part courage, part mimicry of the soldiers he’d seen, the child gave a crooked salute.

Lyan paused, an unexpected warmth stirring within him. He couldn’t recall the last time someone had saluted him in earnest admiration instead of fear or formal duty. He chuckled faintly, a low sound that carried more affection than he intended. Kneeling, he tousled the boy’s hair. The child blinked up at him, half-confused, half-proud. Lyan smiled—a moment of tenderness in a place that had seen too much violence.

He rose again and continued on, the boy’s salute lingering in his thoughts. (Even after all this, children still find wonder in the shadows,) he mused. (Perhaps there’s hope buried under the rubble after all.)

He reached the city estate—now his base of operations—amid the soft glow of lanterns lining the courtyard. Once a symbol of luxury and indifferent rule, the estate now bustled with a subdued but determined energy. Soldiers stood guard at the doors, their postures relaxed yet vigilant. The tall columns framing the entrance bore scorch marks, and the gilded gate was bent in places, but no one seemed to dwell on the damage. They had more pressing matters: reorganizing a city and stabilizing a shaken populace.

Inside, the lights were soft. Warmth, food, and voices waited. Lyan stepped through the grand foyer—its marble floor marred by cracks and stains—toward the main hall that had been converted into a communal living space for his closest companions. A tension in his shoulders eased the moment he heard their familiar chatter and felt the lingering warmth of a fire still crackling in a corner hearth.

Josephine leaned against the wall, arms crossed over her chest, a ledger tucked under one arm. Her eyes flicked toward Lyan as he entered, and she shifted her stance, letting out a small, relieved exhale. "So? What’s next?" she asked, her tone laden with curiosity and just a hint of teasing. The lines of fatigue around her eyes spoke of the endless tasks she had been juggling—managing resources, handling bureaucratic headaches, and ensuring a semblance of structure in the city they’d just conquered. freewebnσvel.cѳm

Lyan opened his mouth to speak, but before he could utter a word, a blanket flew through the air, landing against his chest. Startled, he caught it with a grunt. Raine leaned back in a wooden chair, a mischievous grin playing on her lips. "Still covered in soot, my dear war god," she quipped, raising an eyebrow in mock disapproval. "You might want to clean up before your grand speeches."

Despite her playful tone, Lyan felt a warm camaraderie in her words—an acknowledgment of what they’d all just been through. Alice, standing near the estate’s broken window, sighed and turned from the shadows outside. "And yet," she noted with a hint of dry humor, "you smell victorious." Her eyes were tired but sparked with that lethal sharpness that never quite left her, even in moments of rest.

Wilhelmina glided across the room, a fresh towel in her hand. She offered it to Lyan without ceremony. "One week," she reminded him softly, her voice carrying both caution and encouragement. "I hope you realize what that means."

"I do," Lyan replied, meeting her gaze. He saw the flicker of concern in her eyes and the faint lines of exhaustion on her face. Wilhelmina’s competence had been the backbone of this entire operation, and the weight of it showed.

Clarisse stood by the mantle, pouring wine for the others. She glanced over her shoulder at Lyan and gave a small nod, acknowledging his arrival. The clinking of glass echoed softly in the hushed space. Emilia dozed on a nearby sofa, one arm draped over her face, the other resting on Surena’s shoulder. Surena herself seemed half-awake, her posture protective, as though she’d snap to attention at the faintest hint of danger.

Tesha perched on the windowsill, her legs swinging lightly. She looked up as Lyan crossed the threshold, her small face brightening with a hopeful smile. "Master," she said in a hushed voice, as if not to disturb Emilia’s nap. "We won?" The question carried both innocence and a childlike trust, reminding him that not all who followed him were hardened warriors.

Lyan scanned the room. They were all here, though battered and covered in the soot of a night’s worth of fighting. Tired, yes, but something more than exhaustion glowed in their eyes—a quiet pride and a resolute determination. They had fought together, each playing their part to topple a lord who believed himself untouchable. And now, in this stolen estate, they stood on the threshold of building something new.

He set the blanket aside and ran a hand through his hair, dislodging a few stray flecks of ash. When he spoke, his voice was steady but tinged with that faint undercurrent of triumph. "We sow a flag in every ruin they called unshakable," he said, allowing a moment of silence to amplify the meaning of his words. "That’s what’s next."

Josephine, leaning against the wall, uncrossed her arms, her mouth curving into a small smile. Raine’s grin widened, while Surena lifted her head just enough to nod in approval. Even from her half-asleep state, Emilia mustered a tired thumbs-up. Alice, still by the window, took in a measured breath, her gaze flicking to Lyan with a spark that said she was ready for whatever came next.

Lyan felt their collective anticipation, the sense that they all stood on the brink of another grand move. But the memory of the battered city outside tempered his excitement. They had a week to rest, reorganize, and plan. A week to show these civilians who their new keepers really were. A week before the next push, the next confrontation, the next chance to prove Varzadia’s fortresses were far from insurmountable.

He sank into a wide chair with a long exhale, letting the tension slip from his shoulders. The battered cushion beneath him felt like a rare indulgence, a moment of comfort stolen from an otherwise unyielding campaign. The others watched him, the hush in the room thick with a camaraderie that didn’t need words.

"But for now," he muttered, tilting his head back, eyes half-closed in relief, "let’s enjoy the night we earned."

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