Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 446: The Calm Before The Fort

The lanterns hanging in the estate’s main corridor glowed like tired fireflies, most already guttering from lack of oil. Their weak light spilled in narrow puddles across polished stone floors scarred by the siege, turning broken vases and discarded bits of armor into long, harmless silhouettes. Lyan padded down the passage alone, boots whisper‑soft on the rugs. Dust still streaked his cloak, and half‑dried blood clung to the edge of his gauntlet where a defender’s blade had nicked him hours earlier. He kept meaning to wash, but every turn in this new command post produced a fresh decision, a new set of worries.

Around the next bend he heard the low lull of voices—women’s voices, familiar and warm, drifting from a side hall that opened onto what had once been a music salon. The heavy door there stood ajar. Light from a single candelabrum flickered inside, joined by the thin orange glow of embers in an old marble hearth. Someone laughed—soft, tired, but genuine.

He paused at the threshold, taking in the scene before anyone noticed his arrival. Josephine lounged on a velvet bench near the hearth, boots off, stockings half‑rolled, a goblet of burgundy wine dangling from her fingers. Her copper hair—normally restrained—fell loose over one shoulder. Alice sat cross‑legged on a carpet, sorting parchment into tidy piles. Surena leaned back against a pillar, armor unstrapped, leather jerkin hanging open to reveal the linen shirt beneath; she was teaching Clarisse how to spin a dagger across her knuckles. Raine lay upside‑down on a chaise, feet in the air, humming at the ceiling while balancing an apple on her forehead. Wilhelmina occupied the only intact armchair, skirts fanned, quill tapping the margin of a ledger as she muttered final tallies.

Their small circle of lamplight felt worlds away from flaming rooftops and screams. They were decompressing—peeling out of armor, letting braids come undone, melting fatigue with laughter and sips of wine. The intimacy of it struck Lyan harder than any victory cheer earlier. For a heartbeat he simply watched, feeling the prickle of sweat cool on his skin.

(Stop staring and walk in before they notice,) Arturia scolded.

(Oh let him look,) Lilith purred.

Hestia sniffed. (A commander should enter proudly, not lurk like a stray cat.)

Lyan cleared his throat and stepped over the threshold. "I see our conquering heroines have already stormed the wine cellar," he drawled, letting the door swing shut behind him. "A victory toast before the dawn, is it?"

Five heads turned his way. Raine’s precariously balanced apple slipped off her brow, bounced off the chaise, and rolled in lazy circles across the rug. Josephine, reclining like a sated cat, cocked a brow over the rim of her goblet. "Look who finally wandered home," she purred. "Tell me, Baron, did you conquer the whole city just so you’d have an excuse to ogle us while we unwind?"

Instead of flushing, Lyan widened his stance and offered a shallow bow—half formal, half mock‑theatrical. "Pure research, Josephine. A commander must inspect his most valuable assets from every strategic angle. Morale is important, after all."

Josephine’s grin turned sly as she patted the spot beside her. "Assets, he calls us. Careful—surplus appreciation can be taxable."

Surena snorted a laugh, dagger still flipping across her knuckles. "Tax him later. I’m more curious how our fearless leader kept both eyes on the enemy when Clarisse decided to demonstrate that knife‑bend maneuver." She clicked her tongue, mimicking his supposed distraction. "I swear, Lyan, you stalked across the courtyard like a sleepwalker until you damn near head‑butted a doorpost."

Clarisse’s cheeks burned pink. "I was retrieving the dagger I dropped, thank you very much." She tried to hide a smile and nearly fumbled the blade again.

Lyan shrugged out of his dusty cloak and draped it over a chair, deliberately unhurried. "Doorpost or not, Surena, my stride never faltered. It’s called situational awareness—perhaps too advanced a concept for cavalry who only charge in straight lines?"

The room erupted in good‑natured hoots. Surena clutched her chest in exaggerated offense. "Straight lines? Our mounts pirouetted around those barricades with more grace than you have flirting sense."

"Oh, I have plenty of sense," Lyan countered, unbuckling one gauntlet. "Enough to know when grace is on display. Clarisse’s recovery of that dagger was... elegant. It deserved attention."

Clarisse stifled a giggle, tossing her glossy hair out of her eyes. "See? Tactical praise."

"That’s not tactical," Raine chimed from the chaise, swinging upright. "That’s Lyan‑cal. Means he’s calculating how many heartbeats he can steal before we notice."

Lyan caught the rolling apple with one hand and inspected it like a jeweler studying a gem. "And here I thought battlefield illusions were my specialty. It seems you’re already spinning legends about me." He flicked the apple up, then snatched it again. "Careful—stories have a way of coming true."

Wilhelmina, quill paused mid‑stroke, regarded him over parchment. "Indeed. Last night, during the south‑tower push, you praised Raine’s ’stunning form.’ Convenient timing, commander. Your opponent nearly skewered you while you admired the scenery."

Raine shot Lyan a playful glare. "So it was my footwork, was it? Or were you counting how many buttons I’d lost by then?"

He offered an innocent spread of hands. "Footwork, of course. It’s an art. I appreciate art. Especially when it saves my hide—and distracts the foe." His tone stayed silky, unruffled, inviting more jabs.

Josephine’s eyes sparkled. "And which part of my ’art’ held your imagination during the treasury sweep? Because you walked past three open chests of gold while staring at me like I was the bigger treasure."

"Gold is plentiful," Lyan said, settling beside her. Dust puffed from his cloak like tired moths escaping. "But a strategist values rare resources. Inspiration, for instance." He tipped his head toward Josephine’s loosened hair. "Harder to mint than coin."

A collective "oooh" drifted around the room. Even Alice’s focused sorting paused as she assessed him with new amusement. "Flattering all of us in turn?" she asked. "Or are you simply stockpiling goodwill for tomorrow’s drills?"

"Both," he answered without missing a beat. "Good commanders multitask."

Surena sheathed her dagger with a click and sauntered closer, hands on hips. "You fought bravely out there, Baron," she said, leaning in just enough to test his composure. "But courage on a field is one thing. Are you sure you can handle your own victors?"

Lyan’s reply came in a silken murmur. "Handle? Surena, I orchestrate. If I survived your cavalry stampede, I can manage a little celebratory banter." He flicked an imaginary speck from her sleeve. "Question is: can you handle a commander who never retreats?"

Laughter rippled again—light, melodic, unstressed. Surena’s grin conceded the round. Raine tossed him the apple; Lyan caught it behind his back with practiced flair, then took a crisp bite, eyes twinkling.

"An apple a day keeps illusions sharp," Raine quipped.

He chewed thoughtfully. "Illusions are sharp. It’s the legends about me that keep multiplying—entirely out of my control."

(Oh please, you adore every rumor,) Lilith purred.

(Do remember modesty,) Arturia huffed, though a hint of amusement colored her mental tone.

(Surveillance complete,) Eira observed, icy‑dry.

The conversation flowed on, but the balance had shifted: Lyan remained entirely at ease, parrying each tease with practiced charm, letting no hint of embarrassment bleed through. If anything, he wielded their jests like another weapon—redirecting, deflecting, launching light ripostes that left them smiling.

Josephine nudged his shoulder. "Rest those legendary legs before they buckle from moral strain."

"Moral strain is lighter than plate armor," he returned, reclining back into the cushion she’d indicated. "And you’ve relieved me of the heaviest burden already—keeping an eye on the wine."

Clarisse attempted her dagger trick again, this time managing two spins before gravity claimed it. Surena applauded lightly. Alice, still sorting dispatches, sighed in mock exasperation. "Your illusions saved a legion last night, Lyan. Do try not to fracture your ego strutting around the salon."

He raised the apple in salute. "Not strutting. Reconnoitering." His gaze flicked over them, deliberately lingering an extra heartbeat on each woman’s form—not lewd, but appreciative, like a painter studying light and line. They caught him at it, and instead of chastising, they rolled their eyes, bemused.

Wilhelmina’s quill resumed its scratch. "Very well, master surveyor. Before your reconnaissance drifts any lower, confirm tomorrow’s patrol routes."

He answered without hesitation, rattling off streets and rotation orders from memory while polishing off the apple. When finished, he let the core tumble into a side bowl and dusted his hands. "Satisfied?"

"For now," Wilhelmina said, but her lips twitched.

Surena reclined against the pillar again. "He parries well enough, I’ll give him that."

"I’m still standing, aren’t I?" Lyan echoed her earlier jab, then winked. "And no doorposts were harmed in the making of this entrance."

Raine laughed so hard she nearly rolled off the chaise. Josephine lifted her goblet in mock toast. Alice finally set her parchments aside, curiosity sparkling in her eyes. Even Clarisse, recovering her dagger, flashed him an admiring grin—that controlled confidence of his was, apparently, as disarming as any blush might have been.

The banter ebbed for a moment, laughter dimming to the soft rustle of parchment and the pop of a shifting ember. Then Josephine’s voice cut gently through the haze.

"All jokes aside, you looked... distant, during Alstan’s humiliation." Her tone wasn’t accusatory—just curious, layered with something unspoken. "Are you alright?"

The mirth in the room thinned, leaving behind a hush broken only by the crackle of the hearth and the faint clink of Raine’s apple rolling lazily into a chair leg. Lyan’s eyes lingered on it. The light in them didn’t dim, exactly, but it shifted—like a smile held just too long.

"I’m fine," he said, at first. But then he paused, rolling the apple core slowly in his palm. "Just tired," he added, softer. "Tired of seeing fear in people’s eyes. Whether it’s toward me or the lords they once called saviors."

That honesty didn’t land with a thud—it settled, slow and heavy, like falling ash. No one replied immediately. Josephine’s hand found his shoulder first, warm and grounding. Surena followed, resting her arm on the back of his chair, her grip more solid. Raine flopped sideways on the couch to tap his knee with her boot. And Alice—ever composed—rose from her parchment stack and knelt beside him without a word, her fingers resting lightly atop his gauntlet.

"We carry it together," she said, her voice firm but not forceful. "We see it too. You’re not alone in this."

Lyan’s lips tugged into a crooked smile. The wariness in his eyes didn’t vanish, but it softened under their touch, under the unspoken trust. "I know."

There was a long beat.

Then Emilia stirred from her curled-up position on the far cushions, her voice muffled but sly. "He’s still a pervert though."

The room exploded again—laughter like sunlight breaking through cloud. Raine doubled over, clutching her ribs. Clarisse actually snorted. Even Wilhelmina cracked a full smile behind her ledger.

Lyan exhaled and tossed the apple core into the hearth with a lazy flick. "Outmaneuvered. Again. You’re all far more dangerous than swords."

"Obviously," Raine grinned.

"Strategist or not," Surena smirked, "you’ve got too many weak points."

"One for each of you, apparently," Lyan muttered, reclining with a resigned shake of the head. "It’s hopeless."

Josephine ruffled his hair like he was some defeated pup. "And yet you keep walking into the trap willingly."

"Because it’s the best kind," he replied, tilting his head toward her without missing a beat. "Flawless planning. Strong execution. Soft pillows."

"Oh, we’re pillows now?" Alice arched a brow.

"You’re many things," Lyan said smoothly. "Intimidating, resourceful, lethal. Occasionally... quite plush."

Clarisse choked on her wine. Emilia raised her hand in lazy victory. "See? Perversion confirmed."

Still chuckling, they began drifting into smaller conversations—Wilhelmina murmuring with Alice about patrols, Raine nudging Josephine and whispering something that made them both burst into giggles.

But one by one, they found him again. Raine pulled him aside near the window just to nudge him with her elbow and whisper, "That little salute the kid gave you earlier? He wasn’t scared, you know. Just impressed."

Lyan glanced at her, surprised. "You saw that?"

"Of course I did. I see everything." She smirked. "Especially the part where you smiled like an idiot."

He huffed. "Strategic morale‑building."

She rolled her eyes but squeezed his hand before flitting back into the room.

Surena approached next, half-shadow, half-firelight, cornering him near the alcove of a fractured statue. "You held the line," she said simply. "When most leaders would’ve cracked. That matters to people. Even if they’re too stunned to say it."

Lyan leaned back against the stone. "You give rare compliments."

She leaned in closer. "I only give them when they’re earned." And with a wink, she was gone.

Wilhelmina was more subtle. She simply passed him a fresh quill she’d been carving from a city hawk’s feather and murmured, "I thought this one suited you. Steady. Sharp." No flirtation. Just quiet confidence that filled the space like incense.

He tucked the quill behind his belt with a small nod. "Thank you."

Before he could respond further, a knock echoed through the corridor.

A young soldier stepped in, saluting crisply. "Dispatch, sir. Varzadian column spotted leaving Fort Lisban. Two banners at least. They’re on the move."

Lyan’s posture straightened at once, like steel being drawn from a sheath. The quiet warmth in his gaze cooled—not dulled, but sharpened into readiness. "I’ll be there."

The soldier bowed and departed.

Raine, lying upside down again, groaned dramatically. "Just when it was getting interesting."

Josephine lifted her goblet in a lazy toast. "We’ll keep the hearth warm."

Surena flashed a grin. "Don’t take too long, strategist."

Wilhelmina gave a slow, approving nod, while Alice offered a crisp salute without rising. Clarisse’s wave was shy but sincere, and Emilia flopped a lazy thumbs-up without even lifting her head. Tesha’s soft whisper followed: "Good luck, master."

Lyan paused in the doorway, his silhouette outlined by the flickering light behind him. Their faces—each different, each radiant in their own right—looked back at him with something more than amusement. There was pride there. Faith. A bond stronger than tactics.

Each woman gave their own parting signal. A wink. A smirk. A mock bow. A smile too soft for the battlefield.

He turned, hiding his amusement under a dry chuckle, and muttered as he strode off, voice low and full of fond exasperation.

Their laughter followed him down the corridor like a melody—a promise, a tether, a victory of its own.

He paused in the doorway, hearts racing for a different reason now. Each woman offered a farewell—wink, smirk, blown kiss. Heat colored his cheeks anew.

"They’ll be the death of me before the war ever ends."

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