Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 447: The New Battle Hint (1)

The cloak still smelled of smoke and perfume — that curious blend of scorched cedar, spilled wine, and the faint citrus soap Clarisse favored when she’d tousled his collar earlier. As Lyan crossed the estate’s gallery, the lingering warmth of those hearth‑room jokes seemed to trail after him in delicate wisps. Each torch he passed hissed softly where rain crept in through cracked windowpanes, and that hiss joined the muted thump of his boots to compose a restless rhythm. Half the sconces had guttered out during the last hour, leaving long tunnels of shadow between scallops of amber light. It felt like walking through a dream that was still deciding whether to become a nightmare or a memory.

At the end of the corridor loomed the war‑chamber doors — thick oak, banded in iron, freshly scarred by the city’s earlier fighting. A guard pushed them inward for him, and immediately the stale hush of stone corridors gave way to a living current of voices. Map‑tables occupied the center like islands, covered with wax‑sealed pins and rough chalk sketches laid over the large cartographic parchment. Candles — dozens of them — crowded every flat surface, their flames leaning and warping in unseen drafts so that the walls appeared to breathe.

Inside, tension crackled sharper than swordsteel. Alice stood at a corner of the table, one hand braced flat beside the Lisban sector of the map. Her honey‑brown hair had escaped its ribbon in two stubborn wisps that framed her cheeks, but the stray strands only highlighted the intensity in her eyes. Across from her, Wilhelmina kept her posture pleated and proper, but her quill tapped an impatient tattoo on the side of her ledger, betraying rare agitation. A stack of requisition scrolls sat by her elbow, and every so often she flipped one open and underlined a line with brisk ferocity, as though the ink itself had offended her.

Josephine prowled the shelves along the back wall, plucking sealed dossiers from cubbyholes like a cat choosing prey. Whenever she found a name worth noting, her subtle half‑smile appeared — part satisfaction, part promise of future mischief. Near the far corner, Raine half‑sat, half‑balanced on the edge of a stool, kicking her boot heels together in a quiet staccato while shifting wooden unit markers across a smaller tactical board. One shoulder strap of her vest had slipped, revealing a bronzed collarbone and the faintest dusting of freckles running down into shadow.

The low hum of debate faltered when Lyan entered, as though the room inhaled. He caught Alice’s eyes first; they flashed with unspoken relief that he’d arrived. Wilhelmina merely inclined her head, quill still poised in midair. Josephine shut her dossier with a satisfying thwack and turned, and Raine’s lips quirked in greeting that was almost—almost—innocent.

He stepped closer to the table and let the heavy doors settle shut behind him, sealing out the distant rumble of thunder. "Report," he said softly, but the word carried across the chamber like a dropped coin in a cathedral.

"They want us to move first," Alice began, her tone crisp. She tapped the map where a thin blue line traced the River Colwyn near Fort Lisban. "Two banners of elite infantry confirmed, roughly two thousand each. Not reinforcements retreating north. They took a defensive hook around the west ridge, then turned back south. That smells wrong."

"Because it is wrong," Wilhelmina inserted, sliding a requisition note aside to reveal a stack of supply ledgers. "Those are provisioning manifests for Lisban over the last four months. The grain orders alone could feed five cities. If the Vulture is moving, he intends a siege — and he intends to eat while we starve."

Josephine slipped between them, tossing another scroll onto the pile. "And these are merchant tariffs signed by Lisban’s quartermaster. Heavy markup, skimmed off every grain shipment. They’re fattening their stores and their purse. If we cut Lisban out, Varzadia’s southern belt loses its pantry."

Raine prodded a marker toward an intersection of chalked lines. "So we dance? Feint here, raid there, watch them flinch?" Her green eyes lifted to Lyan with a spark that brought the hearth‑room back to him in a rush — the apple balanced on her brow, the laughter threading between them. He dragged his attention to the map before his gaze could linger on the smooth arc of her shoulder.

(Smooth.)

Griselda’s amused drawl tickled the edge of his mind.

(You think no one notices when your eyes wander?) Hestia chided, though there was wry fondness beneath the reprimand.

Lilith laughed lightly. (She noticed.)

Indeed, Raine’s smirk widened the barest fraction, as if she could hear the commentary herself. Lyan coughed into his fist and laid a flat palm on the river icon. "Lisban is bait," he confirmed. "Two banners look like a sword, but it’s the scabbard we should worry about. The Vulture’s no fool. He’ll tuck archers in these treelines and skirmishers behind the ridge once we commit. We bleed uphill while he laughs."

"He also knows we’re hungry for momentum," Alice added. "We take Lisban, we threaten their heartland. That’s why he’s daring us to lunge."

"But if we don’t lunge," Wilhelmina countered, "he’ll reinforce until the fort swells to six banners. Then we face a fortress‑city, not a garrison. Every week we hesitate, their wheat ripens. Their ships return from the river delta. They can outlast us."

Silence settled while candlewax dripped steadily, forming pale stalactites. Lyan scanned their faces. Alice’s jaw was set; Wilhelmina’s eyes glittered like hard sapphires; Josephine toyed with a wax seal between forefinger and thumb, waiting; Raine’s heel tap‑tap‑tapped, restless.

"We hold initiative," Lyan said finally. "We won’t squander it on rash charges, but we won’t gift it to them either. We show ourselves at Lisban, lightly. A spearpoint of cavalry rides within sight of their walls at dawn tomorrow, just enough to force them to man every parapet. Meanwhile, Ravia’s shadows will probe the north fork for soft ground. If the Vulture is hiding claws there, we’ll see the scrape marks."

Josephine’s brow lifted. "Two couriers, then? One to the cavalry, one to the scouts?"

"Take three," he corrected. "Third rides to the western villages. Spread word: we pay double for grain delivered within five days. If Lisban hoards, we buy from under them. Their monopoly becomes our supply."

A flicker of admiration crossed Josephine’s features. "You’ll turn their own merchants against them."

"Merchants prefer coin to banners," he replied. "If Varzadia abuses commerce, we become the better customer."

Wilhelmina still looked sceptical, but the hard line of her shoulders slackened. "We’ll need reserves to pay that double price."

"Alstan’s vault will do nicely," Josephine said, patting the dossiers like a loyal dog. "Plenty of bribe money in there."

Raine planted her elbows on the table, chin propped on knuckles. "And if Lisban doesn’t bite? If they ignore the cavalry?"

"Then we build a bigger lure," Lyan said. "A few staged wagon convoys — grain wagons — head north past the fort. Empty barrels, but painted with our crest. Raiders can’t resist ’free’ provisions. They’ll strike, break formation, expose their hidden teeth." He glanced at Alice. "You’ll choose the convoy captains. Men you trust to flee convincingly."

She nodded, a flash of professional pride flitting across her face. Her sleeve brushed his hand as she reached for a marker, and the faint contact sent an unwelcome jolt up his arm. He kept his expression even, though the spirits in his head cackled.

(Composure, dear incubus,) Arturia teased.

Wilhelmina cleared her throat. "The risk is acceptable," she said, as if to herself, then looked up. "Very well. I’ll marshal the quartermasters."

The meeting churned on — rest schedules for the archers, contingency signals for smoke at dawn, Josephine’s plan for covert grain purchases. Every so often Lyan’s eyes slipped sideways: to the shimmer of candlelight on Alice’s cheekbone, to the way Raine’s lips pursed when she concentrated, to the confident arch of Josephine’s brow. Each glance a moment too long, each moment noticed by at least one pair of amused eyes.

Eventually the last strategy detail settled into place. Wilhelmina bundled her ledgers and departed, heels clipping measured beats down the hall. Alice rolled up the primary map and followed after a clipped salute. Josephine lingered, sealing dispatches, until Raine plucked the wax stamper from her fingers and nudged her toward the exit with a laugh. The door thudded closed, and the sudden hush left Lyan alone with the candle stubs.

Rain chalked faint trails on the windowpane. He pressed a hand to the cool sill and let his gaze wander across the sleeping rooftops peppered by torch beacons. Somewhere out there, soldiers dozed in barracks they’d never expected to see. Merchants tallied new ledgers under lanterns. Children dreamed of wolves with silver eyes and horsewomen who smiled at them. And beyond the fields, the Vulture plotted.

(The war doesn’t pause for us,) he thought, the scent of hearth‑room laughter still clinging in the folds of his cloak. (But maybe... we no longer have to face it alone.)

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