Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 448: The New Battle Hint (2)

The lamplight shimmered over wet stone as Lyan and Wilhelmina advanced along the parapet, their footfalls echoing in gentle counterpoint to the drip‑drip of evening rain. Below, the river breathed a low metallic hush, its swollen current swirling with torch‑reflections that broke and re‑formed like molten coin. The siege‑scars were everywhere—chips of fresh masonry, mortar still damp where engineers had hastily patched cracks—and yet the whole wall seemed to stand a little taller tonight, as if determined to prove that conquest could be followed by renewal.

From this height he could hear a city’s new heartbeat: hammers knocking boards into place, the sporadic laugh of soldiers on patrol, a lute strumming somewhere in the merchant ward. Scents drifted up on the river breeze—roasting chestnuts, damp linen, the faintest memory of burning pitch carried from charred rooftops further west. Each smell layered over the last until it formed a living map that only commanders and night prowlers ever truly learned.

He stole a sidelong glance at Wilhelmina. The wind toyed with an errant curl that had slipped from her once‑immaculate braid, and in the lantern glow her cheekbones carried a fragile warmth. She caught him looking and arched a brow, though a ghost of a smile softened the usual steel in her eyes. Lyan pretended to study a crenel’s broken edge, but he felt the silent conversation settle between them like dew.

(Heart racing, dear commander?) Lilith purred.

(Simple admiration,) he told himself. (Nothing more.)

He tried to focus on the river bend upstream—where scouts had reported Lisban patrol boats two nights past. Yet the memory of Wilhelmina’s quill tapping, of her ledger‑ink smudged across knuckles that now rested easily against the dark stone, kept intruding.

"You’re thinking too hard again," she said finally, voice pitched low so the wall sentries would not overhear. The softness surprised him; on campaign, Wilhelmina rarely spoke below the timbre of command.

"That obvious?" he murmured.

"To me? Always."

They continued to the next torch. It sputtered bravely in the damp, casting orange ribbons around jagged shadow lines crawling down the wall. From below rose a distant bell, marking the change of watch. Lyan watched two silhouettes exchange a salute at the far gatehouse and felt a pang of pride—hours earlier those men were complete strangers to this city, and already they kept its time.

When they reached the corner tower, the wall path widened into a small rain‑soaked terrace where busted crates had been stacked for temporary cover. Wilhelmina brushed a slickness of water from the crenel before leaning forward, forearms resting on the stone. She gazed out across the river: black glass punctured by firefly torches of fishing skiffs still daring the curfew.

"Lisban feels too timed," Lyan confessed. "They waited for us to be rooted."

"Because they know you value groundwork," she answered without hesitation.

Wind buffeted his cloak, sweeping the hearthroom perfume into the night. He folded his arms across his chest, seeking that still place where thoughts aligned like chess pieces. "I value stability," he said at length. "For the people. For the ones under my banner."

A raindrop caught the tip of his nose; he swiped it away, irritated at the chill that followed. He wasn’t meant to linger so long in damp clothes—commanders ought to lead and then sleep—but the thought of his cot seemed remote tonight, overshadowed by river torches and Wilhelmina’s calm scrutiny.

She turned to face him fully, shifting her weight until her shoulder almost brushed his. "And yet you still think you have to carry the entire weight alone."

A thin flare of annoyance flickered in his gut—annoyance at being read so plainly—but it quickly ebbed beneath something more complicated. "Someone has to," he replied, softer than he intended. "You’ve seen kingdoms crumble because a single hinge failed. I’m the hinge, Mina."

Her eyes narrowed at the nickname, one he rarely dared. "And what happens when the hinge breaks?"

The question cracked open the chill inside him. Images rose unbidden—the night he’d faced a goblin warlord alone, the crumbled walls of Chor Dhelas, the empty looks of villages promised protection that came too late. He rubbed a thumb along the scar at his gauntlet’s edge, feeling the faint throb of old wounds beneath fading adrenaline.

"Mina," he echoed, as if testing the sound. "You know what happens. Chaos."

A gust tore past them, rattling the turret flag. Wilhelmina’s cloak snapped behind her like a banner, rain peppering the fabric. She didn’t flinch. Instead she studied him with that ledger‑balanced gaze that weighed coins, lives, and possibilities alike.

"You do good things, Lyan. But you can’t be everywhere at once. You built us for a reason." Her voice carried quiet conviction. "If you drop from exhaustion, everything unravels anyway."

He offered a humorless chuckle. "And yet you still scold me like an overburdened squire."

"Someone must." The quirk at one corner of her mouth belied the sternness. "You flirt like a rogue and think it hides your exhaustion. It doesn’t."

A slow, guilty warmth crawled into his cheeks. "So what would you have me do, Wilhelmina?"

She glanced down at the river again, as though seeking counsel in the ripples. The lantern nearest them flicked, threatened to die, then revived with a stubborn flare. Its light glinted on water beads dotting her eyelashes. "Let yourself trust," she said after a heartbeat, words scarcely louder than the rain. "Not just tactically. Actually. Let someone stay close without measuring what they might cost."

The sentence fell between them like a drawn blade—quiet, reflective, undeniably sharp. He inhaled, caught the slightest tremor of lilac on the cold wind—a fragrance that must have clung to her clothing from earlier when Josephine had uncorked a bottle of Sariah perfume and teased them all for smelling of smoke. Lilac among ash: a hopeful scent.

He realized then how close they stood. The space could have fit a dagger point, no more. He could feel the heat of her body where cloak‑edge met cloak‑edge. And in her gaze he saw a softness rarely afforded to anything outside ink and duty.

Lyan swallowed. His mind scrambled for a retort, something witty enough to keep armor in place, gentle enough not to break the fragile moment. But words fizzled, leaving only the rasp of breath and the hush of rain.

(She’s opening a door,) Eira observed, voice like frost.

(Do you dare walk through?) Lilith coaxed.

Griselda hummed approval. (Lower the shield, little incubus.)

His hand moved before his courage quite caught up. He reached, brushing damp knuckles against hers atop the parapet. It was a tentative contact—like testing whether the stone was truly warm. Her fingers answered, twining with his in a slow, deliberate motion that made his pulse stutter.

The lantern flared again, showering sparks that guttered in the breeze. Their joined hands glowed briefly in gold light, then eased back into shadow, heartbeat to heartbeat.

She opened her mouth—perhaps to say more, perhaps simply to breathe—but destiny’s timing fractured the calm: a clatter of boots on stair, the wet slap of a leather satchel.

A scout emerged on the tower steps, cloak drenched, helmet dripping. He froze upon noticing them, eyes widening. "Commander!"

The moment shattered like thin glass. Lyan’s fingers released hers by instinct, though the warmth lingered like an ember under skin. Wilhelmina straightened, tucking a damp curl behind her ear, composure sliding back into place as easily as a glove.

"Report," Lyan called, voice once more the iron timbre of command.

The scout saluted. "Refugee gate, sir. A man matching sabotage profiles. Captain Alice detained him. Orders?"

"Hold him," Lyan said. "Tell Lady Ravia I want that tattoo confirmed. I’ll be down shortly." The scout nodded and disappeared as swiftly as he had come, footsteps fading into the tower’s throat.

Silence returned—no longer intimate, but braced, pragmatic. Lyan turned to go. Wilhelmina’s hand shot out, catching his wrist. Rain traced a silver path down her cheek.

And she leaned up on her toes, pressing a firm kiss to his stubbled jawline—not a hesitant brush, but a declaration wrapped in brevity. The press of her lips was cool from rain, yet it sent a rush of heat down his spine that no hearth could match.

One breath; two. She pulled back, grip lingering until his pulse steadied under her thumb. "One day," she said, voice the quiet authority of ledgers balanced and promises kept, "when the world isn’t burning... you’ll finish that sentence."

Then she was gone, cloak whispering against stone as she descended the opposite stairs, leaving him stranded amidst torches and rain and a heart that suddenly beat too loudly for a man sworn to silence. ƒree𝑤ebnσvel-com

(Trust, Lyan,) Arturia murmured.

He touched the place her lips had brushed, felt the echo of warmth in cool night air. The city beneath still hummed with fragile renewal, yet this single moment seemed as vital as any battle line, any war council debate.

He drew a steadying breath, turned toward the stairwell, and descended into torchlit gloom—fingers brushing the railing where hers had passed seconds earlier—and in his mind the echo of her words rang clear as any clarion:

Let yourself trust. Not just tactically. Actually. Let someone stay close without measuring what they might cost.

He reached for her hand without realizing. Their fingers brushed. Her gaze locked with his. The torch nearby swayed slightly in the wind.

She opened her mouth.

A scout appeared at the far stair. "Commander!"

The moment broke.

Lyan withdrew his hand slowly. Wilhelmina stepped back, her poise returning.

"Report," Lyan called.

The scout saluted. "Refugee gate. Possible saboteur. We detained him."

Lyan nodded, turning. But Wilhelmina caught his wrist briefly, then leaned up and kissed his cheek—not soft, but certain.

"One day," she said, voice low, "when the world isn’t burning... you’ll finish that sentence."

And then she was gone.

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