Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 450: The New Battle Hint (4)

The river smelled cleaner tonight. No blood. No smoke. Just rain and the faint perfume of wildflowers placed in the shrine niche. Lyan stood at the edge of the old stone bridge, shoulders cloaked in a fine silver mist that beaded on the wool and slid in threads down the braided edging. He inhaled, a long pull that filled his chest with damp air and memories of seasons before the war. Below, the water murmured against moss‑slicked pylons, carrying away the soft blue glow of rice‑lanterns like slow‑moving stars.

Raine stood beside him, her boots still powdered with festival chalk, a small lantern cupped in her hands. The parchment shade shivered in the breeze, casting pale reflections that rippled across the river’s skin. She tipped her head, curls—unchained for once—tumbling around her cheeks in damp coils. "You never light one for yourself," she said, voice low enough that it seemed meant only for the water. "Every night you watch and you never send a name downstream."

Lyan’s eyes tracked a lantern drifting past the bridge arch, its tiny candle fighting for breath. "I don’t know what I’d write on the slip," he answered. The thought of choosing one name among so many felt like trying to cup the entire river in his palm.

"Maybe you don’t need words." Raine’s thumb brushed the lantern’s rim. "Maybe you just let it float, and it carries whatever you can’t say."

She turned, pressing the fragile orb into his hands. Her fingers grazed his, rain‑chilled but steady, and for a heartbeat he forgot the war map waiting back in the palace. He crouched at the parapet, laying the lantern onto the water. The candle nearly guttered, then flared brighter and steadied. The blue halo slid away, joining a procession of other lights that bobbed and dipped, carving a winding constellation toward the distant sea.

When he stood, Raine was closer, shoulder to shoulder, warmth leaking through damp clothes. Neither spoke. The hush was companionable, broken only by the patter of rain on stone and the faraway rattle of a shutter. A sweet note of spiced cider clung to her hair—he’d teased her for sneaking samples from the festival cauldrons, and now the scent felt like an invisible tether between them. A small part of him, the part that collected fleeting joys like lucky coins, wanted to lean and rest his forehead against hers.

Hoofbeats shattered the stillness, thundering across cobbles. Raine straightened; Lyan’s hand slid to the dagger hidden behind his belt buckle. A rider burst through the fog at the bridgehead, cloak plastered to his shoulders, water spraying from pounding hooves. The stallion skidded, iron shoes sending up sparks as the scout yanked the reins. A crimson‑streaked flag, rain‑heavy and tattered, cut a stark line across the rider’s silhouette.

"From Lisban," he gasped, voice rasping around rainwater. "Columns on the move—banners of the Vulture—two thousand at least straddling the ridge road."

The scarlet cloth cracked in the wind like a whip. Raine’s lantern‑soft features sharpened into something keener, the carefree warmth replaced by the flint edge of readiness. "It’s starting again, isn’t it?" she asked, though she already knew the answer.

Lyan drew a slow breath, scanning the dark horizon beyond the scout as though the Vulture himself might stride out of the rain. "Yes," he said. "The Vulture spreads his wings."

Raine rifled inside her vest and produced a braided charm of silver thread and two tiny bells. "For luck," she said, pressing it into his palm. The bells chimed once, a sound too small for the night and therefore somehow sacred.

He curled his fingers around it. "Warn Wilhelmina. Wake the council. Make sure the east‑wall torches stay dark—we don’t need Lisban seeing us scramble."

She nodded, already vaulting onto the scout’s stirrup bar. One squeeze of her knees and the horse spun. She threw Lyan a final look—half grin, half worry—then vanished into the curling fog with a spray of pebbles and a single fading hoofbeat.

Left alone, Lyan turned to the river. Lanterns drifted on, oblivious, their tiny flames steadfast. He exhaled through parted lips, tasting rain and memory, letting the calm burrow under his ribs for one last breath before duty reclaimed him.

He strode off the bridge, boots clicking across wet flagstones. The city was hushed but alive: shuttered stalls, canvas awnings slumped with rainwater, torch brackets guttering low. Between pools of lantern light lay pockets of darkness that seemed to hold their breath while he passed.

A pair of night watchmen saluted from an alley mouth. "All quiet, my lord," one whispered. Lyan nodded, motioning them to keep moving. He noted the evenness of their steps—fatigue, yes, but no limp, no wound left untreated. Emilia’s triage lines had done their work.

He paused outside a shuttered seamstress’s shop where bolt after bolt of cloth had been repurposed into bandages. In the window sat a single wax figure—a dress form draped with bright indigo silk never cut to shape. The seamstress had told him once she left it there as a promise the city would wear finery again. Lyan raised two fingers in a silent salute to the phantom mannequin and moved on.

Down Old Barrel Street he found a cluster of children chalk‑sketching on damp stone beneath a dilapidated awning. They looked up—wide‑eyed, smudged faces, palms stained in blue and orange dust. One scrawny boy scrambled upright and saluted with his chalk still clutched like a sword. Lyan returned the gesture, then crouched to study their drawing: crude soldiers with oversized helmets chasing a monstrous bird labelled "VULTUR." One figure—drawn slightly taller, with an improbable glaive—stood before the others. His legs were comically long.

"Gonna beat the bird, sir?" the boy asked, hope and fear wrestling in his gaze. Raindrops blurred one chalk line, making the bird’s wing smear into the soldier’s helm.

"Together we will," Lyan said, smoothing the line with his thumb so the soldier’s head stood proud again. "Keep drawing. Make that bird look scared."

They giggled as he ruffled hair and rose.

Farther on, an elderly potter and his brother wrestled a broken axle beneath a weather‑scarred wagon. Oil lanterns pooled light under the chassis, catching on their crooked teeth every time they grinned at each mistake. Lyan bent to steady a sagging jack. "Need a third hand?"

One brother blinked through spectacles fogged by drizzle. "Reckon she’ll roll by morning," he said, pride bright as torchlight.

"So will the rest of us," Lyan replied, handing over a wedge of wood to chock the wheel. The potter clenched his shoulder in thanks.

As he walked he cataloged subtle tremors in the city’s heartbeat: a lantern missing from a corner bracket, a pair of guards whose casual banter masked nerves, the faint echo of hammering from Wilhelmina’s logistics yard where night crews crated grain under tarps. Every detail the Vulture might exploit, he logged like mental tacks on a map.

Near the market square a stray cat streaked across his path, tail bottle‑brushed from some unseen startle. A second later he heard why: two drunk sellswords jostling outside a shuttered tavern, voices raised in argument over who had thrown the better dice before curfew. Lyan’s glare alone sobered them. They straightened, muttered apologies, and slunk into the rain. He made a note to have Alice rotate a stricter patrol through that quadrant.

By the time the palace came into view, dawn‑tinted mist was beginning to lift off the rooftops, painting slate tiles a ghostly lavender. Torches outside the war chamber glowed brighter, fed fresh pitch by vigilant squires. Lyan slowed, absorbing the transformed façade: stone scarred by siege but adorned with new pennants—Astellian blue stitched hastily by grateful tailors—and fresh wreaths of river‑heather bound to the lintel by villagers who’d once paid Alstan’s cruel tariffs. The scent of the flowers almost buried the sharp tang of ink and brass hinges drifting out from the war‑hall gap.

He rested a hand on the massive oak door. Beyond lay maps, tension, and the collective brilliance of the women who trusted him to weave their talents into victory. For an instant, the bridge lanterns flickered behind his eyes, soft blue rings sliding into darkness. He let that calm settle in the space between heartbeats, then exhaled and stepped inside.

The chamber’s heat wrapped around him: wax, parchment, and the faintest perfume of lamp‑oil clinging to velvet drapes. Rain hissed against stained‑glass arrow slits, but inside the room the only tempest was the swirl of voices and the scratch of quills. As he crossed the threshold, every presence in the council rotated toward him—some with relief, some with impatience, all with silent expectation.

Yet before he could greet them, his ear snagged a different hum: from the anteroom beyond a half‑open arch came the rhythmic rasp of a flour sieve. The baker Wilhelmina had requisitioned to test grain quality must still be working despite the hour. The steady sift‑sift‑tap was oddly soothing, proof that even with war clouds gathering, bread would still rise at dawn.

The council’s debate paused as he shrugged off his cloak, water dripping to the rush‑covered floor. Josephine lifted an eyebrow at the fresh damp streaks across his shoulders. Raine, newly arrived and still breathless from her ride, leaned on the back of a chair, raindrops trailing from copper strands onto the wood.

But Lyan held up a hand, signaling them to wait. He pivoted toward the archway and slipped through, following the sieve’s music. The small side kitchen was lit by a single lantern swinging over a wooden table stacked with clay mixing bowls. The baker—a barrel‑chested man with ash‑grey whiskers and forearms dusted pale—looked up, startled by the sudden presence of the Devil Baron in his humble workspace.

"Good, sir. Thanks to Lady Josephine, we’re stocked—more sacks than shelves."

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