Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 451: The New Battle Hint (End)

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

The baker’s shoulders hitched in a proud shrug, dust rising off his apron like pale smoke. "We even slipped a wagonload to the east ward. Kids there finally taste proper wheat again." freewёbnoνel.com

Lyan let his palm rest on the nearest flour bag, feeling the cool give of packed grain beneath coarse burlap. A tiny mole scurried out from behind a crate and vanished into the rain gutter. Details, he thought—every crumb, every creature, every human breath was information.

"Keep two carts readied at the back gate," he said. "If the outer roads shut, we’ll run loaves through alleys instead of boulevards."

"Aye, my lord." The baker straightened, fingers snapping a flour‑salute that sent white specks spiraling in the lantern glow. Lyan tipped an imaginary hat and moved on.

Water pooled in the hollows of cracked paving stones. He stepped around them, letting the rhythm of his boots set a steady cadence—one he hoped the city’s heartbeat would mimic once the new terror blew in. Ahead, small voices drifted like birdsong. A cluster of children knelt under a tattered awning, their knees soaked dark where chalk met wet stone. Two girls worked together on a bright pink shield, while a freckled boy scribbled angry orange flames shooting from a lopsided bird labelled VUTR.

The tallest spotted Lyan first. Eyes round as marbles, he scrambled upright and snapped a salute so stiff his elbow popped. A stub of blue chalk still wedged between his fingers like a ceremonial dagger.

Lyan slowed, rain slicking his hair against his brow. He returned the gesture with a soldier’s crispness and crouched beside the drawings. "Looks fierce," he murmured, tracing a line that wavered under drizzle. "But your defenders need taller boots." He added quick strokes to lengthen the front soldier’s legs; the boy’s gasp of awe felt bigger than trumpets. When Lyan stood again, all four children mirrored the salute. Their wide smiles sliced straight through the fog gathering in his chest.

He turned down Barrel Street, where two wiry brothers wrestled with a wagon wheel under a drooping canvas tarp. Grease streaked their cheeks, and each time thunder rumbled they grinned harder—as if daring the sky to break something else. One lifted a rusty wrench in greeting. "She’ll ride again by morning, Baron. Fancy new spoke‑pins courtesy o’ yer quartermaster."

"So will the rest of us," Lyan answered. He helped brace the axle long enough for them to slide a block beneath, then left them arguing cheerily over whose hammer swing was straighter.

All the while his gaze catalogued lamplight and shadow: which torches guttered low, which alley mouths lounged too silent, where drizzle hid the glint of blades tucked beneath cloaks. He noted a drunk mercenary snoring beneath an overturned boat and made a mental note for Alice’s patrols. Peace lingered, yes—fragile as eggshell—but it lived.

When the palace towers finally loomed, their banners hung slick and heavy, but still defiantly blue against slate clouds. Two sentries at the marble steps thumped spear‑butts, and Lyan dipped his chin in approval. Inside, warmed air smelled of lamp‑oil, vellum, and wet wool. It bruised his lungs with the promise of work.

He paused outside the war‑hall just long enough to wipe river mist from his eyelashes and smooth the luck‑charm’s silver threads where they peeked from his pouch. Then he slipped through the door.

The chamber was alive—a thunderstorm of parchment and iron will. Maps overlapped like scales on a dragon’s hide, pinned by colored glass beads that caught candle‑fire, casting ruby and emerald dots across Wilhelmina’s stern profile. She stood erect, ledger balanced against one hip, glasses sliding down the bridge of her nose each time she flicked a page with ruthless precision. Her braid, once immaculate, had loosened—one rebellious strand curled under her chin, wagging like an impatient metronome.

Beside her, Alice leaned forward, one finger tracing an invisible route over the parchment while her other hand drummed a staccato against her bracer. The braid over her shoulder swayed with each heartbeat. A single bead of water slid off the tip and splashed onto a tiny drawn farmhouse—she hissed in annoyance and dabbed it dry with her sleeve.

Josephine prowled a ring around the table, wine flask bumping against her thigh. She flipped dossiers open, then snapped them shut with feline finality. At one abrupt turn she nearly collided with Raine, who lounged on a stool with boot‑heels ticking against the leg. Raine only winked, catching the flask as Josephine spun away. She took a mock sip, realized it was empty, and clucked her tongue.

In the far corner Xena, relaxed as a tavern rogue, balanced a slim dagger across the back of her knuckles, flipping it end‑over‑end with devil‑may‑care rhythm. Each rotation flashed steel reflections onto Belle, who lounged against the rain‑speckled window arch. She blew a strand of silver‑blonde hair off her lip and smirked at every clatter of the blade.

Alina perched cross‑legged on the carpet, regional map spread before her like an exotic tapestry. Red ink danced from her pen in tight arcs—someone had given her the good sable brush this time. She muttered topographic measurements under her breath, lost to any noise but her own careful cartography.

Emilia, unsung anchor, moved between them all with a ceramic teapot and mismatched cups. Her gentle hush of cloth and porcelain smoothed the raw edges of tension. Steam curled around her face, fogging her spectacles each time she poured, yet she never spilled a drop.

Near a support beam, Ravia blended into half‑shadow, arms folded, mouth unreadable. Her gaze flicked from map to window to doorway—missing nothing, recording everything.

The hush shattered when Josephine spotted Lyan. "Well, look who finally drifted in with the tide," she drawled. "Did the river ghosts give you a bedtime story, Baron, or are we allowed to panic now?"

Raine’s boot rhythm halted. She raised two fingers in relaxed salute, eyes sparkling with something between relief and mischief. Wilhelmina, without glancing up, closed her ledger with a crisp snap that felt like a gavel. Alice’s shoulders loosened a fraction.

Lyan stripped his rain‑heavy cloak, slinging it over a vacant chair. "The Vulture wants momentum," he said. "He’s daring us to chase him into whatever snare Lisban’s garrison has prepared." His voice carried the calm certainty of a man who already pictured the trap’s teeth.

Belle pushed off the window frame, the remnants of rain dripping from her cloak. "Typical man," she said, arms crossed beneath her cloak’s sodden folds, "waving his army around, daring us to leap without thinking."

Alice leaned in over the map, eyes narrowing beneath her braid. "Or hoping we freeze," she countered, fingertips tracing the drawn river fork. "Scouting patrols reported their elite infantry forming two distinct fronts. But their flank lines are unnaturally quiet—too symmetrical to be real. They’re baiting us."

A low hum of agreement rose from Ravia at the pillar in half‑shadow. "False weakness," she added, voice soft but certain. "They want our vanguard to commit, so they can hammer us from both sides."

Xena balanced a knife on her knuckles and flicked it Damian‑style, steel catching the candlelight. "Can’t blame them," she said, flicking the blade away and catching it by the hilt. "We did humiliate them faster than legend. Their pride’s in shards."

Wilhelmina tapped her quill against the ledger’s edge, sharp as her gaze. "Their provisioning ledgers are off the charts," she said crisply. "Grain, salt, barrels of oil—they’re stockpiling for a prolonged siege. If Lisban holds, we starve, even if we pierce the gates."

Josephine slammed a dossier down, the papers fanning out with a satisfying snap. "And they’ve been gouging local merchants most foul," she said, scooping up half‑empty wine flasks from her belt. "Prices jacked beyond reason. If we don’t cut them off, that supply belt—our lifeline—folds under debt and desperation."

Alina remained sitting, knees tucked beneath her, calm as a still pool. She pointed to a series of contour lines winding up from the riverbank to a narrow ridge. "There’s a choke point here," she murmured, tracing the route with a delicate fingertip. "If we force their columns uphill through that pass—when they believe they’re chasing grain—formation collapses. Soldiers trample one another on steep ground."

Surena’s broad shoulders flexed as she leaned back, arms braced on the table’s edge. "Or we ride in straight," she grunted, a spark in her eyes. "Fire and steel have worked wonders before. Let those walls burn again."

Emilia, always the voice of restraint, shook her head. Her kettle of tea hovered in mid‑pour. "But the city behind us won’t survive another full‑scale siege," she reminded them gently. "We need cunning, not brute force. If we bleed them through maneuver instead of walls, we protect these people we swore to guard."

A hush draped over the chamber like a heavy cloak. Every voice tapered to silence as the weight of the choice settled between maps and candle smoke. Lyan stepped away from the hearth’s warmth and crossed to the table. His boots clicked on the stone floor, an echo that marked each decision he carried.

He laid a gloved hand on the chalk lines marking Lisban’s fortifications. Ghost‑white chalk stood stark against the browning parchment. He tapped lightly on the outer wall drawing. "We feint at the walls," he said softly, voice low enough that only those leaning close could hear. "Open two banners of cavalry like a curtain, and let them think the full force bears down. Surena, at dawn, you ride the eastern gate—banners held high, drums beating."

Surena straightened with a grunt of approval, helmet creaking. "I’ll lead them north of the west ridge, make enough dust to choke a mountain."

He gestured to Josephine. "You’ll plant our bait caravans on the river road. Empty grain barrels, our crest tapped on the casks. Belle, see to the merchants. Whisper rumors of a grain windfall to be rerouted past their southern gates." He paused, letting the plan settle in their minds. "A little promise of profit sows greed—and greed snaps lines."

Josephine’s smirk was sly enough to split stone. "Talk is cheap. I’m better at bribing, but I can make both work."

"Then bribe," Lyan said, eyes flitting to Ravia at the shadows. "Find their spies in the city. Feed them just enough panic so they whisper to Lisban’s commanders. Real enough to convince the bait is genuine. They’ll commit troops to the south flank."

Ravia inclined her head, stepping into the flickering light. "I’ll drape illusions of increased recruits in the merchant quarters. Make them think we’re swelling ranks overnight."

"Alina," Lyan said, turning to the seated cartographer, "mark the exact contours on these passes. I want fallback routes for Muradin’s elephants and the supply columns." Her pencil danced, red ink flowing onto rolled‑open scrolls.

Alina nodded, eyes on the lines. "Got it. I’ll mark spring water wells on each side for emergencies." Her voice was nearly drowned by the scratch of quill.

Emilia set down her teacup, voice soft but firm. "And I’ll ration food now, quietly redirect excess flour to hidden caches. If they siege the walls, we still feed the city."

He let a long breath out, then looked to Wilhelmina. "And here," his finger hovered over the city’s heart, "we place our reserves. Let no one starve, even if walls crack."

Wilhelmina closed her ledger and met his gaze with a steady nod. "The city holds if they don’t fall for the Vulture’s show."

Chair legs scraped as the council divided duties like well‑oiled gears. Alice broke off to dispatch runners; Ravia vanished with shadow servants; Surena drew her sword and began drilling cavalry details; Josephine tucked flasks into hidden saddlebags; Belle slipped from the window to book merchant meetings; Xena snapped her knife in two, handing one blade to a warrior; Alina and Emilia exchanged maps and ration scrolls in whispered urgency; and Wilhelmina marshaled quartermasters to load grain carts.

Lyan watched them flow into action, a quiet pride humming beneath his chest. He reached for the small pouch Ravia handed him, drawing out illusion tokens—thin discs of metal etched with runes. Each one glowed faintly in his palm, like moons caught in shadow.

He slipped the tokens into his tunic pockets, the metal warm against his skin. "Time to start the game," he murmured, tone dark with promise and anticipation.

(You’re better when they surround you like this,) Cynthia whispered in his mind, approval sharp as ice.

(You almost looked like you believed in them,) Eira added, voice cool but pleased.

(He does. He just won’t admit it.) Lilith hummed, smug and satisfied.

Lyan didn’t reply. He let the council’s energy wash over him—their laughter, fierce loyalty, dry humor, and stabbing wit. He let it root him in a simple truth: this war would be won not by his solitary blade but by the combined force of those he trusted most.

Outside the war‑chamber doors, the city breathed in damp anticipation. Somewhere beyond the lamplight, a drummer began a slow, steady beat—the call to arms. And Lyan, cloaked in steel and shadow, smiled slightly as he steeled himself for the dawn.

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