Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 454: The Cracks Beneath the Walls (3)

Rain splattered her visor as she spun to face the next man, who raised his sword too late. She took him down with a quick jab and a twist that left him gasping. The ground beneath her boots was slick with rain and blood, but every step felt surer than the last. She felt alive, more alive than in any dream before, because every breath drawn in this chaos was earned. fгeewёbnoѵel_cσm

She glimpsed Surena across the courtyard, knee-deep in the fray, her battlecry echoing. Nearby, a small group of cavalry heroes like Xena and Ravia wove through soldiers, disabling crossbow nets and cutting shafts. The glow of torches from Josephine’s bait caravans glimmered at the southern gate, pulling some defenders away in confused pursuit. Every piece of the plan fit together like clockwork.

Raine paused, heart hammering, and scanned the walls above. Alice’s archers had taken the parapets, and their arrows now flew in crimson arcs at any defender who tried to regroup. The splintered gate had been sealed behind them, trapping Lisban’s garrison in a vice of steel and strategy.

She wiped a blade clean on a blood-stained cloth tied to her belt—Emilia’s gift for emergency bandages—then stowed it. For a fleeting moment, she closed her eyes and let the noises wash over her: the clang of steel, the yelp of a fallen enemy, the thunder of hooves pivoting. It filled her, energized her, reminded her why she lived—and fought.

Surena’s voice cut through the chaos again: "Raine! To the steps! We take their standards!"

She sprinted, agility honed by years of mountain hunts, and reached the foot of the keep’s stair. A line of captains tried to hold the rise, but their formation buckled under Surena’s lance and Raine’s storm of steel. She vaulted up, fighting two men at once, her mind clear: strike, parry, advance. Each blow was precise, a wordless poem of combat.

When the last defender fell, Raine stood panting on the steps, cloak and hair plastered to her armor, rain mingling with sweat and blood in rivulets across her cheeks. She looked out across the courtyard, where her sisters-in-arms—Surena, Xena, Ravia, Josephine—now held the broken banners high, Astellian colors snapping in the wind.

Her chest expanded with pride and fierce relief. The mist swirled at her feet, lifting like a shroud from a sleeping city. She raised her blade overhead, the morning light glinting along its length, and shouted, "Astellia triumphs!" The cry echoed off stone walls, carried by the wind beyond the ramparts.

(You carried them,) Lilith murmured. (And they followed.)

Raine let her horse nicker in the courtyard below, where Surena had released the reins. She embraced the roar of victory, the thrill of battle, and the fierce bond of loyalty that pulsed between her and her commander. She knew more was to come, more dangers waiting in Lisban’s heart, but for now, this moment was hers—and theirs.

She glanced toward the gap in the walls where the morning light bled through, and felt the first true smile in days lift her lips. The charge had been fierce. The gate was theirs. And Lisban’s defenders trembled not merely at their steel, but at the unity and resolve of those who rode into dawn—five hundred strong in blue and silver, each heart beating as one.

Surena’s laughter boomed again, and Raine laughed too, a sound bright enough to shatter the last echoes of fear. They held here, yes. They would not yield.

"We hold here. Let them come!" Surena had said—and they would, but Lisban would fall.

Raine spurred her horse to a trot, weaving through the aftermath with the agility of a dancer among war’s wreckage. Mud clung to her boots, each suctioned step a reminder of how real this victory had been. She breathed hard, nostrils flaring as she caught sight of her friends spread across the damp courtyard like a constellation of champions. Surena’s brazen laugh rolled over the mist, horses stamping and steam rising from their flanks. Ravia and Xena emerged from a shattered side gate, their armor nicked and faces streaked with grime—grime they wore as badges of honor. Josephine and Belle marched prisoners in battered mail toward Surena’s encampment, their chains clinking like reluctant applause. In the distance Wilhelmina’s voice rang clear, her quill-tipped finger dancing across an order scroll, while Alina rolled out fresh maps on an old crate, the parchment damp but unbowed. Alice shepherded civilians behind a hastily reassembled barricade, Emilia at her side, soft words carrying more protection than shields.

Raine slid from her saddle and landed with a soft thud on sodden ground. The mud hissed at her soles, but she felt rooted, alive. She shook out her reins, droplets cascading from braided leather straps. Damp curls clung to her face, framing eyes that still sparkled with adrenalin. She swept a hand across her brow and looked up just in time to see Lyan stride through the broken gate: cloak swirling, rain-damp hair plastered to his forehead, glaive in hand still gleaming with last night’s storm. His gaze locked on hers—fierce, proud, weighted with unspoken thanks. She lifted a shoulder in acknowledgment, breath pluming white in the chill air.

His gaze roamed the courtyard, settling momentarily on each commander: Ravia’s triumphant posture as she knelt to reset a fallen spark trap; Josephine’s confident smirk as she refilled her flask from a supply keg; Wilhelmina barking new orders to half-hidden runners; Alice’s vigilant sweep of the crowd; Emilia’s gentle touch on a child’s shoulder; Surena’s booming laugh that rolled over the walls like a challenge; Xena’s sleek blade flash as she beckoned a stray guard aside; Alina’s deliberate mapping of the next push; Belle’s guiding hand steadying trembling prisoners. Smoke still curled from overturned fires, mingling with the dawn mist, and Lyan inhaled deeply, tasting the tang of victory tempered by the iron tang of loss.

(Right place, right moment,) Arturia noted approvingly in the echoing chambers of his mind.

(You trusted them—and they delivered,) Eira added, soft as midnight.

Lyan halted before Raine, sliding a gauntleted hand onto her lance. "Beacon lit?" His voice was low but carried like a hymn.

Raine pointed to the ash grove beyond the citadel’s crumbling east wall, where a single column of flame danced in the damp air. The grove’s gnarled trunks glowed orange against the gray dawn. "Ash grove stands bright," she replied, chest tight. "They’ll see it in the lowlands and know we’ve taken the heights."

His stern features cracked into a faint smile—rare, but genuine. He raised his glaive in a crisp salute. "Then this land is ours. Good work."

She returned the salute, heart swelling with fierce loyalty. Around them, the mist thinned, as if the world itself sensed the shift. Hope—a fragile shoot—broke through the battle-scarred stones.

("You made it," ) Eira whispered, pride woven through the words.

(Right when you needed it,) Lilith purred triumphantly at the edges of his thoughts.

Behind the walls, Raine’s eyes flicked to the stuttering shapes of Astellian archers Surena had hidden at the ridge’s crest. At Lyan’s signal—a raised cloak—they crouched and loosed a volley that cut through the thinning fog. Cries rang out from the ridgeline as Varzadian skirmishers broke and fled, arrows finding home in half-drawn bows and armored shoulders.

Under the battered eastern gate, Ravia and Xena slipped like shadows. Ravia’s illusion charm bent the morning light around her, rendering her nearly invisible as she pressed small powder charges to the oak beams. Xena’s gloved hand slid a dagger through a guard’s neck in silence, the man folding into darkness without a sound. They moved as one—her canine grace to his lethal precision—until Xena gave the nod.

A hiss of ignition, then a crack that shuddered up the ramparts. The gate splintered, rotting timbers bursting inward like dying thunder. Lisban’s alarm bells tolled—a grim chorus that mingled with frantic shouts. The breach yawned, and Chaos strode in.

Down the river road, two long wagons creaked forward beneath the weight of empty barrels painted with Astellia’s crest. Josephine rode jovially alongside the lead driver—a lean merchant already enchanted by her silver tongue.

"Overflow reserves, southerly bound," she called, voice bright as sunshine slicing through the mist. "Spread the word, friends—Astellia surges past your gate!" She winked at him, slipping a silver coin into his palm. The merchant’s greed-flushed grin spoke enough: the bait was taken.

Belle rode behind, eyes sharp as a hawk’s. She scanned the distant ridge, spotting movement that made her pulse quicken. A Varzadian patrol, too composed for curiosity, edged closer, tailing the wagons under the illusion of morning fog.

Belle leaned forward, whispering to the nearest driver, "Old windmill at dusk. Safe haven—for a price." She slipped a folded note into his basket before he could question her, her fingers brushing his wrist in a flash of warmth.

The patrol, heads brimming with visions of grain’s glittering value, peeled off the main road and thundered toward the windmill. Josephine watched them go, lips curling into a predatory smile.

"Bait’s set," she murmured. "Let’s see who bites."

A sudden roar of crossbows erupted from concealed Astellian infantry lain in shallow ditches beside the road. The Varzadian patrol, startled, veered—only to find Wilhelmina’s skirmishers cutting off every exit. Confusion spiraled into panic as arrows snapped overhead and disciplined lances charged out of hiding. The skirmish was over almost before it began: officers captured, prisoners bound, discipline shattered.

Josephine and Belle reined in the wagons, stepping from the benches to witness the wreckage of enemy plans. "They’ll think twice before chasing glitter again," Josephine said with a chuckle.

Under the fortress docks, Ravia and Xena crept through half-flooded alleys toward the mooring. Beneath the supply barges, they bent low, working quickly. Ravia jabbed torches to fuses tucked under iron hulls, while Xena pried at loose planks with her dagger. Ravia’s hand brushed something stuck between the beams: a wax-sealed letter bearing the Vulture’s sigil. She slipped it into her tunic, pulse quickening.

(Important,) Arturia hissed, razor-sharp.

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