Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 455: The Cracks Beneath the Walls (4)

Above ground, Wilhelmina and Alina moved with practiced efficiency through the old market square. They directed burly porters to heave grain sacks into hidden vaults beneath the church’s crypts—once places of stone repose, now lifelines for a city teetering on hunger. Alina rolled out a map of subterranean aqueducts, pointing to a junction where a sluice gate still held water at bay.

With deft hammer taps, they collapsed the gate. A roar of rushing water followed as the city’s clean wells began to draw from the flood, leaving the Varzadians with salted, brackish pools. Wilhelmina’s steady eyes shone with victory as she crossed one name off her ledger and underlined another.

In the twisting alleys, Alice glided from checkpoint to checkpoint, her presence a calm beacon for civilians huddled under awnings. Children peered out at her soldier’s stance, eyes wide not with fear but hope.

A gaunt mother clutched Alice’s sleeve. "Will you stay if we feed you soup every night?"

Alice crouched, face gentle in the torchlight. "Only if it’s good soup."

Meanwhile, Emilia’s steady hands worked with a grace that belied the chaos surrounding her. By the makeshift lantern light, she knelt beside a fallen soldier, the torn fabric of his tabard revealing a bleeding wound at his shoulder. Her fingers moved deftly, sewing through damp cloth and artery alike, tying off the spill of blood before dressing the gash with fresh linens. Each pull of the needle was precise—never too tight, never too loose—her face a mask of focus punctuated by gentle compassion.

Around her, refugees huddled beneath broken archways, shivering in sodden clothes. Emilia paused between stitches to lift a bowl of steaming broth, its savory aroma a rare comfort. She passed it from one trembling hand to the next, offering soft words: "Sip slowly. You’re safe now." When a dying man, lips pale and voice a harsh rasp, managed only, "Thank you," she bowed her head, pressing his hand to her lips and whispering a quiet prayer that snakes of warmth might guide his soul to peace.

Later, she found Lyan just beyond the arches, torchlight flickering across his weary face. He watched as she replaced the bowl carefully. When she gently tapped his arm, looking up with eyes that shone more brightly than any victory, she said, "They need hope more than walls, my lord." The simplicity of her words, spoken as though balm to both body and spirit, struck him with that truth. In that moment he realized the war was as much about hearts as it was about ramparts.

Meanwhile, Belle drifted through the market stalls that remained, her silver hair a beacon among the battered wares. She carried pouches of confiscated coins stamped with Alstan’s ruined crest, passing them to shopkeepers whose stands had dried-rot roots exposed by neglect and fear. "Take these," she urged them gently. "Use them to feed your families tonight."

As the coins caught the lantern light, shopkeepers’ eyes widened—first in disbelief, then gratitude. Belle’s laughter, clear and bright, filled the dark corners. "Bread and Ale Free Night," she announced, raising a hand in a toast-like gesture. The promise spread like wildfire, carrying hope through silent streets and battered doorways.

By the time rain pattered harder against the rough-hewn shelter walls, and the last refugees had slipped into ragged tents, Lyan summoned his council to the war-chamber. Water dripped from leaky rafters onto stained wood floors, and damp leather-smoke mingled with parchment dust. Maps lay across tables like wounded banners: edges curled and spots dark with ink and sweat. The ten women stood at attention, their armor still gleaming from the day’s sweat and rain; their expressions were fierce and ready.

Lyan strode in, cloak soaked through, boots splashing on the flagstones. He tossed the sealed letter onto the center of the largest table. It crackled open under his gauntlet as he set it down. "The Vulture’s not coming to reinforce Lisban," he said, voice cutting through the lamplight haze. "He’s marching south—straight for the plains beyond our reach." freeweɓnovel~cѳm

Silence stretched. Then it ignited.

Wilhelmina’s quill snapped against her ledger so sharply the sound echoed. She stared at the letter, eyes widening behind her glasses, then set the ledger aside. "Striking south," she murmured, turning the paper over as though weighing its weight in gold.

Alice’s hand tightened around her sword hilt until her knuckles whitened. She looked to Emilia, who met her gaze steadily—he was right beyond any doubt.

Raine’s grin blossomed, wicked as a dagger’s flash. "Tonight, we go beneath them," she said, toes tapping at the floor as though eager to spring.

Josephine’s eyes glittered dangerously, reflection of candlelight and ambition. "We’ll starve their war rooms while they sleep," she whispered, lips curved in a predator’s promise.

Lyan’s gaze swept each of them in turn. "We strike tonight through the aqueduct tunnels—those hidden veins beneath the city. At dawn, we emerge in their war-storehouse. No mercy, no second chances."

They scattered, each arrowing into action:

• Ravia and Xena melted into the underworks—shadows on stone—slipping through narrow aqueduct arches to sever key supports and set timed charges. Ravia’s illusions cloaked them; Xena’s silent steel dispatched lone watchmen without a sound.

• Surena’s cavalry mounted swiftly in the courtyard, horses shaking water from their coats, nostrils flaring smoke. She gathered her captains with a single roar—no words needed; steel and steed were enough.

• Josephine bribed the second-shift guards with Alstan’s coins and flattering rumors, ensuring they looked away when the tunnels trembled.

• Belle marked barrels that would later break open with oil and tinder—booby traps to deny the storehouse to any who survived the raid.

• Emilia assembled litters at the tunnel mouth, herbs and bandages laid ready—her gentle touch now a promise of survival.

• Alina triple-checked compass bearings at each junction, her maps unfolding in lantern glow, ensuring no one lost their way beneath the streets.

• Raine stoked hidden braziers at the tunnel entrances, quiet hearths that would guide them back with soft arcs of smoke.

As the night deepened, the city held its breath. Beneath its stones, the allies slipped through stone arches slick with moss. In that hush, the only sound was the drip of water and the soft clink of Ravia’s rogue’s talisman against her breastplate.

Then the earth trembled: a low, rolling resonance that echoed through every tunnel and hidden passage. The charges Ravia and Xena placed uncoiled in a single shuddering wave, and arches collapsed inward, severing the ancient conduits of water and sound.

Under the shattered gate, Raine and Surena thundered through the breach, their cavalry a living storm that split Lisban’s courtyard like thunder ripping the sky. Shields clanged, swords sang, and the war cry of Astellia rose in a chorus that drowned out every scream.

At the central keep, Lyan and his ten confronted the Vulture himself—dauntless and furious in his battered plate. Blades sang and sparks flew as they met in steel’s deadly dance. Around him, each commander played her part:

• Ravia moved like a phantom, disabling crossbow nets meant to slow them, her illusions rippling through the air.

• Xena carved through arcane wards etched on secret doors, her dagger’s steel breaking wards as easily as chains.

• Surena formed a shield around Emilia as she knelt to tend the wounded—her broad back a fortress to any who dared approach.

• Belle and Josephine darted through the hallways, burning oil and collapsing barricades to sow chaos.

• Wilhelmina and Alina locked the inner gates behind them, staff and compass in hand, cutting off reinforcements.

• Alice stood at the heart of the keep, sealing every portal with relentless steel and fierce resolve.

When the Vulture finally fell to his knees, his blade clattered from his grasp. Lyan stepped forward, gauntleted hand pressing the hilt of his glaive into the ruined mosaic at their feet. He leaned in close, voice a silken whisper: "Watch."

He left the Varzadian commander alive—stripped of pride, a living warning to every lord who might follow.

By evening, the river was bright with lanterns once more. Dozens of floating lights drifted downstream, each one a vow carried on water. Children’s laughter rose with the mist as they chased the lantern-chase through the streets. Bread and ale flowed from the central well—gifts of cornered stores repurposed for celebration.

In the estate salon, the tension of war melted into warm lantern glow. Humble wine cups clinked around a battered oak table. Raine danced with Lyan near the hearth, firelight flickering across their laughter. Ravia recited the new city oath, voice ringing proud as stone bells. Josephine and Belle compared pilfered rings as spoils—games of subtle one-upmanship. Wilhelmina and Alice debated grain quotas over ledger pages, each quill-stroke a promise of plenty. Emilia toasted every soldier’s health, her gentle voice carrying a benediction. Surena taught Xena the throw of spears for sport, metal thudding into padded targets with echoing satisfaction. Alina sketched a better future on ivory parchment scraps—roads, wells, markets—dreams drawn in ink.

Lyan lifted his glass, voice soft but resonant. "To hope. To steel. To every one of you—my greatest victories."

The women raised their cups, eyes bright with pride and promise, and the world beyond the windows breathed easier for the first time in years.

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