Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 456: The Crack Beneath The Walls (End)

Lisban pulsed with life, but the weight in Lyan’s chest never lifted.

Bonfires crackled in the central plaza, coaxing the wet stones to steam. Flame-light spilled over broken market stalls, gilding shattered roof beams like strands of molten gold. Lanterns bobbed on thin reeds, drifting back and forth as if testing new wings. Their glow flashed across laughing faces—Astellian soldiers, townsfolk, even a few freed Varzadian prisoners drawn by warmth and food. Everywhere, music: a violin sawed a merry reel, a drum answered with steady heartbeats, and somebody plucked a lute that had only five strings left but still refused to fall silent.

Josephine, tipsy and radiant, juggled three bruised apples near a toppled fountain. Each arc of fruit pulled shrieks of joy from the children circling her. They darted like sparrows—ragged tunics flapping, bare feet slapping puddles—trying to snatch an apple before it could return to her hand. When one clever boy actually caught it, Josephine feigned outrage, chased him three steps, then surrendered with a wink that lit the whole square brighter than any torch.

Near the old well, Emilia crouched with townsfolk, her healer’s hands steady even while threading soaked twine through paper lanterns. She whispered gentle encouragement, and trembling fingers tied knots a little surer. With each lantern released, a hush followed—the tiny flame drifting upward until wind carried it over ruined rooftops like a new constellation.

Belle claimed her own corner. She stood atop an overturned crate for height, silver hair spilling down her back in damp waves. With one hand she poured thin wine into dented cups; with the other she pressed coins—pilfered earlier from enemy purses—into the leathered palms of elderly innkeepers. Her laughter rang around the plaza, coaxing smiles from men who hadn’t bent their lips upward in months. A frail woman kissed Belle’s knuckles in thanks; Belle only laughed harder, wiping away the woman’s tears with a thumb.

From the high watchtower Lyan observed it all, shoulders hunched beneath his rain-heavy cloak. Water dripped from the hem in steady ticks, pooling around the shaft of his glaive. The weapon leaned against the parapet, gleaming where sparks from the bonfires caught on its polished blade—but it felt foreign to him tonight, like a tool abandoned after some half-remembered trade. He kept his hands behind his back, fingers digging into the wet cloth as if hoping pain would spark feeling.

The scene below should have been beautiful. It was beautiful. Yet the tighter the crowd pressed together, the farther away Lyan felt—as though the tower stretched into another world entirely.

Why do I feel no joy? Victory’s supposed to come with relief. But something’s wrong.

(You’ve sensed it too. The battle’s not done.) Cynthia’s voice stirred inside him, cool and composed, silk-wrapped steel. (A victory too easy often hides a price not yet paid.)

He exhaled, the mist of his breath dissolving into night. With it came an old memory—blood-slick stones under moonlight, comrades falling one by one while he screamed promises he hadn’t kept. He shoved the vision away, but its chill lingered, settling behind his ribs like ice.

The wind shifted, carrying smells of charred meat, cheap wine, and damp rope. Footsteps climbed the stairwell—soft, measured. Lyan didn’t turn until Alicia reached the parapet and stopped beside him. She wore a simple wool cloak, hood thrown back so rain had darkened her braid. No armor now, but the posture of command clung to her shoulders—chin high, gaze sharp.

"You’re not drinking," she said, resting forearms on the stone. Her tone held no scolding, only quiet observation.

"Not thirsty," he replied, eyes never leaving the square.

She followed his gaze, took in the flashing lanterns, the swirl of dancers. Her lips twitched. "The way you look at joy makes me think you’ve forgotten how to wear it."

He let the words hang. Down below, a quartet of soldiers attempted a clumsy reel with two merchants, laughter spilling every time someone tripped. Moments like that used to warm him. Tonight they scraped his nerves raw.

Alicia’s attention shifted to the eastern wall crouched in darkness beyond the plaza lights. Even at this distance the breach looked surgical, as if chiselled by some unseen titan rather than scored by cavalry and explosives. "That gap bothers you."

Lyan nodded once. "It fractured on the first charge. Stone too old, maybe, but the collapse—too clean."

"They moved their archers two minutes before impact," Alicia murmured. Rain beaded on her cloak and rolled away. "I checked the bodies. Their formations were angled for a strike they shouldn’t have predicted."

"They knew," Lyan said, voice low. "Knew where we’d hit hardest. Pulled their flanks just before we did."

Alicia inhaled through her nose, the breath trembling. "And no signs of magical foresight?"

"None. Not scrying. No resonance echoes. The resonance field was quiet as a grave." Lyan’s jaw set. "They were warned."

She turned fully toward him. Up close her eyes looked darker, reflecting torchlight and his own frown. "Then someone spoke."

Below, Josephine deliberately dropped an apple high, letting it skim over children’s outstretched arms before snatching it back behind her waist like a stage illusionist. Three children squealed, swarmed, one even clambered up her skirts. Belle tipped her wine jug, over-poured a cup for a toothless veteran, then wiped foam from his chin as if he were kin. Emilia clapped when the latest lantern found an updraft and soared so high it dwindled to a glinting ember.

Lyan’s gaze lingered on Belle a heartbeat too long—the way her wet blouse clung to her silhouette was a torch in the dark. Heat flared through him, unwelcome and impossible to hide, so he averted his eyes, cheeks burning at his own pettiness. The guilt came sharp: he could catalogue every curve in an instant but failed to settle the dread coiled beneath his breastbone. freёnovelkiss.com

(Honest eyes wander,) Lilith purred from the depths of his mind, amusement dripping in every syllable. (But focus, darling. A knife may dance behind every smile tonight.)

He clenched his fists, nails biting skin.

"You look like a soldier standing watch at his own feast," Alicia said, softer now. "Your people are safe for the first time in months. You fought for that."

"For this hour, maybe." Lyan drew the soaked cloak tighter. "But if the walls fell too easily tonight, they may fall behind us tomorrow."

Alicia followed the flight of another lantern. Its faint flame trembled, then steadied, rising past the tower roof. "Joy has teeth, Lyan. Bite it before it rots."

He managed a weak huff—part laugh, part sigh. "You make it sound simple."

"It isn’t. That’s why we practice."

A sudden cheer erupted below as Josephine finally surrendered the apples to the victors, bowing grandly. The children paraded their battered trophies like royal jewels. Belle blew an exaggerated kiss that sent the smallest boy spinning away giggling. The air smelled of rain-damp earth and woodsmoke, but under it Lyan tasted something acrid, like copper shavings on his tongue.

(Seal it, Lyan,) Griselda warned, voice as keen as her lightning. (Before someone slips the knife in deeper.)

Alicia’s hand touched his forearm—steady, grounding. "We’ll find the traitor," she said. "But not if you drown in what-ifs. Come down soon. Show them their commander can still smile."

For a moment he considered it. He pictured walking into the plaza, letting Belle shove a cup into his hand, letting Emilia tug him beneath a lantern’s glow, maybe even letting Josephine drag him into the clumsy reel. He imagined laughter ripping free from his throat instead of these half-sighs.

But the image fractured when he looked east again. Darkness pooled around the breach like ink, too thick, too patient. Somewhere beyond those fallen stones new shadows were already gathering.

"Soon," he lied gently.

Alicia studied him, then slipped her hand away. "Don’t take too long. Triumph loses meaning if the hero refuses to share it." She began her descent, boots quiet on slick steps, cloak swirling behind her like a departing raven.

Alone again, Lyan rested both hands on the parapet. Cool water slicked under his palms. The revelry’s noise battered him from below—music, shouts, the pop of wood in fire—but each sound felt muffled by the distance inside his skull. He tried to memorize the faces visible in torchlight: the exhausted archer leaning on a baker, the elderly couple nodding in time to the drum, the seamstress mending a child’s torn sleeve with bright thread she’d hoarded for a festival dress that might never come. Ordinary people, saved tonight because he and his companions had steered steel and sorcery well.

They deserved merriment, not his brooding silhouette looming overhead. Yet he could not force the celebrant’s mask.

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