Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 457: Lyan’s Gut Feeling (1)

A droplet slid from his hood’s edge, splashing onto a fresh scar along the stone. He followed its path absently, then let his gaze climb the tower again—over rooftops, over drifting lanterns, up to the bruised sky. Clouds parted just enough for a glimpse of stars. In their midst one spark shone red, pulsing faintly before hiding behind cloud again. He felt the hair on his arms lift.

(A sign,) Cynthia murmured. (Or a challenge.)

He pressed lips to a silent promise: no more ambushes, no more comrades dead because he trusted the wrong whisper.

Somewhere below, Belle called his name, voice bright, but he stayed still.

A log shifted in the nearest bonfire, sending sparks in a golden fountain. The embers reminded him of blood sprayed through torchlight—another battlefield, another lifetime. For an instant he tasted ashes on his tongue, and the watchtower stone felt slick with something thicker than rain. He blinked; the nightmare faded, yet left its chill.

Trauma is a leash, he told himself. I hold the chain, not the other way around.

Some part of him—small, stubborn—still craved the warmth of the crowd. But the commander in him, the strategist, was louder tonight. Too much still unresolved. Too many questions about that breach, Lord Hallen’s unexplained midnight visit, the spy tied in the cellar. And the red star blinking like an eye.

Lyan straightened, pulled his cloak tighter and reached for his glaive. The handle’s smooth wood reassured him—familiar, steady. Crowds could wait. Joy could wait. There were logs to seal and truths to carve from stone before dawn peeled the darkness back.

He turned away from the watchtower edge.

_____

The reclaimed noble estate groaned beneath new life, every footstep on its warped floorboards echoing through corridors that had whispered only to spiders and dust for the past decade. Mildewed tapestries still clung to cracked plaster, their faded hunting scenes made ghost-pale by water stains. Ivy, thick as a sailor’s rope, pushed between mantel stones and sagging rafters, and the fireplace—once likely the pride of some long-dead baron—now exhaled only the faint stink of damp ash. It was drafty, cramped, wrong in all the little ways a headquarters ought not to be, yet tonight the estate served better than any gilded palace. War didn’t demand beauty; it demanded walls and a door they could bolt.

The former dining hall—an oblong chamber crowned by a roof that sagged just slightly to starboard—had become a war room. Someone had shoved a worm-eaten banquet table to the center and buried it under scrolls, troop ledgers, and candles whittled down to nubs. Wax puddles clung like barnacles to the wood. A few guttering flames threw restless shadows across four tense faces: Lyan, Alicia, Wilhelmina, and Alina—leaders now dressed in damp cloaks and battlefield grime.

Lyan hovered at the table’s head, palms braced on either side of a sagging map. Under the candlelight his soaked hair clung to his forehead, darkening already dark eyes. The damp of his cloak seemed to seep straight into the oak, spreading coal fingers across ancient grain. He inhaled once, smelled mold, old wine, candle soot, and something metallic—the after-scent of fresh ink mixed with war steel.

Wilhelmina, ledger tucked beneath one elbow, flicked a candle stub closer to the parchment in front of her. Her armor squeaked—oil-starved hinges set protesting. She tapped a forefinger on the sheet, the nail clicking like a metronome. "Troop distribution: routine. But here—this note. See it?" She pushed the page closer to the flame. "’Ash Gate Coordination.’"

The words were finely penned, each letter so crisp they looked carved. Military script, Lyan noted, the kind drilled into officers trained to never waste quill strokes. His gaze slid across the margin annotations: arrow clusters, time stamps, rotating supply arrows. Neat. Almost beautifully neat. Whoever drafted it wanted no doubt.

Alina, sleeves rolled to the elbow, leaned over the map until damp blonde strands brushed parchment. Her fingertip circled a precise ring in red ink, hovering over Lisban’s eastern quadrant. "This is us," she said, voice hoarse from a day of barking orders across rain-slick walls. "And this—here—is where their archers realigned forty-five minutes before Raine’s feint. They stopped guarding the south flank entirely." She rubbed her thumb over the ink. "Even a blind recruit wouldn’t abandon that quadrant unless told."

Alicia’s expression tightened, eyes narrowing the way they did whenever she dissected a puzzle spell. She lifted the page, turned it sideways, then held it over the candle just enough to tempt a burn. "No heat-sensitive sigils," she muttered. "No sympathetic residue. If someone cast foresight, there’d be tracer ash, faint but there." Her brows knit. "That’s not anticipation. That’s knowledge in advance."

Lyan dragged his gaze from the script to Alicia’s fingers—a quick involuntary flicker. Slim, deft, stained by smear marks from decoding ciphers all evening. Pretty, he thought, then crushed the thought behind duty.

Wilhelmina snapped her ledger open, pages slapping. "I walked the breach myself. Checked every pile of rubble. Not a curl of divination ash." She met Lyan’s eyes. "Nothing."

Alina drew a slow breath, as if reluctant to voice the next piece. "No active communication sigils on the command corps either. No messenger crows recorded leaving at the critical hour. Whoever told them was already embedded, maybe whispering orders as casually as asking for salt."

Silence pressed in, deeper than the groans of the tired roof.

Lyan’s stomach tightened. On the table the map blurred for a heartbeat, edges fuzzing as water dripped from his sleeve. He wiped it away with a sleeve; ink bled regardless, smudging his thumb. His voice dropped, low as far thunder. "They were warned."

The words settled like a weight on the candles, dimming flames with a shiver.

Wilhelmina straightened, quill forgotten behind her ear. The corner of her mouth—so often quirked in dry humor—flattened into a hard line. "Three circles," she said quietly. "Only three knew the full formation plan." She ticked them off with gloved fingers. "Your immediate council." Another finger. "My war scribes." Another. "And Prince Erich’s noble retinue."

Alicia braced both hands on the table’s edge. Rainwater slid from her cloak hem, pooling, but she didn’t notice. "The leak came from inside then. Close. Someone who could stroll through our tents without challenge."

Lyan let his gaze roam the map: blue pins for Astellian cavalry, red for Varzadian infantry. They had out-maneuvered a force twice their number because they struck the perfect seam—yet the enemy had pulled back exactly soon enough to limit casualties. It wasn’t luck. It was instruction.

He felt Cynthia stir inside his mind, cool and practical. (Traitors bloom fastest in the garden of victory. Cut the root, not the leaf.)

He almost nodded aloud.

Wilhelmina’s quill scratched again. Numbers—food left, bolts counted, casualties tallied. Her handwriting faltered, a rare tremor. "We lock the gatehouses," she said, voice regaining its usual clipped edge. "Tag every courier bird. Double patrols on the inland road."

Alina brushed her knuckles over her lips, smearing an ink spot across her skin. "Seal the city proper. But suspicion will fester if we rope the common ranks along with nobility. Soldiers will assume we doubt them."

"We doubt everyone," Alicia said, not unkindly but with finality. "Until proven."

Again Lyan studied the pen strokes on the suspicious note—how sharp each serif, how perfect each margin. His eyes narrowed. Whoever wrote that had years of clerk discipline drilled by noble tutors. Common scribes drafted crowded, jittery letters. But here: spacing exact, loops identical. Painfully refined. He could almost see the lessons behind it: hold the quill upright, let the nib breathe at the tail of the stroke. Courtly handwriting.

He straightened, cloak dripping anew. "Seal the logs," he ordered, tone leaving no space between words. "Nobody leaves Lisban until we know who fed them."

For a second only candle crackle responded. Alina’s shoulders slumped in a silent yes. Alicia exhaled, the faintest shiver running through her.

Wilhelmina lifted her eyes. Candlelight sparked in the glass of her spectacles, turning them briefly opaque like small moons. "Including Erich’s people?"

Lyan met her stare without flinching. His next words felt like dropping a stone in black water—ripples sure to spread through every level of command. "Especially them."

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