Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 458: Lyan’s Gut Feeling (2)

The barracks still smelled of steel and blood—the metallic sting of sword oil mingled with the sour odor of damp wool and a faint, coppery sweetness left by wounds hastily cleaned. Rain pattered on the roof-slats overhead, each drop drumming a dull warning against warped shingles. Outside, campfires guttered in the wind; their smoke leaked through every cracked board and warped shutter, adding charcoal bitterness to the air already hot and heavy with breath and sweat.

Lyan moved down the main aisle with Alicia at his right shoulder. The clang of his boot heels drew sleepy heads up from bedrolls; conversation fell to uneasy murmurs the moment soldiers recognized his face. His cloak was gone—left folded in the war room to dry—so his tunic clung to him without the usual flourish of command. He kept one hand on the buckle of his sword belt, thumb tapping restlessly against the hilt. The glaive on his back tugged at its harness whenever he turned, a silent reminder of how quickly this night could slide back into battle.

(Question the supply clerk,) Griselda’s voice whispered, sharp as a whetted blade glancing off flint. (They passed the order scrolls before the march. Too many hands touched them.)

"I know," Lyan answered under his breath. Alicia shot him a curious glance; he gave a faint shake of his head, signaling the comment had come from inside, not at her.

The central storage alcove sat between rows of weapon racks. Lanternlight revealed a man slumped against a crate stamped with the crest of Prince Erich’s household—three silver stars on a blue field. His quill still rested in one limp hand, ink dried in the groove between thumb and forefinger. Even from ten paces Lyan saw the man’s chest rising and falling with a snore that smelled of cheap ale.

He nudged the clerk’s boot with his own. Just hard enough.

The man jerked awake, pupils dilating as he focused on Lyan’s silhouette. His quill clattered to the ground.

"Name," Lyan said.

"M-Marlen, sir—Quartermaster’s ledger scribe."

"Who handled the scrolls before the cavalry rode out?"

Marlen’s gaze skittered across the floor, chasing after the quill as though it might shelter him. "I... just me, sir. And Squire Derren. He brought them down from the north wing."

"Was Derren assigned to that post?"

"N-no, Commander. He said he had orders—orders from the baroness." Sweat beaded behind the man’s ear despite the chill.

Lyan narrowed his eyes. "Which baroness?"

The clerk swallowed. "Didn’t say. I assumed Lady Elsh."

Lady Elsh, Lyan knew, was two days east leading refugee caravans. The answer rang false enough to make his palms itch. He stared a heartbeat longer, watching the clerk’s throat bob, then stepped back. No need to push further; the man looked terrified enough to forget his own name.

He turned and strode out. The man sagged onto the crate again, hand groping blindly for the fallen quill—as if restoring that little scrap of order might erase the encounter.

"That clerk’s lying about something," Alicia muttered once they reached the open air. Night wind slapped damp fabric against her calves. "Or Derren is. Either way, the scroll chain’s compromised."

"Lady Elsh was still traveling when we launched," Lyan said, confirming the thought aloud. "A ghost gave that order."

Row upon row of perimeter tents formed a dim maze on the parade ground beyond the barracks. Sentries crouched beneath crude awnings, shoulders hunched against drizzle. Lanterns cast orange half-moons on mud slicks; the rest lay in a gray hush. Pickets recognized their commander and saluted but asked no questions— fatigue had dulled even curiosity.

They approached the scribes’ cluster: four canvas shelters where ink-stained boys and aging clerks worked assignments no soldier wanted. Parchment scraps littered the ground like wilted petals. A lazy brazier glowed at the center, too low to chase away the cold.

Griselda’s warning hissed through Lyan’s mind before he even scanned the faces. (That one. The boy with ink-stained sleeves. His heart jumped when you asked about orders.)

The boy sat on an overturned bucket, nibbling stale bread. Ink flecked his knuckles, staining the ridges dark blue. He looked up as Lyan approached and tried to stand, banging knee to bucket rim.

"You," Lyan said, voice gentle enough not to spook nearby sleepers but hard with purpose. "What’s your name?"

"Alren, s-sir." The scribe lifted trembling fingers in half-salute. Bread crumbs clung to his chin.

"Did you see who accessed the master scrolls the night before the assault?"

Alren’s gaze flitted left—toward the brazier, then past Lyan’s shoulder as if seeking escape. Alicia stepped forward, arms loose at her sides but blocking any route. She leaned closer, eyes hooded, the interrogation technique she favored: silent pressure.

"Answer," she said, tone soft as wool, sharp as pins.

The boy’s shoulders sagged. "A nobleman," he whispered. "Tall. Fancy cloak pin—golden, shaped like a falcon. I think... Lord Hallen."

Lyan exhaled through his nose, heat fogging in the chill. Hallen—one of Erich’s favored court butterflies, more comfortable trading gossip than sword work. And yet Hallen had been given logistical oversight of the cavalry quarter because his lineage traced back to an ancient general. Nobles loved their symbols more than merit.

Alicia’s voice stayed low. "Hallen had free access. He walked past five guards and four scribes; nobody checked his satchel. Why would a man obsessed with court balls volunteer for night-shift scroll duty?"

Alren swallowed. "He said the prince needed final copies for his own archives."

"And you believed him," Lyan said—not accusing, just recording.

"Yes, Commander. I—I’m sorry."

"You’re not the one who gave the order," Lyan said. He clapped the boy’s shoulder once, firm. The lad still flinched as though struck.

They left the cluster, heading for the far end of the camp where tents thinned into treeline. Mud sucked at their boots; distant thunder rumbled over the hills, but no lightning followed. It felt like the sky itself pondered whether to unleash a storm.

(He was with Erich,) Alicia noted in a tight whisper. (Had full access. No questions asked.)

(Someone with command and charm,) Griselda agreed, voice crackling. (Too smooth to leave a trail.)

Lyan pictured Lord Hallen: manicured beard, perfumed gloves even on campaign, always greeting Belle with a kiss to her knuckles and an extra second of lingering eye contact that made Lyan’s gut kick—part jealousy, part caution. He remembered thinking Hallen harmless, more likely to sprain his wrist lifting wine than wielding a dagger. Yet harmless men made perfect messengers; no one stopped them from collecting whispers.

A gust of wind slid cold under Lyan’s tunic, snapping him back. He clenched his fist, knuckles whitening until they creaked.

"Then it’s not just Erich’s men," he said, breath ghosting. "Someone inside Astellia’s court wants this war to break."

_____

The cellar reeked of secrets long since soured. Damp seeped from every mortar line, turning moss into a slick pelt underfoot. A pair of half-rotted barrels crouched in one corner, their staves swollen by years of seep and spill; fermented grain dripped from their hoops in slow, viscous tears. Near the door, a rusted wine press hosted a web thick enough to catch the lantern’s thin light like lace. The air was so cold it felt liquid, beads of condensation clinging to Ravia’s eyelashes each time she blinked.

One lantern, that was all they’d bothered with—hung on a hook someone had driven into the stone ages ago. Its flame fluttered whenever a draft wormed through the cracked lintel, stretching shadows across the prisoner in wild, clawing shapes. He sat strapped to a high-back chair that had once served in some noble’s banquet hall; now its carved griffons were gouged and stained dark by other men’s blood. Ropes bound his wrists to the arms so tightly the veins bulged purple.

Ravia crouched in front of him, boots planted shoulder-width, palms resting on her knees like a village girl listening to a bedtime tale. Her eyes, normally bright with mischief, had settled into the flinty stillness she wore for work that required no jokes. When she spoke, her tone was almost tender.

"Thirst?" She held out a tin cup, water sloshing. The surface rippled with faint yellow from the lantern flame.

The man’s head lolled. Grizzled stubble peppered his jaw; a single white scar cleaved his left cheekbone, as though someone once tried to carve out his smile. Blood—thick, half-dried—glued his lower lip to his teeth. Yet he smiled anyway, the expression warped by swelling. He leaned forward just enough to let a pink glob of spit land between Ravia’s boots. "No mercy for the damned," he rasped.

Behind Ravia, Xena shifted her lean frame against the wall. She balanced a slim dagger on two fingers, letting it spin idly. Whenever the blade flashed through lantern light a spot of brightness exploded across the damp stones. She sighed—long, theatrical. "We can start with fingernails. Saves everyone time. I sharpened new pliers this afternoon."

The prisoner’s smile twitched but didn’t fade. "You’re late then," he croaked. "I pulled plenty of my own nails in the trenches. Pain’s a hymn, darling."

Ravia’s lips pressed into a flat line. She raised the cup again. "Drink. I’m not here to hymn-match. I want facts, and a man talks clearer with a wet throat."

He sniffed, then angled his head, studying her with a soldier’s weary interest. "You actually care whether I hurt? Unusual."

"Information dries up when its vessel dies," Ravia said. "So yes. Drink."

Curiosity nudged him; he parted blistered lips. She tipped the water just enough for a trickle to reach his tongue, careful not to flood him—drowning had ended more interrogations than Xena’s pliers ever would. He swallowed twice, coughed, and even that small relief clouded his eyes with unshed tears.

When he found his voice again it dragged like chains over gravel. "You’ll want to know what Ashborn means, won’t you?"

The name cracked through the cellar like a pebble against glass. Xena’s dagger halted mid-spin, point downward. She straightened. "Start with your friends," she ordered, stepping out of shadow. Her boots splashed in a shallow puddle the color of weak tea. "Where were they meeting you after Lisban fell?"

The prisoner chuckled—a dry scrape. "There are no afters. Just before... and oblivion." He sucked a breath that rattled. "This war? Prelude. We are ash scattered to cleanse the rot."

Ravia’s head tilted. "A cult?"

His grin widened, showing a broken molar. "No. A reckoning."

Xena sighed again, less patient now. "Reckonings need numbers. How many blades hidden in Lisban streets? Which quarter has stores of powder? Give me something before I grow tired of polite talk."

The man rolled his eyes upward as if scanning for gods in the crumbling ceiling. "Numbers crumble, dear. Purpose endures. Ashborn isn’t headcounts. It’s the spark after collapse." His gaze snapped to Ravia. "Look around, girl. Every stone in your pretty kingdom is half charred already."

For a heartbeat Ravia felt the damp chill press deeper, as though his words carried physical weight. She shoved the sensation away. "Philosophy bores me. Trench or no, you value your life—"

His lips twitched. Something about his posture changed, subtle as a breath. Ravia saw the jaw muscles jump, and instinct screamed.

Too late.

He bit down—hard. A dull crack like snapping charcoal echoed. At once crimson light flared behind his teeth, spilling through gums and throat like sunrise through stained glass. Runes ignited along his tongue—tiny branded glyphs that pulsed in sequence toward detonation.

Xena swore, lunging. She jammed her paralyzing needle into the man’s wrist. Alchemical venom shot beneath skin; his arm spasmed and locked. The spell hiccupped—a sudden stutter in the runic glow. Runes faltered, flickered like fireflies splashed by rain.

He gagged, coughing smoke, eyes bulging.

Ravia’s reflexes kicked. She wrenched open his tattered shirt. On the bruised skin of his sternum a sigil blazed: a circle of jagged characters, their lines written not in ink but in raw, living ember.

"Hold him!" she barked.

Xena’s free hand clamped the prisoner’s jaw shut, knuckles white. With her right she drew the dagger, its edge faintly blue where Lilith’s earlier enchantment still hummed. She traced the weave of the glowing glyphs—searching for the tether knot, the anchor point. There: a whorl nested left of center, quivering as power tried to rebound.

Steel flashed. She slashed across the whorl. The blade carved nothing physical; instead it sliced the spell’s arcane filament. Light burst outward then collapsed into itself, snuffed like a candle in rain.

A gasp—every occupant in the cellar exhaled at once, even the prisoner. The sigil dimmed to ugly scab-brown and ceased pulsing.

His head lolled. Sweat shone on his forehead. Whatever energy remained in him dripped away like rainwater through sieve mesh.

Ravia counted his breaths—shallow but steady. She let herself breathe again.

They stood a long moment, the only sound the drip-drip of water off rafters.

At last Xena wiped her dagger on her thigh. "You almost redecorated the walls with us inside," she muttered, voice shaking harder than she’d ever allow visible in daylight.

The man groaned, eyelids fluttering. "Almost," he echoed. The edge of a grin tried to return but failed, crushed by exhaustion.

"Why kill yourself?" Ravia demanded, voice low and furious. She seized his chin, forcing swollen eyes to meet hers. "What could be worth instant oblivion?"

"Oblivion’s a door," he murmured. "Some doors you open... some you become." He coughed, spattering fresh blood across her glove. "Ashborn walks through either."

Ravia released him, disgust and reluctant pity tangling behind her ribs. She reached inside his coat, feeling for hidden pockets. Her fingers brushed cloth stiff with dried sweat—then caught on a seam thicker than the others. She dug nails under, tore. Behind the lining lay a folded square, edges stitched shut with black thread.

"Contraband," Xena said.

Ravia ripped a final stitch. Parchment spilled into her palm, wax seal unbroken. The crest stamped into the scarlet blob made her pause: a banner ragged at one end, flames licking the cloth, and coiled around it a serpent swallowing its own tail. The detail—tiny scales, looped tongue—was exquisite, like jewelry.

She showed Xena, who whistled low. "Cult or reckoning, they have style."

"Style kills," Ravia muttered. She tucked the parchment into her belt pouch, tightening the flap. Her fingers tingled where they’d touched the seal; the wax felt unnaturally warm, pulsing almost.

The prisoner’s lids drooped. "Crucible," he whispered. "Lisban... only the crucible. We are the ash."

Ravia shivered despite herself. She gestured to a guard at the stair. "Chain him in the corner; send for a healer to keep him breathing. He talks again, I want to hear it."

The guard nodded and moved.

As the chair scraped back, the lantern sputtered. For an instant the light seemed to burn redder, as if mocking their close call. Then it steadied.

Xena flexed her fingers, adrenaline still quivering through muscle. "If he’d finished that spell—"

"We’d be soup on the walls," Ravia finished. She wiped her hands on a rag, trying to scrub off the clammy feeling creeping over her skin. Her heartbeat drummed in her ears, slowly easing.

She glanced once more at the seal in her pouch. "Reckoning," she whispered. "Reckoning for whom?"

Xena sheathed her dagger, expression darker than usual levity allowed. "For anybody standing when the ash settles, I’d wager."

Lantern light flickered again, dimming as another gust slithered down the stairwell. Ravia watched the prisoner being hauled to the far wall, chains rattling like distant thunder. The damp chill returned, heavier.

What hell did we just stop?

No answer came from the mold-slick stones, but within the silence Ravia thought she heard a low, distant rumble—like a furnace door creaking open far beneath the earth.

You delayed it, Cynthia whispered in Lyan’s distant voice-link, the spirit’s tone grave. But you did not stop it.

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