Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 459: Lyan’s Gut Feeling (3)

Lisban’s main plaza pulsed with life as if the very stones had a heartbeat. Flames leapt high from fresh-cut timber stacked in iron braziers and old wagon wheels jammed together for kindling. Sparks spiraled into the clean night sky, every burst of orange light painting the shattered facades in flickering gold and hiding cracks for a heartbeat at a time. The air smelled of wet ash, roasting mutton, cheap wine, and forge-oil still clinging to hastily repaired armor.

A ring of young soldiers crowded around an overturned cart that now served as a table. They clanged tin mugs together, splashing wine that ran like red rivers across the rough boards. One lad—barely more than a boy, cheeks streaked with soot—raised his cup so high half its contents drenched the man beside him, who only laughed harder and clapped him on the back. Farther along, two veterans had commandeered a dented drum and a whistle with a missing note. The whistle squealed off-key, the drum thumped half a beat behind, yet every soul within earshot stamped along anyway, too giddy to care about rhythm.

Children with knees still raw from hiding under rubble that morning darted between dancers. Lanterns of cracked glass hung from ropes tied to shattered pillars, swaying each time a reveler brushed past. A clever lutist balanced on a barrel, plucking a reel quick enough to set skirts flying and braid ribbons whipping in the breeze.

Lyan stood beneath the watchtower’s angled shadow, arms folded, dark cloak hem mingling with stone. He let the hood hide most of his face, but his eyes moved, cataloguing bonfires, measuring alley mouths, noting which rampart stretches glimmered with fresh torchlight. Habit. Safety.

Wilhelmina threw back her head in a laugh so clear it rang like struck crystal; envy pricked Lyan that joy came so easily to her. Belle, waist cinched by a scavenged silk sash, spun beneath a lantern, skirts flaring. Light kissed the curve of her calf, and his gaze lingered a breath longer than it should—hips, neckline, that fleeting flash of thigh—before guilt burned his ears and he yanked his attention away. Josephine balanced atop a broken fountain plinth, juggling bruised apples like comets blazing red arcs through lamplight, while children squealed around her ankles.

Warmth should have seeped into Lyan’s chest at their delight, but a colder thought gnawed louder. The walls of Lisban had fallen too neatly. Enemy archers had drawn back with uncanny timing. When he blinked, he still saw the breach—stones lying in tidy slabs as though a phantom mason had planned each fracture.

(You’re brooding again,) Cynthia observed, her voice a velvet thread through his mind. (Victory deserves joy.)

"They knew," he muttered. "They moved before we struck."

(And that is why you watch while others dance.)

A single trumpet call sliced through chatter. Lanterns jerked upward as though every onlooker shared the same breath. A second call followed, and the noise churned, assembling itself into cheers.

Through the broken eastern gate rolled a column of torches flanking a white-and-gold standard. Horses splashed through puddles. At the head rode Prince Erich, hair bound by a silver clasp and polished breastplate reflecting firelight. He waved, smile wide and sure. Beside him towered Lord Arnold, shoulders broad as castle doors, face mapped by old scars.

Cheers surged like surf, shaking the tower stones behind Lyan’s back. He held still, heart ticking. He could not fault the men for cheering—Erich had come to praise them—but ceremony felt brittle with the ash of morning’s dead still cooling on the cobbles.

Erich swung from his saddle with a flourish, white cloak brushing mud yet gathering none. A herald—voice cracking with importance—advanced and cried, "In the name of His Highness, Prince Erich of Astellia, we honor the heroes who have reclaimed Lisban!"

The square erupted. A baker’s daughter tossed petals skyward; trumpets echoed off the walls until they sounded like a brass tide. Erich lifted one hand. Noise folded at his gesture, an artist closing a fan.

"My brave soldiers," he called, voice clear as bell metal. "Tonight we celebrate not only victory, but courage. You defended our kingdom, sheltered our people, and proved that Astellia’s heart is strong!"

A louder roar answered. For an instant Lyan almost believed in that bright future of secure borders and safe children—until the echo faded, leaving only the memory of a spy detonating in black fire.

"Yet there are those who led you," Erich continued, warmth threading his words. "Those who turned despair into triumph." His gaze swept the crowd. "Lyan Arcanium Evocatore! Wilhelmina! Josephine Marguerite! Alicia Alvis! Come forward!"

Lyan’s mouth twitched as he remembers how he hid Wilhelmina’s ’Credia’ name to hide her origin, to make sure there are no complicated situation that might come arise because of it.

Lyan’s gut tightened as eyes swung toward the watchtower. Reluctantly he stepped into firelight. Heat licked his cheeks; brightness stabbed after hours in shadow. Belle’s glance flicked across him—admiring, teasing. Wilhelmina straightened her sleeve, smoothing a speck of blood as though it were lint. Josephine hopped down, flourishing a bow that made the children cheer louder. Alicia glided, serene.

Erich’s smile expanded. "For your bravery, I offer titles and lands—places among Astellia’s nobility!"

Josephine’s fingers slipped into Lyan’s, pulse thrumming. Wilhelmina’s guarded eyes shone with calculation—how many supply lines a new title could open. Belle’s mouth curved, half challenge, half wonder. At the plaza edge, Xena and Ravia exchanged skeptical frowns; neither liked silk chains.

A noblewoman near the railing leaned forward, lace bodice damp from mist, ample cleavage lit by lantern glow. Desire flickered automatic and unwelcome through Lyan. He swallowed, dragged his focus back to the prince.

"I accept," Lyan said, voice clear but humble, cutting through the murmurs of the crowd. The tension hanging in the air like a held breath broke, replaced by a wave of cheering. "But let it be known—this victory was not mine alone. It belongs to the brave souls who fought beside me. My companions, my comrades. Without them, I would be nothing but another blade lost in the dark."

He gestured, and his companions stepped forward. Wilhelmina, fierce and composed, stood tall at his side, her silver hair catching the firelight. Josephine’s grin was wide, her emerald eyes sparkling as she pulled her hood back. Alicia gave a polite, composed nod, her calm presence radiating. Belle, ever the performer, twirled once, her silver hair cascading around her, earning another round of cheers.

Erich’s smile broadened, though a hint of curiosity still lingered in his gaze. "Then so be it. By the power vested in me as Prince of Astellia, I promise you a handsome rewards including title and land in the end of the war. And to your brave companions, who fought with valor—I grant them the rewards befitting heroes."

A servant stepped forward, bearing a finely embroidered crimson cloak trimmed with silver, a mark of nobility, which Erich himself draped over Lyan’s shoulders. Another presented a polished silver brooch—an eagle with outstretched wings, the symbol of Lisban’s new lord. Finally, a third servant approached with a heavy chest of gold coins, the lid partially open, revealing glittering wealth.

Wilhelmina received a silver medallion, the crest of Astellia engraved upon it, and a purse of gold coins. Josephine was handed a set of beautifully jeweled daggers, their hilts adorned with emeralds that matched her eyes. Alicia was presented with a grimoire, its cover bound in fine leather and marked with a silver sigil of protection. Belle received a silver circlet, its center set with a sapphire that caught the torchlight.

Lyan bowed as the cloak settled around his shoulders, a smile tempered by humility. "I thank you, Your Highness. But as I said—these rewards are not for me alone. My companions, my partners in battle and beyond—they are the reason we stand here victorious." He glanced at each of them, and a warm pride settled in his chest. "And so whatever I have gained, I share with them. Our victories and our rewards are one."

Wilhelmina gave a rare, genuine smile, her fingers brushing the medallion at her neck. Josephine’s laughter rang out like silver bells, and she leaned in, whispering something playful to Lyan that made his ear heat. Belle adjusted the circlet, a smirk tugging at her lips, while Alicia’s calm demeanor softened just a little, her fingers tracing the grimoire’s cover.

Erich’s expression eased, and even Lord Arnold—grizzled and stern—gave a slow nod of approval. "Such loyalty is rare, even among those who share blood. You do your title honor, Viscount Lyan."

Lyan’s gaze swept the crowd, catching the eyes of the soldiers, the townsfolk, the freed prisoners who now danced and laughed in the plaza. He felt the weight of the cloak on his shoulders, the cool metal of the brooch at his chest, the tangible symbol of his newfound status. Yet beneath it all, he was still Lyan—a man who had fought, lost, and bled beside these people.

(Quite the speech, Lord Lyan,) Cynthia whispered, her voice warm, teasing. (For a man who insists he has no desire for titles.)

(Well, he certainly looks good in red,) Lilith purred, her voice a seductive murmur. (But I think he knows that already.)

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