Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 460: Lyan’s Gut Feeling (4)

Lyan tried to ignore the heat creeping up his neck, though he knew the spirits could feel his embarrassment. "I may be a Viscount," he declared, raising his voice so all could hear, "but I am also still a mercenary, and I will continue to fight for the safety of Astellia and its people."

Another cheer erupted, louder this time. The soldiers banged their mugs together, and the townsfolk danced with renewed energy. Lanterns swayed, the firelight casting wild shadows, and the music swelled with a feverish joy.

Erich stepped closer, his voice lower now, meant for Lyan’s ears. "You’ve won them, Lyan. Their hearts and their faith. Few nobles could do so, even with a decade of rule."

Lyan’s smile remained steady. "I only did what I must, Your Highness. But this victory is fragile. I sense shadows that have not yet cleared."

Erich’s gaze sharpened. "You mean the breach. The way the enemy moved as if they knew your plans."

Lyan nodded. "Someone spoke. Someone warned them. And I intend to find out who."

Erich’s smile faded, his expression thoughtful. "Then you will need freedom to act. And as Viscount of Lisban, you have that freedom." He leaned closer. "I will see to it that no one questions your command, even if you choose to act against my own men."

"Thank you," Lyan replied, bowing slightly. "But for now, let’s not disturb the celebration. Let them remember this night as a victory, not a night of shadows."

Erich straightened, his face once again a mask of noble charm. "Indeed. Tonight, we dance, we sing. Tomorrow, we hunt."

He turned, raising his arms. "Celebrate, my friends! For tonight, Lisban lives!"

A roar of approval drowned out the night. Soldiers clasped each other’s shoulders, the music surged, and wine flowed freely. A young bard struck up a wild, joyful song, his voice ringing clear over the plaza. Flames danced higher, their light casting a golden glow over the faces of the revelers.

Lyan stepped back, letting the crowd swallow him. His hand brushed against the cloak at his shoulders, the silver brooch cold and reassuring beneath his fingers. His companions were quickly pulled into the revelry—Josephine dragged Wilhelmina into a dance, Belle tossed her head back, laughing as a silver-haired merchant tried to keep up with her steps, and Alicia calmly accepted a cup of wine, her gaze flicking to Lyan with quiet understanding.

He watched them, his heart warming at their smiles. And yet, beneath that warmth, the unease remained—a shadow he could not shake, even beneath the glow of fire and the cheer of victory.

""What happened, Viscount? You look as though you’ve bitten iron," Arnold rumbled, his broad silhouette half‑blocking the hearth. The old commander had discarded his breastplate but not the authority it lent him; scars climbed his arms like lichen on stone. In the fire‑glow his gray eyes searched Lyan’s face for cracks.

Lyan forced himself to focus on the present—on the rough table strewn with maps still smelling of damp parchment and lamp‑oil, on the restless pop and sigh of pine logs in the grate. The crimson cloak of Lisban’s barony weighed across his shoulders, warm at his nape, a fresh pressure that refused to let him forget the eyes now watching his every step.

"I look strange because something is," he answered, voice low. "The enemy formations bent away from our strike as though they’d read the playbook. That’s not instinct—that’s instruction. Someone whispered in their ear hours before our assault."

Erich, lounging against the mantle in court finery that hadn’t yet dried from the evening mist, straightened. The jovial prince was gone; in his place stood a tactician whose kingdom hung on secrets. "You suspect a traitor—here, among my officers?"

"I do," Lyan said. "And not a mere footman sending coded pouches. Whoever tipped them knew every feint, every charge time, even which of Belle’s grain wagons were empty. Our plans were handed over wrapped in ribbon."

(And someone wants you rattled,) Cynthia murmured inside his skull. (They baited a hook with your own strategy and waited.)

Arnold’s lips pressed thin. He glanced to the curtained doorway, ensuring no servants lingered, then stepped closer, voice dropping to a growl. "Name your suspect."

"I can’t, yet." Lyan met his stare without blinking. "If we pull the net too soon, we catch minnows and lose the shark. Let them feel safe—let them act again. Then we close the jaws."

Silence pooled—thick, tense. Only the hearth’s crackle stitched seconds together. Outside the shuttered windows, muted echoes of revelers drifted up the manor lane, reminding them that half the city still danced.

Erich exhaled, palm sliding over his velvet doublet as though wiping invisible dust. "We trust you, Lyan. Still, the court will bay if word of treachery leaks. Move carefully—this victory is the first breath Lisban has taken in months."

Arnold planted knuckles on the map‑table. "Our troops obey you, but soldiers gossip. Give them nothing solid and rumor will rot discipline."

Lyan nodded. "Keep them busy with drills and patrol rotations. Tell your captains I’m conducting a security audit for the prince. That buys me daylight without spreading alarm."

A small, almost approving grunt left Arnold’s chest. "If you fail—"

"—then the weight falls on my shoulders," Lyan cut in. "I understand." He let his hand rest atop the baronial brooch—silver wings of the lion cool under his thumb. A reminder of new authority—and the gallows it implied if misused.

Erich crossed to an oak escritoire, opened a drawer, and withdrew a palm‑sized medallion wrought in mithril: a winged lion clutching a sword. Its edges shimmered with ward‑runes. "This emblem speaks with my voice," he said, pressing it into Lyan’s hand. "Show it, and any garrison in Astellia will heed your command."

Metal kissed Lyan’s skin, strangely cold despite the room’s heat. For a heartbeat his reflection glimmered in the blade the lion held—eyes dark, tired, determined.

"Use it wisely," Erich finished.

"I will," Lyan promised.

_____

The manor’s west wing had been converted into a war room—a long chamber where cracked plaster still carried ghosts of a floral mural. A single chandelier, half its crystals intact, diffused lamplight in fractured rainbows over the battered table below. Around that table now gathered Wilhelmina, Alicia, Alina, Belle, Josephine, Ravia, and Xena—each fresh from the celebration yet alert, armor buckles loosened but never removed.

Map sheets overlapped like scales, weighed by inkwells and a festoon of wax‑sealed dispatches. The air smelled of candle smoke, leather, and a trace of Josephine’s stolen cherry perfume.

Lyan stood at the head, cloak pooled behind like spilled wine. "There’s a traitor," he began, voice sharp enough to nick candleflames. "One who sold our plans to Varzadia—perhaps to a faction we’ve heard called the Ashborn. Our next moves must stay between the eight of us."

Wilhelmina’s knuckles tapped a rhythmic staccato on the tabletop, mind already sorting ledgers. "Supply manifests go through twelve scribes," she said. "I can audit handwriting, shipping stamps, ink batches. It will take the night, but discrepancies bleed red on accounts."

Belle leaned forward, silver braid slipping over one shoulder. Her smile was all midnight conspiracies. "Let me loose in the noble quarters. Half those silk peacocks are drunk. A well‑timed compliment and they’ll crow every secret at dawn."

Josephine twirled a jeweled dagger between fingers. "I prefer quieter methods," she purred. "While Belle sings, I’ll sift their desks. Hidden compartments, coded diaries, love letters—anything with an unfamiliar seal."

Ravia folded arms, eyes narrowing. "And the spy we caught? He’s weak but breathing. Xena and I will keep him alive, see if starvation of sleep loosens his tongue."

Xena flashed a knife‑edge grin. "If that fails I have other tools." The blade she flipped vanished up her sleeve with a flick.

Alicia’s brow knit, thoughtful. "Forgery leaves arcane residue—minute but traceable. I can weave a detection charm over Wilhelmina’s ledgers. Any letter penned with unsanctioned ink will glow."

Alina, silent until now, unrolled a smaller regional map. "Varzadian courier routes converge at Molt Vale and Briar Pass. If messages left Lisban during the siege, they rode those roads. I’ll task hawk scouts to watch the waystations for unusual riders."

Lyan absorbed each offer, pride stirring even beneath fatigue. These women—his allies, his tether to sanity—met treachery with blades and brilliance. "Good," he said. "We strike separate paths tonight but share one goal: pull the mask without tipping the stage."

He drew a quick breath, lowering his tone. "Not even Erich’s honor guard must know. If they ask, you’re cataloguing war spoils." freeweɓnovēl.coɱ

Belle’s eyes gleamed. "Spoils are my specialty."

Josephine bumped her hip playfully. "Behave, or at least invite me."

(They’re enjoying this,) Lilith cooed. (Hunting in silk—how delicious.)

Wilhelmina lifted a ledger, the quill behind her ear already primed. "Then we begin? The night’s thin and traitors don’t sleep."

Lyan nodded once. "The night’s ours. Ravia, Xena—"

"Guard the spy," Ravia finished. "If he so much as twitches, we’ll know."

Alicia stepped beside Lyan, hand brushing his cloak, voice soft enough for only him. "And you?"

He lifted the winged‑lion emblem so its silver facets caught candlelight. "I will watch those who think they are safe."

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