Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 461: Lyan’s Gut Feeling (End)

Belle’s emerald gown whispered along a marble corridor still pitted by stray arrows, the fabric sliding over stone in a hushed cadence that matched the soft hum of half-remembered ballads drifting from the grand hall. Lanterns in crystal sconces cast halos on cracked plaster, and each glow shimmered across the gown’s satin folds, sending emerald ripples along the floor like silent waves. Around her, nobles in hastily polished armor drifted like hungry moths toward whatever decanter promised forgetfulness—faces flushed, laughter frayed at the edges, the night’s joy already turning brittle.

Belle let herself glide, every step deliberate, weight balanced on the ball of her foot to keep her pace unhurried, languid, just shy of predatory. Lyan’s instructions echoed at the back of her mind—Charm them, but never lose the thread. She carried his words the way she might cradle a fragile crystal: careful, yet ready to turn it into a blade if needed. Loyalty first, always. She might tease borders, but she’d never trespass past the line that bound her heart to his.

She tuned her ears to the ebb of conversation. A pair of dukes haggled over troop rations as though they were bidding at market; a widowed countess whispered rumors of an Astellian spy who turned entire garrisons with a single smile. Belle’s own smile curled at that—not pride but quiet amusement. If only the countess knew the spy stood a mere corridor away, listening.

Her laughter—light as sugar, sharp as mint—flowed among the lords and ladies, slipping into their cadence, weaving through their insecurities, binding them in silken threads. Whenever a gentleman bowed too low she pressed a gloved palm to his shoulder, gentle but firm, a signal that flattery had limits. A flick of her gaze, a tilt of her chin, reminded them she was mystery first, prize second, conquest never.

When Lord Hallen appeared—hair slicked back so precisely it gleamed like wet obsidian, rings catching torch-flame—Belle recognized the restless glitter in his eyes. He was hunting conversation that made him feel important. Perfect.

He stepped around a wilted topiary, his cologne heavy with cedar and something sharper underneath—fear, or maybe ambition gone rancid. "Lady Belle," he purred, taking her hand as though his rings were anchors that could keep her from drifting. "Victory has never looked lovelier."

His fingers were clammy despite the glow of braziers lining the hall. Belle allowed the contact, tilting her head until the shine of his cufflinks glinted against her lashes. A pleased hush rippled through nearby guests: here was gossip taking shape before their eyes.

"I could say the same of bravery," she answered, tracing a slow circle across the brocade at his elbow. The gesture was calculated—close enough to flatter, distant enough to remind him she set the rules. Inside, a flicker of guilt whispered that Lyan might see through such illusion, but she smothered it. This was for him, not against him. She lifted her lashes, let her smile warm. "They say you possessed secrets worth a king’s ransom during the siege."

His chest puffed the way a rooster’s might at sunrise. "A prince’s, at least," he corrected proudly. "I saw to certain documents on the eve of battle. Orders, you see. Direct from His Highness."

Her brow arched, delicate, curious. Beneath her calm she marked every twitch of his lips, every flicker in his eyes. Lyan had taught her—truth shines in the edges of a lie. "Orders? How thrilling. Might a curious girl ask what kind?"

The corridor’s torchlight caught the faint tremble in Hallen’s nostrils. He breathed too quickly. Guilty. His gaze slid left toward a clutch of inebriated knights, then right toward the servants’ passage. "Merely clerical," he muttered. "Strategic placement of supply wagons. Routine."

She leaned closer, letting the languid scent of her perfume—jasmine layered over soft amber—wrap around him like mist. He swallowed. Her stomach fluttered with nerves, but her face remained serenely amused. "Secrets," she murmured, "are dangerous toys, Lord Hallen. Play too hard, and they break."

His bravado faltered. Belle glimpsed sweat gathering at his temple despite the cool corridor. The moment hung, one heartbeat, two. She considered pressing harder—she could break him now, maybe—but something inside warned against it. Don’t spook him. Draw the fish to deeper water before hauling it in. Lyan’s strategy, adjusted for silk and whispers instead of steel.

Color drained from Hallen’s cheeks. "Excuse me—I promised to fetch more wine." He stepped back, boots clicking too quickly, as if afraid to hear his secrets repeated aloud.

Belle watched him retreat, her smile softening into something less mocking, more thoughtful. She knew the power of kindness and cruelty; tonight she’d borrowed both, but only one mattered. She breathed deep and reminded herself she wore Lyan’s trust around her shoulders, invisible but heavier than any cloak.

Her smile vanished. She followed at a languid pace, weaving through swirling skirts and swaying plume-topped helmets. She noticed how the gold leaf on the ceiling peeled, revealing wood scarred by fire, a stark reminder that Lisban’s elegance was only skin deep after the siege. Voices around her blurred—laughter like cracked glass, music lilting in minor keys just off true pitch.

A balcony opened to the night, its iron rail bent where a catapult stone had struck weeks earlier. Cool rain mist cooled Belle’s cheeks, dampening the silk at her collar. She rested a gloved hand on the rail, surveying the courtyard below.

Lord Hallen skulked near an archway, shoulders hunched despite his finery. What had seemed oiled confidence a moment ago now looked like grease on a trembling hinge. Moonlight, pale and watchful, illuminated the scene: Hallen drew a sealed envelope from inside his doublet—cream parchment, black ribbon, crimson wax.

A figure slipped from the shadows to meet him. Belle’s breath caught. The newcomer was tall, wrapped in a deep gray cloak stitched with thread that dulled even moonshine. A silver half-mask obscured all but the curve of a sharp jaw. At her throat lay a brooch: a crimson serpent devouring its tail, the metal so dark it appeared to drink light. Even from above Belle felt the chill of that symbol, like icy fingers sliding down her nape.

Hallen dropped the letter into the figure’s waiting palm—no flourish, all fear. Belle noted the way the woman’s gloved fingers closed, quick and sure, before disappearing the scroll beneath her cloak. Not a nod, not a word. Efficient. Professional. Dangerous.

The masked woman turned her head ever so slightly; Belle sensed more than saw the hidden eyes sweeping the courtyard, searching for watchers. Belle held perfectly still, the spiked iron railing biting her palms, and prayed the emerald silk melted well enough into rainy dark. After a heartbeat that felt like a minute, the masked courier melted back into shadow. Hallen stood alone, wiping his forehead with a lace kerchief, then scurried across the courtyard toward the wine cellar. Coward, Belle thought, though pity tugged. Some fish begged the net to spare them.

She released the rail. Rain cooled her lungs, but the night air now tasted of iron. She let the guilt surface—Lyan would not enjoy her flirting so close to trespass. Yet her vow pulsed stronger: For him, for our cause. She would not fail.

She straightened, folding hands over her stomach to still their tremor. She repeated the facts in her mind so none slipped: silver half-mask, serpent brooch, letter sealed in black ribbon, Hallen as courier. By the time she stepped away from the rail, her heartbeat had steadied into a purposeful drum.

She returned through the corridor’s swirl, but now the background faded: laughter blurred, perfume soured. Every breath counted down to when she could put the knowledge in Lyan’s hands. She kept her pace regal yet urgent. One lord attempted to block her path with a sloppy bow; she offered a single word—"Later"—and he vanished like smoke. Her skirt hem brushed shattered mosaic tiles; the color of rusted blood wove with emerald silk.

At the war room door she paused, smoothing damp hair, schooling her face into polite composure. She inhaled. Lyan must see certainty, not doubt. She pushed the door open.

He stood bent over ledgers, candle near his elbow highlighting silver in damp strands of hair. His focus was so deep he did not look up until her breath stirred the flame. Belle’s steps clicked softly across the flagstones.

"We have a whisperer," she said, voice stripped of coquetry, all the velvet replaced by tempered steel. "And she wears a serpent’s smile."

_____

In the manor’s quiet north wing Josephine worked a bronze lock with her dagger’s tip, the keen edge whispering as it teased hidden tumblers. She angled the blade, felt the minute give of brass, and breathed in—steady, silent—counting the heartbeat-long pause that always came before success. One deft twist, a soft metallic sigh, and the latch yielded beneath her gloved fingers. She eased the door inward, letting the weight of old oak pull it closed behind her until it kissed the frame with a patient click.

The bedchamber smelled of rose oil and damp stone—perfume hastily splashed over neglect. Moonlight seeped past velvet drapes, sketching silver lines across tapestries woven with huntsmen and hounds. Here and there the thread had frayed, testimony to years of moths and the recent siege, yet the colors still glimmered: deep wine reds, forest greens, a glint of gold in a stag’s eye. Josephine’s own emerald eyes adjusted quickly; she loved how moonlit rooms seemed carved in shades of dream. But dreams could kill—she reminded herself of Lyan’s warning, of Belle’s whispered report about a serpent-brooched courier.

Her boots made no sound on the carpet runner. She reached a heavy dresser of carved walnut—its drawers slightly ajar, like lips confessing secrets. A half-open one sagged in the middle, beckoning. Josephine slipped a thin wooden wedge from her belt and propped the drawer quietly so it wouldn’t groan. Papers lay in careless stacks: letters of affection from bored ladies, their wax seals pressed with hearts and cupids; trade tallies documenting dates, coin sums, and spices; gilt-edged invitations to teas postponed by war. She sifted with gloved efficiency, keeping the backs of her fingers to the parchment to feel any hidden thickness—micro-scrolls sometimes tucked between glued pages.

Read lat𝙚st chapters at fre(𝒆)novelkiss.com Only