Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 462: Velvet and Steel

Her pulse stayed slow; she had robbed dukes and diplomats under brighter chandeliers. Yet the hush of this house felt different: too still, as if the very walls strained to hear her. One breath, two—then her fingers brushed silk ribbon, rougher than the others, slicked with wax. She eased up a fist-sized scroll tied in black. The knot was sealed with crimson wax deep as coagulated blood, bearing a serpent coiled around a ragged banner. Not the gilded cobra of royal heraldry—this creature was ragged, fangs sunk into its own tail, stylized flames licking the edges. Ashborn. The sigil burned against her retina like a coal.

For a heartbeat she worried the wax might hold a rune—an explosive trigger, perhaps—but the seal felt cold and inert. Still, she didn’t dare break it. Instead she slipped the scroll into the inner lining of her leather corset, fastening a tiny clasp so it wouldn’t jar free. The parchment lay warm against her skin, a secret heartbeat.

Boots sounded in the hall—measured, purposeful, neither servant nor drunkard. Josephine’s body reacted before thought: she nudged the drawer closed, glided to the window drapes, and melted behind them. Velvet swallowed her; cold stone met her back. She exhaled through parted lips to muffle the sound, counting silently. One... two...

The latch turned. Through a fraying seam in the curtain she saw the door inch open. Lamplight from the corridor lanced across the floorboards, and a slender silhouette entered. A cloak of charcoal gray, heavy but cut to flatter, brushed the threshold. As the newcomer stepped inside, the sleeve caught moonlight—a shimmer of silver filigree at the cuff. Then Josephine’s breath snagged: a half-mask of polished silver framed the woman’s eyes, catching that sliver of light like a slashed star. The crimson serpent brooch at her throat gleamed as if wet.

A whiff of scent—night-blooming tuberose, edged with iron—reached Josephine. She took it in, catalogued it. Rare, expensive, imported from the southern isles. A woman of means and meticulous taste. The masked visitor moved straight to the dresser, pulling drawers with impatient snaps. Papers fluttered. Quills rolled off surfaces and clattered to the floor, the noise almost loud enough to rattle Josephine’s teeth.

The woman’s movements were crisp, practiced—thumb sweeping corners, fingers measuring thickness of letters exactly as Josephine had moments ago. An operative, not a nervous noble lady. Josephine felt a bead of sweat slip down her spine. If the courier sensed her, a blade would likely replace that graceful hand. freёweɓnovel_com

The search grew sharper. Empty fingers scraped wood where Josephine had taken the scroll. The masked woman paused, shoulders rising with a slow inhale. A soft curse slipped past the mask—unfamiliar tongue, consonants clipped. She shut the drawer harder than before, the dull thud echoing off tapestry.

Josephine’s left fist tightened around the dagger hidden in her sleeve. She edged it free by a hair’s width, in case the intruder chose to sweep the drapes. One cry now would bring guards, but Lyan had ordered secrecy. And if the guards came, the courier might vanish in the chaos, taking her secrets with her—or worse, unleash a glyph bomb before capture.

Moonlight outlined the courier’s profile. A scar followed the jawline, thin and pale against dark skin—old, perhaps blade-earned. The mask hid her eyes, yet Josephine sensed calculation. After rifling the desk, the woman moved to a wardrobe, flinging doors. Silk gowns swung like silent witnesses. She slid hands into pockets, checked hems—looking for that same scroll. Not finding it, she hissed like a kettle removed from coals. Her cloak swished as she turned, sweeping scanning gazes over the room.

Josephine held her breath until lungs burned. She forced her heartbeat slow, willed her body to become tapestry and stone. The courier’s gaze passed over the drapes, lingered a fraction too long. Josephine counted beats behind her ribs—one, two, three—fingers flexed on dagger hilt. But a faint clamour of revelers drifted from the distant banquet hall—laughter flaring, a glass shattering—and the courier seemed to decide time was thin.

The masked woman glided to the door, paused as if etching the sight of the chamber into memory, then slipped out. The click of the latch felt like thunder after such silence.

Josephine did not move. She listened to the receding steps—measured, still purposeful, turning a corner and fading. Only then did she dare exhale fully. Her pulse raced in her ears like galloping hooves. Lyan would tease her later—she loved the thrill—but this felt like clutching lightning. She pressed the scroll tighter against her heart, the wax seal biting through leather.

The hush returned, heavier now, as if the room exhaled with her. She eased from behind the drapes, dagger still in hand. A quick check: the wardrobe gaped open, letters scattered. Nothing else of value, and lingering risked discovery.

She knelt, retrieving a fallen quill, setting it on the desk—habit from childhood thievery: leave a scene no worse than found. It struck her that the masked woman had not bothered with such courtesy.

Josephine pushed the drawer she’d emptied fully closed, hearing the soft thump. She tugged her gloves to ensure no prints, adjusted the hood over her ash-brown hair, and crossed to the door. Ear to wood—hallway empty. She cracked it open, eyes darting both directions. No step, no voice. Like a phantom, she slipped into the corridor.

Torches flickered, their smoke curling. She padded on carpet runners, every sense sharpened by the thrill of the find. The scroll’s weight seemed to pulse with each stride—evidence of conspiracy, perhaps the map to Ashborn command. She wondered fleetingly what the cipher might reveal: troop betrayals, ritual sites, names of those already claimed by the serpent deity? She tamped down curiosity; Wilhelmina and Alicia would unseal it with wards, safe from hidden curses.

Bootsteps echoed from a stairwell ahead—guards, casual. Josephine pivoted through a servants’ door instead, descending a narrow back stair. She could navigate these mazes blindfolded; the staff used them to ferry chamber pots unnoticed. Down one flight, across a dusty linen storeroom, then up again into a dim corridor where a single candle guttered in a niche. Shadows leapt like startled animals.

She pressed her back to stone and listened. Nothing but the hush of cold draft weaving past arrow-slit windows. She allowed herself a small smile. Such dances kept her sharp; Xena would claim it was danger she loved, but Josephine knew better. She loved outwitting those who thought riches and titles equaled cunning.

Her thoughts darted briefly to Belle, probably flirting her way through throngs, and to Lyan, brow furrowed over ledgers. She wondered if he missed their banter yet—she’d tease him later about how quiet war rooms became when she ghosted away.

Reaching the grand hallway, she adopted the unhurried stroll of a lady returning from powdering her nose. A pair of knights bowed without suspicion; one even blushed when she flashed a brief grin. She angled toward the war room. Candlelight spilled under the door. Voices—low, urgent—sloshed like wine behind wood.

Josephine paused, palm over the hidden scroll. This single scrap might shift the night’s balance. She adjusted her bodice to ensure it remained secure, then slid the dagger fully back into its sheath. Her breathing slowed; composure slid on like gloves.

She would give the scroll to Lyan and Wilhelmina, watch Alicia’s sigils bloom over it, reveal the serpent’s secrets. And if the silver-masked courier dared return—Josephine’s fingers brushed the dagger—there would be a reckoning cloaked in velvet and steel.

Heart still hammering with something akin to exhilaration, she lifted the latch and stepped inside.

Josephine gripped her hidden dagger. One cry would bring guards, but she waited, breathing slow. At last the woman hissed and left, cloak swishing. Josephine stayed motionless until the hallway fell silent, then slipped out, heart hammering. She padded back toward the war room, every sense sharpened by the thrill of the find.

_____

Blue sigils flickered like cold fire over the ledgers stacked knee-high on the war-room floor, illuminating dust motes that swirled in lazy galaxies each time Alicia inhaled. She knelt on a frayed carpet runner, posture straight despite the numbness creeping into her calves, silver‐threaded cloak pooling around her like liquid moonlight. Sweat darkened the edge of her braid; even seasoned mages found it taxing to keep a weave this delicate extended for so long. Still, she held her palms a breath above parchment, fingers spread, letting raw mana gather between them.

Mist—thin, luminous, tinged faint blue—rose from the inked pages in gentle spirals. Each ledger line sheathed itself in ghostly light, then guttered out as the detection spell judged it untainted. Page after page whispered clean. Two whole volumes passed beneath her scrutiny, numbers flickering, then going dark. Part of her hoped she would find nothing; if every ledger glowed innocent, perhaps the treachery Belle and Josephine had uncovered belonged only to a single stray noble, not some cancer festering at Astellia’s heart.

The third ledger opened with a papery sigh, and the sigils flared brighter, licking like blue tongues along column margins. Alicia’s lungs tightened. She steadied her breathing, counted in Draconic numerals—focus, control—then flipped to the first suspect page. There, pinned under the simmering mist, a set of neat numerals hovered luminous, floating an ink’s thickness above the parchment. At first glance the figures read like routine ration counts, but the weave showed their falsity: illusion runes woven into the strokes themselves. Someone had copied lines of true ink over letters written in false light.

She felt a shiver of mingled triumph and dread race along her spine. With care, she traced a counter-glyph—just enough to freeze the glow without unleashing whatever backlash might lurk beneath. Beside her, Wilhelmina bent closer, the flicker of sigils reflecting in the square lenses of her spectacles.

"Someone altered these records," Alicia whispered, voice hushed in reverence for the crime and its discovery. "And they did it with a noble’s hand."

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