Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 463: Ink of Betrayal

Wilhelmina’s quill paused mid-notation. She leaned so near that Alicia caught the faint cedar scent of her hair tonic. "Show me ink batches," she murmured, glass catching the eerie light, turning her eyes into twin moons.

Alicia extended her left hand, fingers curling in a sigil that coaxed the mist to thicken. The whorls condensed into a single droplet, hovering like a crystal bead between her thumb and forefinger. She whispered a separating charm; the droplet split. Treated silver in the ink drifted to one half, violet dye to the other, revealing the unique chemistry of royal scriptorium stock. Only scribes sworn to the crown could access such pigment.

"Unique blend," she said, voice barely breaking her trance, "only mixed in the royal scriptorium."

Wilhelmina exhaled through her nose—not a gasp so much as the hiss of figures misaligning in her mental ledgers. "Court access," she stated, as though the words were a minus sign slashing through her accounts.

Alicia’s vision dimmed at the edges. She swallowed, tasting copper. She had been channeling constantly for an hour, but they needed proof, not exhaustion. She reached into the fragile hush inside her chest where Cynthia often lingered. (Steady, little star) Cynthia crooned, warmth blooming across Alicia’s nerves. (Your weave is silk, but silk can cut.)

Alicia blinked the warning away and shifted to the next scroll, mindful to keep the droplet suspended. She rolled the brittle parchment open. The glow burst forth like cold lightning—hidden glyphs curled around margins, weaving illusions so clever they almost sang. Whoever penned these had studied at an arcane academy, or worse, learned from a demon tutor. Her stomach churned.

The door banged open.

She jumped, sigils faltering—the droplet quivered but held. Wilhelmina clucked in mild irritation, catching an inkwell that nearly toppled. Rain-scented air gusted in ahead of Lyan as he strode across the threshold, boots leaving dark prints on the worn carpet. His hair clung to his temples in damp strands, storm water running in thin rivulets down his cloak. Candleflame caught silver in those locks, a fleeting crown that vanished as quickly as it formed.

"Belle and Josephine found a lead," he said, voice gravel-rough from running the courtyard. "A masked woman, serpent brooch. Josephine’s carrying a serpent-sealed letter."

Alicia’s pupils shrank, black discs tightening in a sea of steel gray. She could almost feel the waxen scroll radiating malice through stone walls. "Serpent..." She closed her eyes, pulling on memory of dusty tomes. "The Ashborn cult worships a serpent deity—ancient god of death and rebirth." Her voice shook, not with fear for herself, but for the realm. "If they’ve reached the court—"

Lyan’s gauntleted hand slammed onto the back of a chair, knuckles whitening around carved wood. The chair grated forward an inch—an inaudible scream against oak floors. Rain dripped from his cloak hem, ticking like impatient seconds. "Then it’s worse than I feared."

(Steady yourself) Arturia’s calm presence settled over him like new-forged armor, each syllable a tempered plate sliding into place. (Lead them.)

Alicia sensed the shift—his shoulders straightening, jaw unclenching. He released the chair, stepping closer. Water droplets splashed across the scroll; she hissed and flicked a minor ward to keep the moisture from smearing rune-ink. He flinched an apology with his eyes.

"What did they change?" he asked, voice even but carrying the weight of iron shot.

"Troop assignments, ration counts, supply routes," Wilhelmina answered, her quill darting down tallies as she spoke. "Small line items on each ledger. One crate of arrows missing here, an extra shift posted there. Individually meaningless—collectively enough to tilt a battle if timed."

Alicia added, "And look—illusion runes layered so the numbers can alter again at a whisper." She tapped a glowing glyph; it pulsed, eager to obey any mage tuned to its frequency. "They could erase evidence moments before inspection."

Lyan cursed under his breath, a harsh syllable from an old language he rarely let slip. He paced behind her—two steps forward, stop, pivot. She felt the tail of his cloak brush the back of her boots. His presence, always sizable, seemed to expand until the candle air tasted electric.

(He’s rattling the bars of his own mind) Lilith’s amused lilt seeped into Alicia’s thoughts, silken and wicked. (Help him bite back, sweet mage.)

She colored slightly, grateful for the dimness. "This first ledger is dated nine days before the siege. Whoever forged it had weeks to infiltrate."

Wilhelmina frowned. "The handwriting matches Lord Hallen’s clerk, but style is... cleaner." She passed Alicia a comparison quill stroke. "See the serif? Only scribes taught in the royal chapel school curve the tail that way."

Alicia nodded. "Then it’s someone with holy-court credentials, not a minor aide." Her heartbeat quickened. The chapel school trained scribes for the royal decrees, tax edicts, even execution writs. Such a person could pass anywhere, unquestioned.

Lyan halted his pacing. Rainwater dripped from his glove onto parchment; this time magic sheeted it aside. "We need names. We need proof." His voice dropped, soft but flint-hard. "Wilhelmina, cross these strokes with every royal scribe assigned to Lisban operations. Alicia, flag every ledger with these glyphs. We’ll trace which units moved wrong."

Alicia rubbed a cramp from her knuckles, then flexed her fingers, weaving a stabilizing rune that sank into the pages, fixing the interrogation snapshot so tampering would scream like banshees. She felt mana debt tug at her eyelids. She braced her elbow on the desk. (Breathe) Cynthia urged, soothing coolant through her nerves. (You are the fire that knows its shape.)

She inhaled, the tang of parchment and wax filling her lungs. "I’ll need fresh salts and a clarity draught to keep the weave stable till dawn."

"I’ll wake the apothecary," Wilhelmina promised, already jotting an order slip.

Lyan knelt beside Alicia, surprising her. He touched two fingers to the back of her trembling hand—light contact, yet grounding. For a dizzy instant she felt the big rhythms of the room narrow to the quiet point of that touch: rain on stone, quills scratching, her pulse thrumming under his gloved fingertips.

"Thank you," he said simply.

Heat rose to her cheeks; she prayed the blue sigils masked it. "We’re all tethered to the same rope, my lord. If it frays, we all fall." She pressed a smile she hoped looked confident, not smitten.

He rose, cloak shedding droplets like dark pearls. "Finish the weave. We need every forged line glowing by dawn."

_____

Mildew-sweet air hung thick in the cellar below the estate, the damp chill clawing beneath armor and seeping through cloth. Lantern light skittered across the damp stone walls, casting clawed shadows that twisted with each flicker. The air reeked of old moss and sweat, a staleness that seemed to cling to the throat. Beneath the dim light, the Varzadian spy slumped forward in the high-backed chair, his head rolling like a wilted blossom atop his chest. Ravia’s shadow stretched long, her figure poised but dangerous, arms folded beneath the faint glow of the lantern. Her dark eyes narrowed, a sharp smile flickering at the edge of her lips.

Xena leaned against a moss-slick support beam, her fiery orange hair spilling over her shoulder like molten copper. The delicate needle she twirled between her fingers gleamed, its point sharp enough to part whispers. Her gaze, playful but lethal, rested on the spy’s gaunt face, bruised and bloodied, with dark circles carved beneath his eyes.

The man’s breathing was ragged, each inhale a rasp, each exhale a weak moan. Yet beneath his suffering, a twisted smile persisted, as though some dark truth danced at the edge of his broken lips. His voice, when it came, was a ghost’s whisper. "Lisban is only the first candle... When the Ashborn rise... even the dead will march."

"Still preaching," Xena muttered, a touch of irritation in her voice. Without hesitation, she drove the numbing needle into his exposed forearm. The thin shaft slid through the skin with a practiced ease. His body arched, back contorting, and his mouth opened in a strangled gasp. Red runes scrawled across his chest flared like smoldering brands, then withered to black scars, the magic dying before it could ignite.

Ravia watched him with cool detachment, the same way she might watch a spider struggle in a flame’s edge. She traced the outline of a faintly glowing scroll tucked into her pouch, feeling the warmth seeping through the leather. "You’ll tell more in time," she murmured, almost as a promise.

But even as the man’s head lolled, the spark of defiance in his swollen eyes refused to die.

Footsteps echoed down the narrow stairwell. Heavy, deliberate, each step a promise of command. Lyan appeared in the low doorway, his broad shoulders nearly brushing the frame. His expression was carved from shadow, jaw clenched, the wet hem of his cloak brushing the cold stone. Rainwater dripped from his hair, leaving dark streaks that curved around his sharp cheekbones. His gaze settled first on the spy—assessing, cold—then slid to Ravia and Xena.

Xena withdrew the needle with a twist, wiped it clean, and slipped it into her belt. "Our guest isn’t done preaching doom," she reported, pushing away from the beam. But her voice softened as she saw the tension riding Lyan’s shoulders, the lines of stress tightening his mouth.

Ravia’s gaze was sharper, more searching. She saw the exhaustion clouding his eyes, the stiffness in his movements, how his hand lingered a second too long at the hilt of his glaive before he let it rest against the wall. Without thinking, she stepped forward, her voice dropping to a softer register. "Commander needs a breath?"

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