Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 469: Whispers Beneath the Silk (1)

The war‑room of Lisban’s commandeered manor felt smaller than it had an hour ago, as though the stone walls themselves had crept a hand‑span closer with every new scrap of evidence piled onto the map table. It smelled of lamp‑oil, hot wax, damp wool, and the faint pepper tang of the rain that still drummed against shuttered windows. Every sigh of a wick or creak of a bootlace popped in Lyan’s ears like musket fire. He forced himself to breathe slower, to let his heartbeat settle, yet tension kept thrumming under his skin, hot and restless.

He stood bent over the scarred oak table, shoulders hunched, his gloved finger circling the cold serpent seal still glued to the stolen letter. The wax ridge pressed beneath the edge of his nail, and in the jittering lantern‑light the engraved coils seemed almost alive—one moment smooth, the next rippling as if the serpent might slither free and coil round his wrist. An omen, a childish part of him suggested. He shoved the thought aside, lifting his eyes to the polished curve of a brass candlestick. In that narrow reflection he caught Belle and Josephine stepping through the doorway, candle‑glow picking out the green fire of Belle’s gown and the wicked curve of Josephine’s grin.

Belle’s soft slippers made no sound, yet the emerald satin whispered at each swing of her hips. She paused beside the table, the faint scent of lilac shampoo rising off loose silver hair still damp from mist. Her eyes—clear, appraising—took in Lyan’s clenched jaw before flicking toward the serpent seal.

"We saw her twice, my lord," she began, voice pitched barely above a library hush. Even so, the syllables seemed to echo off beams. "Silver mask, serpent brooch, the same carriage, same braided sash. First in the side garden with Hallen. Tonight—" she tapped the brooch fragment Josephine held—"speaking with a noble in Lysander colors."

While she spoke she smoothed a nonexistent wrinkle across her bodice, fingertips trailing down the gentle rise of silk‑covered flesh. Lyan’s gaze snagged on the motion, heat pricking behind his ears, and he dragged his eyes back to the map before the others noticed. Control, Evocatore. Analyze first, admire later.

Josephine set the broken brooch on the parchment with theatrical care. The shard was no larger than a thumbnail, yet the tiny serpent etched into its silver surface caught each pulse of lantern‑light. "She trades secrets like they’re sweets at Midsummer," Josephine said, tapping the metal. "Hallen almost tripped over his own shoes the moment she looked at him. He’s jumpier than a rabbit on a drum." Her grin flashed bright beneath auburn freckles, but Lyan read the edge in it—Josephine enjoyed the chase, yes, but treason put a taste of iron on her tongue.

A soft hum hovered from the far side of the table. Alicia knelt on the rug, steel‑grey eyes half‑lidded in concentration, one palm suspended over an open ledger. Pale blue runes curled from her fingertips, dripping like liquid light onto the page. Lanterns flickered as her spell drank the air. "These accounts are illusions layered on real ink," she murmured, the arcane syllables threading through her ordinary words. "Strokes beneath strokes. Only a master scribe from the royal scriptorium would dare embed glyphs this fine in bookkeeping columns."

Wilhelmina, hair pinned in a no‑nonsense knot, closed another thick ledger with a decisive thump. Dust‑motes whirled. "And these forged orders shifted three supply lines," she said, tapping coloured pins on the wall‑map. Click—click—click. "One less wagon of arrows here, an extra patrol there. Singularly trivial; collectively lethal. A flank buckles at the exact hour the Varzadians push."

A low hiss escaped between Lyan’s teeth. He straightened, shoulders squaring beneath rain‑damp leather. The lamplight turned the scar across his jaw into a faint white strike. "This isn’t random sabotage," he said. "It’s a courier route straight to Varzadia’s war council. Someone in our court leaks every manoeuvre before our banners even unfurl."

He let his gaze sweep the circle: Belle’s poised calm, Josephine’s eager spark, Alicia’s focused stillness, Wilhelmina’s icy calculation. "We turn their game," he said. "We feed the mole lies—whole caravans of them—and make them beg for more."

Belle’s brow arched, emerald eyes gleaming. "You intend to hand them false orders?"

"Not hand." He lifted the serpent letter between thumb and forefinger, watching wax glint. "Dangle. A fish swims harder when it thinks it’s stolen the bait." He dropped the letter. It smacked the oak like a judge’s gavel. "They’ll rush to warn Varzadia. Varzadia will charge into a killing field we choose, and Astellia ends this war before snow falls."

Across the table Alicia’s spell rippled out and vanished. Sweat trembled on her eyelashes. "I can follow the seal’s residue," she said, breath hitching, "but a sensitive mage at the other end might feel the tug and cut the thread."

Lyan offered her a nod, softening his tone. "We’ll risk exposure. This is our opening, the one chance the gods toss a man in a lifetime." ƒгeewebnovёl_com

(You cling to chance like a lover) Arturia mused inside his skull. (Just be sure she doesn’t bite.)

Josephine planted her palms on the map, leaning forward so her cloak parted and the faint curve of thigh flashed. "I like decisive," she purred. The words rolled off her tongue with reckless delight, but behind them Lyan heard steely promise—Josephine breathed for capers, but she bled for him.

Wilhelmina cleared her throat. "Someone must craft the forgeries." She tapped her quill against a fresh sheet. "That’s ink I can spill."

Belle’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial murmur. "And someone must spread whispers strong enough to lure Hallen back to our hook." Her fingers danced like a puppeteer’s over invisible strings. "I’ll slip them into every ear at court supper."

Alicia pushed to her feet, knees popping. She swayed; Lyan reached to steady her. For an instant his hand rested at her waist, feeling the heat of her through linen. She stiffened—not in protest, but surprise—and colour bloomed high on her cheeks. He released her quickly before the contact betrayed the rush of forbidden warmth that punched his gut. Not the time.

"Thank you," she whispered, eyes darting away. Blue runes still glimmered in her irises, fading.

Wilhelmina angled a knowing glance at Belle, who answered with the slightest smirk. Lyan cleared his throat so hard his ribs ached. "We move tonight," he finished.

Josephine cocked a hip, grin stretching wider. "Now you’re singing my hymn, Commander."

_____

Music and incense drifted through Lisban’s grand hall, washing over velvet curtains and cracked marble like sweet smoke. The air was heavy enough to taste—rose-oil, wine, candle-fat, and a thread of wet stone that crept in each time the wind worried a broken pane high overhead. Belle glided through it all like a swan on twilight water. Every step was measured, not a hair faster than the lazy pulse of the viols, and yet her heart drummed a sharper rhythm beneath her ribcage.

Emerald silk swished at her ankles, catching lamplight so it looked at once like deep forest and fresh-cut gemstone. She greeted a marquess with a nod that was only half a bow, accepted a goblet she would never drink, and let the smile on her mouth dazzle just long enough to distract from the calculation in her eyes. Tonight each glance, each curtsey, carried a weight: a rumor wrapped in velvet, a gentle nudge to steer talk away from the real target and toward the bait.

She paused near a marble column veined with fissures, its once-flawless surface cracked by siege stones. A baroness in raven feathers fanned herself nearby, cheeks pink from too much spiced wine. Belle leaned in, voice feather-soft. "My lady, you must have heard—the prince moves half the western banners to Molt Vale. A bold stroke, wouldn’t you say?" The words fell like petals, light and sweet, but they carried thorns.

The baroness’s fan stilled mid-flutter. Panic pinched the corners of heavily kohl-lined eyes. "Molt Vale? Saints preserve us, that’s the grain route." She grabbed her husband’s sleeve and yanked him into hasty counsel. Belle glided on, satisfied.

At the next knot of lords—fat gold chains on fatter stomachs—she murmured of a daring cavalry raid far to the north. "Imagine," she breathed, letting awe quiver in her tone, "our riders outflanking the Varzadian rearguard while their scouts still count campfires." One lord set down his goblet so hard crimson sloshed over the rim; another stroked his beard with greedy anticipation of glory (or plunder). They never noticed Belle slip away.

Not all faces showed fear. Some flushed with sudden opportunity: markets to corner, debts to call due while soldiers were elsewhere. Belle watched it all—how greed and dread painted the same pallor in lamplight. She catalogued each reaction like beads on a rosary, filing them for Lyan’s later use.

Lord Hallen, collar already dark with sweat, lurked near a tapestry that depicted the founding of Lisban—its hero’s woven sword now frayed and sagging. Hallen’s eyes skittered across the ballroom as though each note of the minstrels’ viols were arrows aimed his way. He dabbed his brow, muttered to a page, but the page had already backed off. When Belle angled toward him, he jerked as if prodded with a poker, then pivoted for the musicians’ alcove behind the dais.

Belle’s lashes lowered, her smile smoothing. She set her untouched goblet on a sideboard—beside a pyramidal arrangement of candied figs—and drifted after him. The silk hem of her gown brushed an officer’s boot; the young man stammered, cheeks turning the color of pomegranate seeds. She gave him a smile warm enough to melt butter, a silent promise she never meant to keep, and moved on.

High above, candlelight flickered across the balcony rail. Josephine leaned there, one elbow propped, the other hand twirling the serpent-sealed letter by its black ribbon. She looked like a lady idling between dances, lazy half-smile, free curls falling against a freckled shoulder. Only her eyes betrayed her—they never left Hallen.

Below, Belle slipped among musicians packing pipes with resin, sidestepped a cymbal boy adjusting straps, and pretended to sniff the air like someone in search of fresher breeze. Through an arch half-hidden by velvet, she caught sight of Hallen’s back: shoulders hunched, fingers worrying the pomander charm at his belt. He vanished behind a crimson drape.

Belle counted to five—long, unhurried breaths—then passed through after him.

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