Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 470: Whispers Beneath the Silk (2)

The passage behind the dais was narrow, lined with storage chests that still smelled of cedar and spilled powder. Hallen shuffled ahead, and Belle noticed anew how his boots didn’t match—one polished to a mirror, the other scuffed at the toe, as if he’d dressed in panic. A splash of spilled wine marked the flagstones where his cup had sloshed; trembling hands? She filed the clue.

At the turn, lanternlight flared across a figure stepping from gloom: a woman taller than Belle by a head, shoulders clad in dove-grey velvet that caught the glow like soft moonlight. A silver mask shielded her face, its edges hammered to delicate filigree, but the eyes behind were sharp dark coals. A serpent brooch, twin to the fragment Josephine held, pinned her cloak.

Belle halted in shadow, breath feathering against the wall-hangings. Her pulse drummed in her ears. Even from here she read Hallen’s fear—his knees nearly buckled as the woman inclined her head.

"Have you done as commanded?" The masked voice was smooth, cultured, but it carried a chill. Hallen fumbled in his doublet and produced a scroll, his hand shaking so badly the parchment rattled.

"Th-this holds the latest dispositions, madam," he whispered. "Direct from the quartermaster." His gaze darted, seeking an exit.

The silver mask tilted. "You tremble, my lord. Should I find that concerning?" A fingertip glinted with a slim silver claw; it stroked the scroll once as if testing its weight. "You know the cost of error."

Belle’s nails bit her palm. She noted every detail: the woman’s height, the way her cloak fell to hide sword reach, the slight Varzadian accent smoothed by schooling. She memorized the cadence.

The masked woman leaned in, perhaps whispering threat or promise. Hallen’s shoulders hunched smaller; nods bobbed his head. Then, with a swirl of grey velvet, she drifted down a side corridor and vanished, her steps noiseless.

Belle exhaled slowly. She touched a hidden clasp at her wrist—signal sent.

Up on the balcony Josephine had gone utterly still, her lazy pose forgotten. The letter no longer spun; she held it like a dagger hilt. When the silver mask turned out of sight, Josephine’s emerald eyes flicked to Belle. Belle lifted her chin barely. Josephine answered with a small nod—confirmation received.

In a single graceful motion Josephine swung her legs over the rail and dropped to the servants’ stair landing, skirts barely rustling. Soft boots touched stone; she was a shadow.

Belle withdrew into the deeper alcove, watching Hallen sag against a pillar, mopping his brow. For a heartbeat pity pricked her—his terror was real. Then she reminded herself terror could not excuse treason. She turned, blending with a pair of chatter­ing courtiers, letting silk and laughter swallow her.

Josephine meanwhile slipped through a side door unseen, landing in a corridor lined with cold torches. The air here smelled of aged wood and old battles—herbs burned after plague years, dust of plaster bombards. She moved cat-quiet, one hand sliding to the hilt of her slim dagger—not to attack, but to feel the sure weight of steel.

Ahead, the silver cloak rounded a corner that led to the library wing—quiet, seldom patrolled. Josephine’s stride lengthened. She timed her breaths, three per step, just as old thief-master Garel had drilled into her ribs. The masked woman’s footsteps were nearly silent, but not to Josephine; she heard the whisper of velvet brushing stone, caught the faint chime of a chain.

They passed a stained-glass window where moonlight painted fractured ruby and sapphire across the floor. For a heartbeat Josephine’s quarry paused, head turning as though she sensed being followed. Josephine melted into the void of a column’s shadow, heart drumming so hard it ruffled the letter ribbon in her fist. The masked head tilted, listening. Then she moved on.

Josephine expelled breath through pursed lips, felt the tremble ease out of her muscles, and resumed her pursuit—just a little closer now, just enough to memorize the pattern of the woman’s steps, the sway that might hint where hidden blades rested.

In her mind a map unfurled: three turns more and they’d reach the servants’ stair that plunged to the wine cellars and from there to the postern gate. Josephine quickened. If the woman slipped outside it would be harder to track magic in damp fog. She pressed her free palm to the wall, willing the rough limestone to lend her stillness.

Two turns left. One. Silver cloak brushed the newel post. Josephine gathered her skirts—

A soft cough echoed from below. A footman carrying a basket of empty goblets emerged, lantern swinging. Startled, he saw Josephine, nearly bowed, then saw the silver cloak. Eyes widened like saucers. The masked woman froze.

Josephine’s mind raced: reveal herself or stay hidden? The footman’s surprise might alert the woman anyway. She chose speed. With a gracious smile she stepped from shadow, addressing the footman by name—yes, she remembered his cousin served in Ravia’s squad—and asked him please fetch more citron water for the baroness upstairs. The young man bobbed, turned, and retreated, leaving his lantern’s glow bobbing down the opposite hall.

Crimson tension faded from the silver mask’s shoulders. The woman resumed downward. Josephine followed once more, her pulse steady now, lips curling into a hunter’s smile.

Josephine slipped away, her soft boots silent on the servants’ stairs, trailing the silver mask deeper into shadow.

_____

Down in the manor’s bowels the air was colder than any night wind. Damp stone walls pressed close, beaded with moisture that trickled in hair-thin lines until it dropped—plink, plink—into puddles on the uneven floor. The cellar smelled of wet straw, rusted iron, and the faint sourness of old wine seeped from shattered barrels. In the lone lantern’s reach swam dust motes as thick as mid-summer gnats, swirling each time someone exhaled.

The lantern itself—an iron frame with cracked mica panes—hung from a chain sunk into a ceiling beam black with age. Its tiny flame quivered whenever the draft wormed through gaps in the stairs, and every flutter threw new shapes across the walls: sword-length shadows of Ravia’s braid, a spider-leg dance of Xena’s poised dagger, the hunched silhouette of the prisoner bound to a heavy oak chair that had once been a steward’s throne and now served darker purpose.

The Varzadian spy—pale, fever-sheened, and stripped to the waist—shivered beneath those flickering shapes. Sweat glued lank hair to his forehead. Over his sternum a rune had been carved not with ink but with something that seemed to devour light—charcoal-black at the edges, ember-red at the core, pulsing faintly like the last coal in a hearth. Each pulse sent a tremor through the man’s ribs.

Ravia crouched before him, her knee resting on the damp flagstones, voice flowing low and warm—almost tender, at odds with the steel glint in her dark eyes. "Breathe slowly," she coached, as if soothing a frightened colt. "Every answer cools your blood; every lie fans that brand." She tilted her head, letting the lantern catch the thick braid that fell past her shoulder. Copper sparks flickered in the black strands. "Tell me who guides the Ashborn and the pain stops."

The spy’s lips peeled back. "Pain?" He laughed—a rasping cough wrapped in mirthless humor. "Ash... ash is proof of fire. Fire purifies."

Xena stood behind him, one boot braced on the chair rung, twirling a slim dagger by its blood-gutter. The blade caught the lantern’s light and scattered it in jittery flakes against the wall. "Tell us something useful," she purred, letting the dagger’s tip trace idle circles over the armrest inches from his wrist, "and maybe I keep your tongue attached."

The man’s gaze flicked to the circling steel, then to Ravia’s steady eyes. Vapors of his breath wreathed his words as he murmured, "The Ashborn will rise. Even the dead will march." He smiled as if at some glorious vision. The rune over his heart answered with a brighter gleam, and sweat beaded anew on his collarbones.

Ravia’s expression did not change, but her fingers tapped once on her knee—a silent code Xena understood: he felt the rune flare. Pain could still cut through his devotion. Good. She pressed gently, "Who promised the rise? Give me the name behind the mask."

For an instant his fever-glazed stare seemed to clear, as though a clerestory window had swung open in a smoky hall. "A serpent in silver," he whispered, voice suddenly small. "They speak through mask and mirror. But their true master—" His eyes drifted upward, pupils dilating, fixing on some invisible pedestal above the lantern chain. "An Emperor of Death. He wears night for a cloak."

(Delusions or prophecy,) murmured Hestia inside Ravia’s mind, cool and clinical.

The spy’s focus snapped back, and across his chest the rune pulsed again, brighter, angrier, warning of curses coiled inside his flesh.

Bootsteps creaked on the narrow stairs. Each step seemed to hammer an echo into the beam overhead. Xena straightened, flipping her dagger into a backhand grip. Ravia rose fluidly, stepping aside just as Lyan’s tall figure filled the arched entry.

He descended the last tread, cloak brushing stone, and the temperature in the room felt as if it dipped another degree. Sooty shadows stretched away from him until he reached the lantern glow; then sunset strands in his damp hair picked up the light, and his gray eyes took it in and gave back nothing.

His presence bent the air—and the prisoner felt it. The Varzadian’s bravado flickered. Shoulders drew inward as if trying to hide the glowing brand that betrayed him.

Lyan stopped at sword’s length. His gaze traveled once from the rune to the man’s shackled ankles to the sweat glazing every breath. "Who is your mole?" he asked, voice soft enough to barely disturb the flame. "Which court hand pours ink for Varzadia?"

The spy swallowed. For a heartbeat his lips twitched, as though the truth fought free. But fanatic fervor still clung like cobwebs. "A noble of your court," he said, yet the arrogance had drained from the claim. "They think they’re clever... think the serpent gives wisdom." His eyes flicked towards Ravia, then Xena, lingering a half-second on the dagger as if considering mercy.

Then the brand erupted.

Scarlet light surged, bathing his torso in a hellish bloom. Veins stood black against skin; smoke hissed from the wound. His back arched, wooden chair legs skidding with a shriek. The scream that ripped from his throat sounded not like fear but like metal dragged across slate—high, tearing.

Xena lunged to sever the curse, dagger aimed for the rune’s center, but light flared too hot. A blast of heated air slapped her hand aside. Ravia reached for the man’s shoulders to steady him, yet the heat forced her back. The stench of burning flesh poured out, mingled with acrid incense—brimstone? No, alchemical sulfur baked into the sigil itself.

The spy sagged, every muscle unclenching at once. Smoke coiled from the wound, from his open mouth, curling in lazy ribbons up towards the chained lantern. The brand faded to dull black, edges cracked like spent charcoal. His eyes stared glassy at nothing.

Xena swore in a language learned on pirate decks, kicking the chair so hard it thudded into the stone wall. "Failsafe curse," she spat. "They leashed his heart to that mark."

Ravia pressed two fingers to the spy’s neck, felt only cooling skin. She wiped her fingers on her trousers, disgust and pity tangled together. "He was our map," she whispered.

Lyan’s jaw knotted; the muscles stood out sharp beneath the lantern’s trembling flare. He inhaled—a slow, deliberate draw that seemed to pull the smoke, the stench, the fury of missed answers into his chest. When he spoke, the words scraped like flint. "No matter. He left us one arrow pointing—noble, court-born. That’s enough."

Xena sheathed her dagger with a click. "Enough for what? We lost the name."

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