Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 471: Whispers Beneath the Silk (3)

"Enough for what? We lost the name."

"Enough for a hunt," Lyan said. He stepped closer to the corpse, studying the charred lines of the rune, the curling smoke. His gaze flicked to the empty space behind the man’s eyes, and something in his own hardened further—as if filing away the image where it would never dull. "We know their creed, their symbol, and their reach. We push that knife back up the arm toward the hand that wields it."

Ravia folded her arms tight, feeling chill seep through leather. "And when the mole feels us closing?"

"Let them," Lyan answered. He turned, cloak whispering over the flagstones, eyes settling briefly—too briefly—on the swell of Ravia’s chest heaving under the heat-fret. He forced his gaze to Xena. "Fear makes people clumsy."

(You look at her like she’s a candle on a long night) Lilith teased inside his mind.

He ignored the purr, focusing on the smoldering rune. A final coil of smoke drifted upward, touched the lantern, and vanished. Somewhere high above, music still floated faintly—a violin phrase trembling like a bird held too tight. Down here the shadows swallowed it.

Lyan’s jaw knotted. "No matter. We have direction—and time runs short."

_____

Alicia adjusted her stance, boots creaking against the battered rug as she leaned closer to the serpent-sealed letter. The faintest tremor travelled from her shoulders into her fingertips, but she steadied herself with a long exhale—slow, measured, the way Master Edevin had taught when she was still more scholar than battlemage. With the next breath she let her mind sink past the scents of the war-room—lamp-oil, ink, smoke from the hearth dying in the corner—and reach for the coppery tang of old magic hidden in wax.

Blue threads of light seeped from beneath her nails as if drawn by hunger. They rose in slender strands, climbed over the wax crest, then split into needle-thin fibers that laced together above the tabletop. From where Wilhelmina sat tallying numbers, it looked like Alicia was stitching stars in mid-air: the glowing points flickered, then settled into a delicate lattice, faint as frost on glass. Each connection buzzed against Alicia’s skin—tiny sparks, like droplets of cold rain sizzling on a forge.

She spoke the binding verse in a tongue few outside the southern towers still remembered. The syllables were harsh—clashes of stone against stone—but her voice kept them soft, almost tender, spinning them into the blue weave. Sweat welled at her hairline, darkening chestnut strands that had slipped from their ribbon. The war-room’s lamplight kissed those stray locks and turned them to smoldering bronze.

The room’s edge blurred, corners wobbling like reflections in restless water. She felt the whole world tilt—then drop away—until only the lattice hung before her eyes. Through that crystalline net she glimpsed somewhere else.

A corridor came first: long, echoing, lined with braziers guttering orange against a stone darker than Lisban’s granite. Black banners rippled overhead, each painted with a serpent coiled round a downward-pointing dagger. Wax pooled beneath already-spent candles along the floor as though sacrificial tallow bled upward instead of down. Hooded figures knelt on one knee, hands clasped in prayer—or perhaps in subservience.

Darkness wrapped around their shoulders, swallowing color, but a single voice cut through the gloom. Masculine, smooth as velvet pulled taut over barbed wire, it carried authority without raising volume. "The fool noble carries our whispers north," he said, disdain curling each syllable. "Varzadia rides to greet them."

As he spoke, Alicia caught the flicker of a coat of arms embroidered on his sleeve: an eagle tearing a rose in its claws, red petals drifting like drops of blood. Her heartbeat stuttered. Her spellweb trembled with it.

"Which noble?" Lyan’s voice reached her—steady, warm, grounding. She had not heard him move, yet now his palm rested firm on her shoulder-blade, anchoring her when the war-room had dissolved from view. The heat of his hand seeped through her cloak, steadying her spiraling sight.

She tried to widen her focus inside the vision, to peel back the darkness and see the speaker’s face, but every attempt made her head pound like mallets on anvils. The lattice dimmed each time she strained, threads fraying at the edges of her reach. She shifted tactics: instead of forcing light into the gloom, she traced the echo of the sigil—its aura left a scorch mark in arcane sight. That she could follow. Please, just let it be clear enough.

Her voice, when it came, sounded distant to her own ears, as if filtered through water. "I can’t see a face... but I see a sigil: an eagle tearing a rose."

The spellweb snapped shut, blue strands zipping back into her fingers. All at once the hall was gone, replaced by the cramped war-room, its shadows pressing like curious onlookers. Alicia staggered, knees folding. She might have crumpled if Lyan’s arm hadn’t slipped around her waist. The sudden closeness made her throb with embarrassed heat; his palm was broad, steadying, calloused just enough that she felt every ridge through thin linen.

Wilhelmina’s quill froze mid-scratch. She looked up from the ledger mountain as though roused from a trance. "House Lysander," she said, voice crisp as ice fracturing. "Their crest shows an eagle devouring a red rose. The senior scribe—Lord Edric Lysander—controls the royal depository seals."

Hearing it spoken aloud ripped the fog from Alicia’s mind. She felt the surge of cold clarity—the same chilling snap that came whenever a lesson’s final puzzle piece clicked into place. A court darling, with keys to the scriptorium. It explained the flawless forgery sigils, the ease with which real orders had been mirrored in false ledgers.

Lyan’s eyes had hardened; that storm-gray glare could make seasoned officers shift their weight. Yet, as Alicia looked up, she caught the flicker of something softer, something disturbingly appreciative, lingering just a fraction too long where perspiration clung to the cloth above her corset’s ribbing. A flash of hunger crossed his gaze before duty slammed the door on it—too late. Her cheeks flared scarlet. Guilt pricked him; color crept up the delicate shell of his ears. He cleared his throat, letting his arm fall away a heartbeat slower than propriety allowed.

Cynthia’s voice sighed inside his mind, silk sliding over steel. (You noticed her curves again. Your restraint frays, my summoner.)

He ignored the jibe, though his pulse hammered. Instead he lifted the serpent-sealed letter and turned toward Wilhelmina. "We know the family now," he said, voice low but carrying. "Lysander has motive: ambition greater than humility. He thinks he’s steering events—but he’s a hawk flown on another man’s glove." frёeweɓηovel_coɱ

Alicia drew a bracing breath, straightened shakily. Her hands tingled from the backlash of closing the weave too abruptly. She reached for her water flask, sipped, feeling the cool trickle down her throat like blue fire turned gentle. Lyan’s residual heat warmed her arm; the contrast made her skin prickle.

She spoke, voice steadier, "The masked speaker called our noble ’fool.’ That means Lysander doesn’t know the full plan. He passes information but never sees the destination." She met Lyan’s eyes, forcing herself not to think about how they’d just scanned her blouse. "We can use that ignorance. Feed him false whispers that look credible. His handlers won’t question—they believe he is already compromised by pride."

Belle perched on the edge of a map cabinet, legs crossed at the ankle. "If Edric’s pride steers him, I can dangle just enough praise to make him eager." Her smile flashed feral and sweet all at once. "He’s long coveted the Prince’s notice. I’ll let slip that the Prince worries over the northern pass, needs fresh ink-copies of troop counts." She flicked a braid of silver hair over her shoulder and winked. "He’ll forge them himself to impress royalty."

Josephine lounged against a pillar, flipping her dagger by its point. "And while he’s busy engraving lies, I’ll lift his keys and plant the serpent copy in the outgoing courier pack." Her grin held all the promise of a midnight storm. "I can mimic his handwriting well enough that even his steward won’t spot the difference."

Wilhelmina was already brushing ledger dust from her sleeves, eyes crackling. Numbers were her battlefield, and she smelled challenge. "Give me the latest quartermaster rolls," she said, snatching parchment from a junior clerk’s timid grip. "I’ll re-balance rations just so—enough spare flour crates to look like a withdrawal north, enough arrow bundles to look thin. The pattern will scream ’northern push’ to anyone reading too fast." She stabbed her quill into the inkwell so hard a droplet spattered the table. "We can hide fifteen thousand spears marching south in those margins."

Xena, resting a hip on the windowsill, tossed her copper hair back. "I’ll tail Lysander’s couriers the moment they leave the manor. If they pass word beyond the walls, I’ll see that word tails back to us." She twirled a lock of hair round a finger—habit when she was restless to move.

Ravia, ever the calm anchor, folded her arms. "We must watch Hallen as well. Panic makes him unpredictable. If he suspects he’s being played, he could run straight to the serpent masks himself."

"We’ll keep him close to wine and compliments," Belle said, teasing a dimple into her cheek. "Nothing soothes a guilty man better than attention."

Lyan listened, measuring each piece. His mind mapped lines on the floor: Belle’s charm to prime Lysander, Josephine’s slight-of-hand to swap orders, Wilhelmina’s forged arithmetic, Alicia’s tracking weave laced through the serpent seal. Ravia and Xena shadowing the courier chain like dual fangs of a wolf. He felt the plan click, gears meshing.

He picked up the letter, studying how candlelight pooled in its wax ridges. The serpent’s tiny eye seemed almost alive, a dot of darkness deeper than ink. "We give them exactly what they expect," he said, voice low so only his companions caught it. "An Astellian army marching north—thin rations, over-extended patrols. Meanwhile, real companies slip through Briar Pass under moonless sky. When Varzadia rides to Mordis Heath, they’ll find only ghosts and empty cook-fires. And we’ll roll down on their flank like thunder from a clear sky."

Alicia’s lips parted—half admiration, half worry. "If their scryers sense the decoy..."

"They’ll dismiss it," Lyan said. "They already believe they own our secrets. Pride will blind them—as pride blinded Lysander."

(And as pride blinds you when a curve steals your focus) Cynthia whispered.

He forced his pulse calm. Duty first. "Wilhelmina," he ordered, lifting his chin.

She answered before he finished. "Two hours." Her quill already scratched figures: forged regimental numbers, false coordinate grids, Lysander’s exact signature flourish—curl left, flick right, a speck of extra ink at the tail. Her handwriting chased across parchment like a swift river negotiating stones.

Lanterns hissed as oil settled. The manor’s old walls groaned as the wind shifted outside, rattling shutters. Somewhere distant, a violin still played, thin and mournful, as if a lone musician sensed the stakes and tried to charm fate itself.

But inside the war-room the rhythm was quills and quickened hearts. Alicia eased into a chair to weave the tracking sigil, blue sparks already gathering around her wrist. Belle stepped out, emerald skirts rustling like stirred leaves, determined to sew rumor with silk thread. Josephine jammed a small brass lock-pick between teeth, ready to raid desks and conscience alike.

And Lyan watched them move, these women who followed him into every shadow. Pride curled in his chest—this time a pride he welcomed—because their brilliance would turn a serpent’s venom back upon the fang that dripped it.

Wilhelmina already scribbled totals. "I’ll need two hours."

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