Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 477: The Fog of Deception (1)

Mist clung to the forest road like ghostly fingers, curling around mud-caked boots and seeping into every seam of damp cloaks. It coiled beneath wagons and rolled over ruts, hiding the puddles that sucked at wheels with sticky squelches. The air tasted of wet bark and iron—half rain, half rusting mail—and each soldier dragged that taste deep into his lungs, exhaling clouds of pale breath that drifted straight into the fog and vanished. Now and again a crow croaked overhead, unseen, its cry riding on the hush like a cracked bell.

The decoy column looked pitiful by design. Helmets were smeared with grime, tabbards sagged from deliberate tears, and most shields hung slanted as if leather straps had snapped weeks ago. A drummer tapped a lethargic thud, thud on a single skin stretched over a frame on the lead cart, more funeral than march. Every few paces a man coughed too loudly or pretended to limp, and the riders flanking the train slowed their horses whenever hooves splashed in mud—anything to sell the image of exhaustion.

Wilhelmina rode just behind the first wagon, and no detail escaped her. The pale dawn light, filtered by mist, gave her long pink hair a muted rose tint and made the silver clasp at her cloak’s throat glimmer like frost. She guided her bay gelding with knees alone, leaning down to adjust a slumping soldier’s gorget. "Tuck the chin, Gunnar," she said, voice firm but subdued so it wouldn’t echo. "You look alert, and alert men don’t flee. Remember, you’re bone-tired." She angled two fingers downward until his shoulders sagged. Satisfied, she clapped his pauldron once. The clap was soft, but intent hammered home.

She moved on, scanning rows of trudging infantry. A young archer kept straightening; she reined beside him, lowering her tone to a mother’s hush. "Think of the longest night you’ve spent without a fire—how your spine ached come morning. Wear that memory on your face." The archer flushed, nodded, and let his eyelids droop half-mast.

Hoofbeats splashed ahead. Ravia and Xena, scouting pair, emerged from the white gloom long enough for Wilhelmina to glimpse them. Their silhouettes were stark: Ravia’s dark braid hung against her back like a taut rope; beside her, Xena’s copper hair flared whenever mist parted, a glinting warning to anything that stalked too close. Even the way their horses stepped—silent, head low—spoke practiced vigilance.

Xena’s hands never quite left her bow. She held it canted across the saddle, fingers ghosting the string as though music hid there. Every so often she lifted her chin and sniffed, a fox testing a breeze for hound scent. When she did, the mist swirled around her like ribbons cut loose.

"They’re here," Ravia’s low voice drifted back, a note carried on damp air. It could have been meant only for Xena, yet Wilhelmina heard, and so did Lyan further ahead. Ravia’s right hand rose from the reins—two fingers curled, two straight. The signal: scouts in sight, keep pace slow.

Xena’s gaze sharpened. Shapes flicked between tree trunks to their right: mottled cloaks slipping from pine to pine, iron treads brushing fallen needles. She counted three, then five. At least one carried a short spear whose point winked briefly when fog thinned. "Varzadian scouts," she muttered, her lips barely moving. Her fingers flexed, longing to loose an arrow, but discipline kept the bow high and silent.

"Good," Ravia answered, her calm as steady as the drumbeat behind them. "Let them tally broken spirits."

Farther back, Josephine let amusement ride her breath. She sat sideways in her saddle as if the world posed for her amusement, emerald eyes weighing every tremor of brush. A squirrel dashed across the road and she smiled—anything skittish today told her the scouts were close enough to hush the forest. "They’re watching... good little mice," she breathed, and beneath the cloak she slid a parcel of parchment from her belt.

The "lost orders" looked authentic—Wilhelmina’s impeccable handwriting, official stamps dulled with ash, edges smudged just enough. Josephine ran her thumb over the wax, then flicked the folded sheet into the wheel-rut puddle. Mud splashed her boot; she only laughed under her breath, letting the wagon’s next rotation bury the evidence halfway. Moments later, one of the shadow figures broke cover, stooped, and snatched the damp sheet before backpedaling into mist. Josephine’s grin widened to a sly crescent. Hook set.

At the column’s point rode Lyan, posture relaxed but mind wound tight like a bowstring. He felt moisture bead on his eyelashes; every blink smeared the gray world thinner. His eyes kept darting—left to stark pine trunks, right to a ravine where last night’s rain had swollen a thin creek. He marked places an arrow could fly, judged the depth of mud should cavalry need to charge. Overhead, ravens flapped once and wheeled away; he counted them without thinking, a habit born of too many ambushes.

(They’re watching you, darling) Lilith purred, her tone velvet and wicked in his skull. (Waiting for a sign of weakness. Such diligent little snakes.)

Lyan did not move, but his jaw ticked. Behind calm eyes, numbers shuffled. Five scouts, maybe seven. Each would carry news back downriver by dusk—unless they already had. Either outcome served. But still... He exhaled through his nose, fogging the iron lip of his helm.

A rumble of hooves behind prompted a glance. Through shifting curtains of vapor he spotted Josephine’s silver hair flash in a practiced arc—the predetermined shimmer signal. The bait had been picked up; the watchers were satisfied. He counted to four—enough for those eyes in the woods to interpret his casual posture as disinterest—and then raised two fingers for the nearby sergeant to see. The man nodded, passing the cue up the line like a whispered prayer: maintain illusion, but ready the call.

Lyan half-turned in the saddle, scanning rear ranks. The decoys played their parts with conviction: one infantryman pretended to stumble and cursed loudly; two wagon drivers argued about a broken axle. All choreographed earlier in Wilhelmina’s meticulous brief. A lesser enemy might think the column minutes from collapse.

(We should bare our fangs soon,) Griselda crackled, lightning in her tone. (Fog’s lifting.)

Patience, he answered inwardly. Timing was blade and shield both.

Ahead, a raven landed atop a leaning birch, shook droplets from its feathers, and croaked. Lyan’s gaze fixed on the black bird a heartbeat longer—it was their auxiliary marker, tethered by food to linger along this road. Its sudden call meant more scouts deeper in. Good. Varzadia wasn’t merely nibbling; it planned a bite.

The column continued its drag through muck. Reins squeaked, leather saturated with chill dew. Wilhelmina’s voice drifted occasionally, reminding privates to hunch more, step slower. A playful remark here, a stern correction there—just loud enough for hidden ears. She noticed one man’s armour too clean; she reached down, scooped mud, smeared it across his bracers. "You shine like a temple idol," she muttered. "Blind them with despair, not polish." The soldier blinked, then offered a sheepish grin.

A twig cracked to the west. Xena’s bow twitched up half an inch. Through the shifting veil of gray, she spied a scout crouched, reading Josephine’s discarded orders with a lantern-shaded stone. The Varzadian’s lips moved—counting lines?—then he gestured to a companion who carried a signal horn. They melted deeper into the trees.

Xena suppressed the urge to notch an arrow. Instead she exchanged a glance with Ravia, who eased her sword half an inch in its sheath as silent acknowledgment. Game on.

Josephine, still at the rear, tapped two fingers against her thigh—the coded beat for "prey running." She then lifted her reins and let her horse trot to an outer flank, just another restless outrider to spying eyes. Inside, her heart drummed quick and bright, a rhythm she had ridden too many times but loved each time anew.

Lyan felt the shift ripple through the ranks like electricity under skin. His gloved hand slid to the flute-whistle at his belt—carved bone shaped like a falcon head. One keen note would relay across hidden positions: scouts departed, stage two. But he waited, measuring silence.

(Let them carry it far enough,) Cynthia counseled, voice calm as still water, (so the serpent commits its full weight.)

He tightened on the reins, then relaxed. The horse snorted, steam flaring. He patted its neck, eyes never ceasing their scan. A gust stirred the pine limbs above, sprinkling cold droplets down collars. Somewhere a distant wolf gave a single echoing bark—answering another pack miles away or simply voicing dawn. Either way, nature’s backdrop masked their own subtle signals.

Wilhelmina guided her gelding toward Lyan’s flank. "Column length?" she asked softly.

"Eight hundred paces," he answered. "We shorten once scouts are gone."

"Good." She glanced back, confirming Josephine’s new position, and forward to Ravia’s raised gauntlet silhouette. "We have them."

His eyes flicked to her profile—cheek faintly flushed by wind, mouth set but corners hinting a grin. Despite strategy, weight of command, and creeping cold, desire sparked; he looked away before Lilith could tease him.

The decoy line crested a low rise where two boulders flanked the road—just as maps predicted. Beyond, the path curved south toward a ravine; vantage behind them would now be lost to pursuers. Ideal stage for next act.

He exhaled once, long. "Now they move," he murmured, sensing distance stretch like taut rope. His fingers found the whistle. The carved falcon head was slick with dew. He raised it to lips.

"Sound the falcon call," he ordered, his voice low but clear.

A young rider to his right raised a small silver whistle to his lips, the high, piping call slicing the hush the way a knife parts silk. The note vibrated through the mist, bouncing off trunks and vanishing into the fog like a startled bird. In the same heartbeat, boots that had dragged moments before found new spring; helmets lifted just enough to catch breath; wagon drivers straightened spines, fingers tightening on reins. The performance of despair shifted—so slight an observer might have missed it—into the readiness of wolfish patience.

Lyan’s gloved hand eased away from the whistle at his own belt, the carved falcon head now cool against his thigh. "They move now," he murmured, words lost beneath the creak of leather and the slap of slush beneath hooves. It was not a declaration—more a boundary line between acts. He watched the curtain of gray where the scouts had disappeared, imagining them hurtling south along deer trails, clutching Josephine’s damp orders. The game piece had left the board; soon the whole enemy would shuffle in response.

Inside, the spirits prickled with mingled anticipation and caution.

(Our lure swims free) Arturia observed, her voice like distant horns before dawn.

(And sharks smell blood) Eira countered, colder, measuring.

(Sharks taste delicious when filleted right) Lilith chimed, bright and wicked.

Lyan’s lips twitched, but he kept his focus on the road. "Filleting begins at the ravine," he whispered, though only his horse heard.

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