Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 478: The Fog of Deception (2)

Hundreds of miles away, warm golden light cascaded from Lisban’s chandeliers, shattering across marble like rain of molten coin. Musicians coaxed a sprightly reel from viols, yet the tune floated above the hall rather than filling it—light enough that secrets could slip beneath the notes unheard. Belle threaded through clusters of nobility with the unconscious grace of smoke around columns. Each step made her emerald gown shimmer, and every shimmer drew an eye she did not appear to notice.

A laughing viscount tried to snare her hand; she let her fingers brush his sleeve, offered a sympathetic tilt of her head, then steered him talking about the scarcity of linseed oil for winter lanterns. By the time she left, he looked thoughtfully concerned rather than flustered with flirtation. Across the hall, a trio of ladies paused mid-gossip as Belle arrived, their fans fluttering like startled swallows. She leaned close, the candlelight catching sparks in her silver hair, and whispered of empty granaries in the north, of patrols stretched so thin local barons had begun hiring hedge-knights. Before the women could decide if the tale was scandal or tragedy, she had drifted onward, leaving worry to percolate.

Lord Hallen nursed wine by an alcove, sweating despite the cool hall. Belle circled him once, as though purely by accident, letting him overhear half-sentences about "Prince Erich’s thin lines" and "Varzadian cavalry sightings near the Snowridge Gap." His face paled shade by shade, as if an artist washed it with white pigment in slow strokes. When she finally brushed past him, her shoulder warm against his, she murmured, "But I’m sure the Prince’s strategy is sound. He wouldn’t leave us exposed." Her breath tickled the rim of his ear. "Not against... such a cunning enemy."

The goblet nearly slipped from his fingers. He set it on a marble plinth so quickly crimson splashed onto the base of a sculpted cherub. "This can’t be," he whispered, tugging at his collar as though it choked him. A bead of sweat trailed into the lace. He pushed away from the crowd, searching for allies—any ear that would confirm or deny. Belle watched him over the rim of her crystal glass, expression serene. Inside, she felt the subtle click of a snare closing.

On the balcony Josephine reclined as though boredom afflicted her, twirling a pearl-tipped hairpin between fingers. In truth her eyes tracked Hallen’s flight with a hunter’s stillness. She noted which lord he cornered—Count Solbrecht, gray-bearded, renowned for back-room dealings. She noted how Hallen’s lips moved too fast, how Solbrecht’s bushy brows rose then knit. Judging by the count’s sharp inhale, Hallen had dumped the whole frightening rumor in a single rush. Josephine’s satisfied smile crept slow, like ink through parchment. "Our rat is moving..." she breathed, and tucked the pin behind her ear—their signal to Belle below that the second contact was made.

_____

Lanterns sputtered in the war-room, their flames drawing long amber tongues across time-smoothed rafters and making every oil-stain on the plaster walls ooze like sap. A low wind slipped in through the arrow-slits, teasing the flames sideways so the light breathed—bright, dim, bright—giving the illusion the room itself was alive and restless. Beneath that wavering glow, maps sprawled over the main table in disheveled layers: crisp courier ledgers, frayed route charts annotated in three different inks, charcoal sketches of forest contours Wilhelmina had drafted in the dead hours after midnight. Pinpricks of sealing wax held the paper edges, but the corners still curled toward the heat as if seeking comfort. The heavy scent of melted tallow mixed with the sharper tang of iron filings from spear repairs earlier, and the combined odour clung to throats, making speech feel thick.

Lyan stood at the table’s head, perfectly still—an unmoving mast while sails slapped and ropes rattled around him. His cloak, half dried from that morning’s fog, smelled faintly of pine resin. A tendon in his jaw ticked whenever a lantern guttered too low, but otherwise he might have been carved from basalt. When he finally spoke, it was scarcely louder than the crackle of the wicks.

"Alicia?"

The petite mage knelt barefoot on a bear-skin rug, the pelt’s cream fur a stark halo around her small frame. Beside her, an inkwell trembled with each pulse of magic she coaxed through her fingers. Blue sigils blossomed at her fingertips, flowing into interlocking polygons that intersected, branched, curled again—an arcane cartographer mapping roads no ordinary eye could follow. Each fresh line made the parchment shiver, yet the old vellum somehow held, refusing to tear despite the power roiling over it. Alicia’s lips moved in a whisper too soft to catch, shaping stabilizing mantras between breaths.

"The arc stays stable," she breathed at last, voice soft but certain. Tiny sparks leapt from nail to nail before winking out. "If a diviner skims the astral sea they’ll feel only a cross-current of their own wake. Our thread is thinner than spider-silk."

Lyan inclined his head once, approval without flourish. His gaze slid to the wall where a copper sandglass rested in its cradle. Only a single finger-width of grains remained in the upper bulb, slipping through the throat at a lazy, almost provocative pace. "Scouts deliver in perhaps two hours," he said. "We strike two hours after that." The certainty in his voice rang like metal struck true.

Wilhelmina drifted closer, quill tapping map margins in a syncopated rhythm: dot-dot-dash, dot... dot-dot-dash. It was her thinking cadence; those who served under her knew never to interrupt until the taps ceased. She bent low, pink hair sliding forward in a silky curtain while her eyes ran swift calculations. "If Varzadia’s vanguard pushes hard—fresh mounts, minimal baggage—they will manage nine leagues by dusk." She nicked the tip of the quill through the air to mark spots on a charcoal ridge line. "Earliest detachments could appear here, here, or here. Xena’s archers tier the slopes. The second plateau is narrow: one flaming cart there, and their cavalry bottle-necks."

Josephine swept in through the north door with the perfume of night jasmine still clinging to her cloak; she’d come straight from the noble corridors without pausing to change. Fabric swished like tidewater against the stone as she approached and tossed a scarlet ribbon-tied scroll onto the pile. "Belle’s whispers have Hallen chittering," she announced, dimples flashing. "He’s probably galloping for some velvet-draped alcove right now, clutching his poor little heart."

Belle followed a beat later, as though summoned by name, her cheeks rosy from the lantern heat and the adrenaline of deceit. She lowered herself into a chair with the controlled grace of a cat settling on a windowsill. "Nobles are primed like tinderwood," she said, voice honeyed but edged. She rested her elbow on the armrest, palm angled toward the ceiling in an elegant shrug. "One spark and they’ll believe the north collapses tomorrow. Shall I offer that spark?"

"Soon," Lyan replied. A faint smile ghosted across his mouth—here and gone—because he caught the bright glint of anticipation in Belle’s eyes and found it contagious. "Let fear ripen an hour more. When it sours, then pour it out."

The south door banged with a gust of night air, and Ravia stepped through first, boots leaving wet crescents on the plank floor. Xena trailed her, flicking a pine needle off her copper braid. Mud dapples climbed their greaves nearly to the knee. Ravia’s voice was clipped but calm. "Outriders sighted on the west ridge. Six, maybe eight. Light armor. They’re sniffing but haven’t committed."

Xena added, "One carried a dispatch satchel large enough for raven scrolls. If they send birds, we’ll see fires on the ridge within the hour."

Wilhelmina’s lips pressed to a thin line. She pivoted, cloak swirling against her calves. "Then we sharpen their hunger. I’ll add a forged footnote—new outbreak of camp fever, half rations, morale listing." She ducked to the table, scrawling in tight, slanted hand. "Nothing invites carrion-eaters like the stench of sickness."

A lantern hissed; hot wax trickled over the brass lip. Shadows leapt up Wilhelmina’s neck, emphasizing the delicate line where her collar met skin. Lyan’s gaze snagged there longer than prudent. Lilith’s voice purred inside his skull, amused. (Your eyes speak louder than trumpets, commander.)

He drew a silent breath, wetting suddenly dry lips, and forced his focus back to the papers. But he still felt the ghost heat of that glance thrumming through fingertips.

"We maintain pressure," he said, deeper voice covering the moment. "Wilhelmina, adjust the reports. Make the northern host seem weaker still—quills snapped, arrows scarce."

The strategist’s quill paused mid-stroke. A flicker of something—remorse? weariness?—ghosted through her blue eyes. "Lyan... wars twist truths," she breathed. "Even the best of us." Her voice trembled just enough that Belle’s head tilted, concerned. The team fell silent, listening to the crackle of a lantern wick burn down.

Phantom cherry blossoms drifted behind Wilhelmina’s eyes—a memory of Credian gardens before sieges, before ash replaced petals. She blinked them away and stared at the ink pooling on the nib. Lies built walls, but sometimes they built shelters too.

Lyan moved before thought, closing the space between them. With his thumb he brushed the satin curve of her cheek, absorbing the chill that stubbornly clung to her skin. The touch was brief, yet carried the weight of a vow. "We decide the truth, Wilhelmina. The truth that wins." He pitched it for her ears alone, but the vow rippled outward, steadying others who had begun to doubt their deceptions.

She exhaled—slow, deliberate—and the tremor in her shoulders smoothed. The quill danced again, dark strokes cutting, curling, finalizing new falsehoods to shield living hearts. Belle’s mouth curved in subtle approval; Josephine merely arched a brow, amused that steel could be so gentle. Xena nudged Ravia with an elbow, muttering "pay up" under her breath—they’d wagered whether Lyan would eventually touch Wilhelmina’s cheek. Ravia paid with the ghost of a grin. Alicia, still kneeling, allowed herself a small smile, though her fingertips never left the shimmering sigil threads.

Hestia’s level whisper drifted in Lyan’s mind. (Forges burn hottest before steel tempers. Guard her heart, and yours.)

He acknowledged silently, then eased his hand from Wilhelmina’s cheek but let it settle on her shoulder, a quiet anchor. She finished the final stroke, sprinkled sand, waited the requisite breaths, and blew away excess grit. The fresh ink gleamed like still water in a midnight pond.

Outside the arrow-slits, a nightjar trilled, and somewhere along the west ridge a wolf answered—distant yet ominous. The room’s occupants stilled, listening. Varzadia stirred, and nature carried the echo. Timing was now measured by heartbeats as much as glass grains.

Wilhelmina laid her quill aside, fingers brushing the rim of a pewter mug forgotten hours earlier. Steam no longer rose from its contents. She met Lyan’s gaze—a clash of glacier blue and storm gray—and resolve hardened like quenched steel.

Her blue eyes softened, a faint, wistful smile touching her lips. "Then let’s make it one worth winning."

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