Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 479: The Fog of Deception (3)

Mist swirled in slow, deliberate coils, dulling every color to pewter and ash. It muffled hooves, swallowed the clink of mail, and turned breath into drifting ghosts. If someone had stood on the overlook cliffs, they might have seen nothing but a gray sea lapping silently at dark tree trunks. Yet within that sea, Wilhelmina’s quiet orders drew ripples of life.

She moved like a needle through cloth, stitching the column’s ragged façade. Every few paces she paused to kneel beside a soldier and muddy a too-bright breastplate, or tug loose a strap so a shield drooped convincingly. Her hands were brisk, efficient—yet the touch lingered just long enough to calm nerves. One young spearman gulped as she smeared grime across the crest on his helm.

"Lower your chin," she murmured, voice pitched so only he heard. "Think about the time your mother scolded you in front of neighbors—yes, that face. Shame, not fear."

The soldier exhaled, and his posture slumped. Satisfied, she patted his elbow once and flowed on.

A clack sounded as Wilhelmina tapped her writing slate against a wagon wheel—two beats, then one. It was a cue to Josephine farther back: status steady, column ready. Josephine answered with a singsong whistle, quick and light, before turning her attention to Alicia.

Alicia’s fingers fussed with her cloak clasp as though it might suddenly betray her. Close up, one could see her lips tracing silent numbers—she was calculating distances, arrow arcs, the speed of cavalry charges if ambush dissolved into pursuit. The bustle of her mind practically shimmered around her like heat haze.

Josephine eased her mare alongside and bumped Alicia’s shoulder gently. "Breathe through your nose, not your thoughts," she advised. "Or you’ll hyperventilate before the real show."

Alicia managed a brittle laugh. "Easy for you. You look perfectly relaxed."

"That’s because my role is exhausted flirt," Josephine said with mock solemnity. "I perfected it years ago. See—" She tilted her head, letting fiery hair spill over one eye, and sagged in the saddle until she seemed to wilt like a neglected garden rose. Only the quick flick of her eyes, taking in every thicket, betrayed how awake she was. "Convincing?"

Alicia shook her head, a shy smile ghosting her lips despite tension. "Convincing and infuriating."

"Good. If scouts hate us, they’ll underestimate us." Josephine’s fingers drifted to the scroll concealed in her sleeve. She felt its weight the way some feel a dagger: a promise poised to strike once released.

Up front, the road funneled into a narrow throat where ancient oaks leaned inward, their branches knitting a canopy that dripped cold beads onto travelers below. Ravia and Xena slipped among those trunks like ink through parchment fibers. Every step was plotted: heel to moss, weight to arch, toes easing away. They’d once practiced moving across a courtyard scattered with porcelain cups; today’s damp leaves were a luxury.

Ravia halted, palm up. Xena froze beside her, nocking an arrow but keeping the bowstring slack. Ahead, five shapes hovered—cloak edges fluttering faintly, spears held reversed like walking sticks. Varzadian scouts. Their helmets were mottled with forest paint, but fog condensed on the metal and betrayed a telltale glint.

Ravia’s eyes half-closed as she counted breaths between the scouts’ movements. Pattern predictable—good. She signed with two fingers and a thumb: Five, watching, no advance. Xena replied with a flick: Orders?

Ravia’s mouth curved the slightest bit. "We bait them," she whispered, voice thinner than mist. "Our captain’s net is ready."

They melted back, leaving scarcely a sigh in the ferns to mark their passage.

Farther afield, hidden behind a tangle of fallen pines dark with lichen, Lyan observed everything through a gap no wider than a knuckle. His soldiers crouched behind him, camouflaged by burlap smeared with clay and crushed moss. Even their weapons wore disguise: spearheads dulled with soot, arrow fletchings dipped in mud so no stray flash of white betrayed them.

Lyan’s breath was steady, but inside his skull, the spirits argued.

(They approach like hounds scenting a crippled deer,) Griselda crackled, eager, sparks of blood-lust crackling through her tone.

Lilith chuckled, a low conspiratorial purr. (Better to lure the hounds to the butcher’s block first.)

Cynthia drifted calm and cool. (Steady the blade. Overeager steel snaps.)

Lyan’s gloved thumb stroked the leather binding of his glaive pole. He counted the seconds between scout sightings, calculated how long a runner would need to carry Josephine’s scroll back to their commander, added margin for curiosity and for caution. Timing was currency—spend it poorly, and men paid in blood.

At the tail of the wagon line, Josephine picked her moment. A rut jostled her horse; she feigned a startled gasp, letting the scroll slip and flutter to the mud. She didn’t even glance back, but her left heel nudged her mount sideways so it splashed heavily, stamping the parchment half-submerged yet still legible. Just obvious enough.

Within breaths, a Varzadian shadow darted from the trees, sand-brown cloak fluttering, and snatched the scroll. Josephine bit back a grin. She pictured the scout unfolding it, seeing Wilhelmina’s meticulously shaky script: "Retreating—moral[e] failing—supply lost—"

Alicia watched the exchange through lowered lashes, then closed her eyes, murmuring a single syllable. A wisp of mage-sight uncoiled from her fingertips—silver threads that traced the scroll, then winked out, too faint for any enemy scryer to notice yet clear enough for her to follow. She nodded once: connection established. Wherever that scroll traveled, she would sense its path.

The scout vanished, and the woods quieted as though even birds held breath.

Lyan felt a subtle loosening inside—the first hinge of the trap swinging shut. He let himself imagine the Varzadian commander, somewhere beyond that fog, reading the scavenged orders and tasting sure victory. That image sharpened his focus to a blade.

The minutes that followed seemed carved from slow stone. Mist thickened, thinning only when a stray wind threaded the pass. Soldiers in the decoy column shifted weight from blistered foot to blistered foot, eyes half-lidded, discipline warring with boredom. Somewhere a man stifled a sneeze; Wilhelmina shot him a look so sharp he repressed the next two.

Then, faint and rhythmic, came the tread of marching feet—multiple boots striking ground in practiced cadence. A distant creak of wagon axles. Metal brushing leather. The Varzadian advance.

Ravia’s silhouette slid into Lyan’s peripheral view. She didn’t speak—only tapped her dagger hilt twice: Enemy confirmed, strength unknown, approaching fast. Lyan nodded.

He raised his fist. The movement was slow, deliberate, yet every hidden soldier caught it like a spark. Bows angled upward; spears kissed dirt before leveling. A young courier at his side lifted the silver falcon whistle, exhaled, and blew.

The note was pure, piercing—a shard of ice through wool. It trembled over treetops, and in its wake the forest seemed to inhale.

Wilhelmina, still near the decoy vanguard, felt the whistle vibrate in her breastbone. She straightened, lifting her chin just enough for her voice to carry but not echo. "Archers ready," she breathed. The men around her shifted, drawing hidden strings, arrowheads rising like black thorns amongst gray trunks.

Josephine pressed two fingers to her lips, blowing a silent kiss toward the unseen enemy. Beside her, Alicia’s eyes clouded silver as she monitored the tracer thread—it pulsed faster, telling her the scroll now moved behind a larger force. Perfect.

Up at the front of the hidden archers, Xena drew a final deep breath, sighting down her first arrow. The mist parted just enough for her to glimpse Varzadian vanguard—a wedge of infantry, shields embossed with the serpent sigil, helms crested with stiff horsehair. Their officer rode at the point, sword raised like a banner, expression smug.

Behind him, illusions of despair trudged: Wilhelmina’s "broken" soldiers limped, one dragging a spear butt. A Varzadian scout laughed, a sharp bark, and pointed. Confidence swelled the enemy’s stride.

"Hold..." Wilhelmina’s tone sharpened, slicing through her men’s tension. She held her hand out, fingers trembling not from fear but from the exactness of timing. She watched the enemy enter the shallow dip between two mossy boulders—precisely where Xena had ranged arrow-drop the night before. Another step, another. "Hold..."

The officer lifted his hand, signaling halt; perhaps he meant to demand surrender. Before he could open his mouth— Wilhelmina’s fist snapped downward.

"NOW!"

Arrows shrieked through the air, a flock of iron swallows diving out of the fog. Their fletchings hissed as they split the curtain of white, and the first volley struck with a chorus of wet, meaty thuds. Armor rang, wood cracked, horses screamed. For a heartbeat the Varzadian vanguard froze, confusion rippling through their ranks like a pebble hurled into still water. Then a chain of reactions snapped to life— men spun in place, eyes wide, shouting questions no one could answer.

Near the pass entrance, the captain’s horse reared, hooves lashing at nothing. The officer wrestled for control, sword lifted high as if to parry the invisible hail. A shaft took him in the pauldron; he rocked sideways, pain flaring across his face, and the command he tried to shout came out as a strangled gasp. Around him, his front line buckled—two shield-men pitched forward, arrows buried deep between gorget and collarbone, one clutching at his throat as crimson bubbled through gloved fingers.

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