Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 481: The Fog of Deception (End)

Lyan faced his troops. Mud, blood, fog—yet their eyes shone. "Form ranks," he ordered. Spears stamped once, rows aligning. The discipline soothed him like the steady tick of a clock.

He glanced to Wilhelmina; her pink hair caught a shaft of sun, glowing rose-gold amid gray carnage. She gave the faintest nod—strategy still layers ahead, but confidence firm. Josephine twirled her dagger, winking. Ravia and Xena wiped blades side by side, twin statues of competence. Alicia exhaled, tension easing from slight shoulders.

Lyan drew breath, voice rolling over the assembly. "Do not break the formation," he ordered calmly. "Let them scatter, let them fear us."

Enemy morale crumbled as if some invisible giant had squeezed the heart out of every man in a Varzadian helm. Cries of "Sauve qui peut!" scattered through the ranks— voices high, cracking, more boy than soldier. Swords clanged to the muck. A standard-bearer shoved two comrades aside and bolted, serpent pennant whipping behind him like a frightened tail. Others followed in blind instinct, trampling their own dead, boots sucking free of the blood-wet soil only to slip again on discarded shields.

"Let them run," Lyan called, pitching his voice to carry over the pounding retreat. It was not a shout— more a clear, calm bell asking obedience rather than demanding it. The timbre of it cut through panic like a whetted edge, and every Astellian spine straightened in response.

Ravia raised her bloody sword in salute, but stayed where she was, shoulders heaving while steam lifted from her armor. Beside her, Xena lowered her bow, a final arrow feathered but unused, and offered a slow exhale. The coppery tang of blood mingled with the resin of disturbed pine needles— a scent that would cling to their memories long after armor was scrubbed clean.

From the left flank, a clarion horn sounded: one long bass note that vibrated through ribs and rattled last droplets from shaking leaves. The designated cease-signal. Even the horses seemed to understand; those still under saddle stamped once, then settled, no longer eager to give chase.

A hush swept over the pass, broken only by the distant crashing of fugitives blundering into undergrowth and a single, mournful creak as a felled oak—cut half through in the melee—leaned farther and thudded to the earth. The fog, bullied by sunlight and battlefield heat, shredded in ghostly ribbons, unveiling the field’s grim ledger: bodies strewn like toppled chess pieces, equipment discarded in tightening circles of desperation, and streaks of bright arterial red seeping into the black loam.

Wilhelmina approached, mud spattered up both legs to the hem of her officer’s coat. Her slate—usually pristine—bore a crack across one corner where a glancing blow had struck. She held it anyway, fingertips white with the pressure of her grip, but her chin was high. "Seven hundred fallen," she reported, voice steady yet vibrating with the intimate knowledge of every life tallied. "Less than fifty made it past the perimeter." Her eyes flicked to the slope where those survivors disappeared, as if picturing each footfall even now.

"Good," Lyan answered, using a scrap of linen to polish one last smear from the glaive’s mirrored edge. The fabric came away red-brown; he folded it carefully, as though it were a fragile letter, then tucked it into a belt pouch. "Varzadia will remember what fear tastes like."

He did not smile— not exactly— but a faint relaxation softened the corners of his eyes. Inside, Lilith purred, pleased. Griselda crackled quiet sparks of approval. Cynthia offered a silent nod, cool and grave.

Josephine arrived with Belle in tow, both wearing expressions that danced somewhere between exultation and relief. Josephine twirled her dagger absently, letting sunlight wink along its clean edge. "I’ve never seen men so eager to abandon their own shadows," she remarked, gaze sweeping the broken shield line beyond them. "If they run this fast all the way home, we’ll need fresh horses just to keep up with the rumors."

Belle’s emerald cloak fluttered as a breeze wound through the pass. She reached into her saddlebag and produced the blood-spattered parchment, still sealed with Wilhelmina’s counterfeit stamp. "They fully believe our little tragedy," she said, turning the scroll so Wilhelmina could admire her own forged handwriting— now mottled with real gore for authenticity. "They’ll tell every captain from here to the Serpent River that Astellia is biting at its own tail."

Wilhelmina’s mouth tightened. "Let them. By the time they realize which tail was false, their flank will be gone."

Alicia jogged up, boots squelching. She held her hands cupped before her as if carrying a fragile moth— though the only thing visible was a faint silver glow dancing across her fingertips. "Scout tracers confirm south-south-west flight," she reported. "Pulse pattern indicates full retreat. They won’t risk turning until well past the river crossing." Thin strands of silver light flickered out, and she shook her hands with a small wince. "I can’t track them further without risking detection."

"You’ve done enough," Lyan assured, and Alicia’s shoulders loosened a fraction.

He turned to Belle, drew a fresh parchment—cream paper stamped in blue wax—and pressed it into her palm. The seal bore a hawk rending a serpent: his private cipher with Prince Erich. "Speed," he said. "No tavern gossip, no flagging mounts. He needs to set riders on the capital road while the terror’s still raw."

Belle’s expression sobered; she bowed her head. "Understood." Two fingers to her lips summoned a rangy courier horse, its hindquarters already lathered from earlier errands. She vaulted up, cloak swirling like a green flame, and thundered away along the ridge trail, hoofbeats receding into the hush.

A sudden, pained neigh drew attention to a Varzadian charger staggering across the churned earth, flank torn by a spear that still jutted from its side. Josephine strode to it without hesitation, murmured something almost tender, and with a swift stroke ended its misery. She rested her palm on the still-warm neck a moment, eyes closed. When she looked up, some of the gleam had dimmed. "Even enemy beasts deserve clean endings," she muttered. Lyan dipped his head in silent agreement.

Wilhelmina moved among the Astellian wounded—few, but each greeted her with pride dulled by pain. She knelt beside a spearman whose thigh was slashed to the bone. "Hold steady," she whispered, binding tourniquet cloth firm. He hissed but grinned, teeth bloody. "Did we win, lady marshal?" She brushed hair from his brow. "We began it. Rest now; you’ll march again before snow falls." The conviction in her tone painted hope across his pale face.

Xena and Ravia trod past, bootsteps oddly in sync despite their differences—archer and swordswoman, flame and obsidian. They paused near Lyan. Ravia’s braid dripped red at its tip; she hadn’t noticed. "Perimeter cleared. No enemy lingering." She spoke with the finality of a closing gate.

Xena tapped her quiver: five arrows left. "And no shortage of trophies should we wish." She glanced toward a heap of serpent-emblazoned shields. A shadow flickered behind her calm, something like regret or maybe exhaustion. She shrugged it off and offered Lyan a half-smile. "Next time, more fog. I rather like killing in gray."

Josephine laughed, easing closer to adjust Xena’s collar where a tear showed skin. "Speak for yourself. Gray clashes with my complexion." Her smile wavered as her gaze slid to Lyan’s glaive. A drop of blood slid down the blade, fell, and vanished into mud. "Though I suppose red is the color of the day."

Lyan scanned the line of his people— mud-splattered, bruised, but unbowed. He felt a swell of something fierce: pride or duty or the raw pulse of survival. He raised his voice, letting it ripple outward. "Form ranks! Spears front, archers stagger! Armor check—every strap, every plate." The bark of orders had a rhythm now familiar, almost comforting. Men and women straightened; steel clicked home; banners— the hawk of Astellia—were shaken free of mud and raised high.

Wilhelmina stepped to his stirrup. Sunlight glanced off her pink braid now unbound, strands clinging to her cheek in the drying breeze. "Supply wagons ready. Two hours’ march to the ford. We’ll need scouts ahead— we can’t assume the southern ridge is clear."

"We won’t assume," Lyan agreed. His storm-gray gaze swept south, where mist lingered like tattered curtains before a stage yet to reveal its next act.

Josephine mounted, rolling her shoulders as if shrugging off an old cloak. "I’ll ride point with the light cavalry. If Varzadia’s pickets still linger, they’ll hear my laughter before they see my blade." She winked, but the promise underneath was steel.

Alicia approached, now carrying a narrow ledger. "Ration inventory: arrow bundles at seventy percent, medical salves low. I can accelerate the stillroom’s distillations if we halt near a stream." Her academic tone belied smudged cheeks and trembling fingers. Lyan squeezed her shoulder once. "Do what you can."

He swung into his saddle, leather creaking, and felt the old stirrup scars on his boots rub familiar grooves. Wilhelmina mounted beside him, aligning pace as naturally as breath. He caught her sidelong glance— worry flickered in blue depths before she masked it behind a strategist’s calm. He leaned slightly. "You think we move too soon?"

"I think Varzadia reels, but serpents strike fastest when wounded." She tapped her slate. "We must strike faster." The faint line of earlier damage glinted. Lyan nodded. "Then we finish the dance."

Across the ranks, someone began a low chant—Astellia, Astellia— voices rough but rising. Helmets lifted, eyes kindled. The chant grew, layered by clanging spear-butts on shields until the forest seemed to tremble anew, not with fear this time but with raw, defiant vigor.

"This time," Lyan called, throat tightening though his tone stayed strong, "we end this war!" He lifted his glaive, holding it high where sun finally kissed its edge, turning steel to a bar of white fire against clearing sky.

His soldiers roared in agreement, their voices echoing courageously as they marched towards final victory.

Foll𝑜w current novels on fre(e)w𝒆bnovel