Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 482: Dance of the Decoys (1)

Mist clung to the winding forest path like a living thing, thick ribbons twisting around moss-slick trunks before spilling into the ruts left by wagon wheels. A chill crept under every collar, and the damp air smelled of pine needles, wet loam, and the faint, coppery memory of battles already fought upstream. Hooves thudded softly in the sodden ground, sending up little splashes that patterned the fetlocks of the horses with flecks of gray mud. Even the banners—broad squares of midnight blue stitched with the silver hawk of Astellia—barely whispered. They hung heavy and damp, snapping only when a stray breeze stole through the pines.

Lyan rode at the head of the vanguard, long cloak draped over one shoulder and pinned with a plain steel clasp that glimmered whenever a shaft of weak dawn light threaded the branches. The cold gnawed at his cheeks, turning scar and stubble to a deeper shade, but he scarcely felt it. His storm-gray eyes swept left, then right, drinking in every tilt of branch, every change in birdsong. Ahead, gravel cracked under Belle’s scout party—a sound too subtle for anyone but a commander listening for danger. Lyan’s fingers flexed on the reins, gloved leather creaking like an old hinge. He kept his other hand near the haft of his glaive, thumb brushing the etched runes as though they were worry beads.

Inside his skull the spirits woke at the same quiet tempo the world around him breathed.

(They watch, always watching,) Lilith purred, voice the soft slide of silk on bare skin. (Waiting for a flaw, a lowered helm, a loosened cinch.)

(Poor fools,) Griselda crackled, sparks flicking off every consonant. (Let them lean closer. The moment they taste our fear will be the moment steel tastes their throats.)

Cynthia, quieter, only murmured steadiness, as if laying a cool palm on Lyan’s racing thoughts. He inhaled through the nose, tasting the damp woodsmoke of distant cooking fires—Varzadian or maybe their own rearmost camp. Hard to tell in this soup of fog. He let the exhale pour out slowly, a gray ribbon that vanished faster than it formed.

Beside him Wilhelmina guided her bay gelding with light, invisible cues, the animal matching Lyan’s stallion pace for pace. Her cloak hood was up, but a twist of her pink braid had slipped free and now rested against the deep green wool like a fragile blossom saved from winter. She rode tall despite the slick road, blue eyes sharp as honed glass. "Enemy scouts will be watching," she said, voice pitched low; the mist swallowed words quickly if one didn’t aim them. "We must look cautious, but not desperate."

"They should read fatigue, not frailty," Lyan replied. "A force pushed hard, yet still ready to snap." He felt his gaze slide briefly down the line of her cloak’s edge—caught himself, forced the look back to the dark tree line. His stomach tightened. He couldn’t afford distraction, not when every shadow might spit arrows.

Belle was already a flash of emerald deeper among the firs, cloak edges lifting and folding like wings. She moved from trunk to trunk, sometimes crouching to brush fingertips over disturbed needles. When she straightened, her posture spoke volumes long before she whispered a report: clear for now, one rabbit path, boot scuffs old, no fresh prints. Then she melted forward again, shape thinning in the vapor until even Lyan’s trained eyes lost her.

Behind him Josephine’s laughter peeled out—soft but carrying, a chime of mirth in the gloom. Light cavalry answered with low chuckles, tension bleeding from shoulders. She rode sidesaddle on a dappled gray that tossed its head with every laugh, as though the horse shared her delight at stalking unseen prey. "If they spot us, they’ll think we’re playing at shadows," she called, tone bright enough to paint color across the mist. "Let them doubt what is vision and what is phantasm."

Further back, Alicia sat her mare like some small, solemn wisp carved of moonstone and candlewax. The mare’s breath plumed around them both, but the mage’s silver eyes did not blink against the cold. Instead, delicate fingers traced patterns in the air—gestures so slight a passerby might think she shivered. Thin opalescent threads coiled from fingertip to fingertip, mapping ley lines only she could perceive. "We must approach from the north ridge," she murmured, words directed half to herself, half to the shimmering script. "Light pickets, no fixed catapults. Better angles for siege-tower wheels."

Xena and Ravia guarded the rear where mist pooled thickest. Xena’s bow arm remained raised enough for a heartbeat draw, fingers resting soft on the string. She scanned backtrail switchbacks, marking trunks where a Varzadian might crouch with crossbow. Ravia, blade sheathed but ready, turned in her saddle every dozen paces, watching the path sink into shadow behind them. The two spoke in hand signs: footfall left, owl cry right, wind only, continue. Their discipline was a silent hymn threading the column.

Hooves struck stone as the trail dipped through an old dry creekbed. Lyan lifted a fist; the column slowed to cross single file—the clatter of iron shoes on the rocks too loud for his liking. He watched an archer stumble, nearly twist an ankle. Note: triple the pace later to regain lost minutes. He filed it away without outward signal.

(You worry at time like a hound at marrow,) Lilith mused. (Yet you forget hunger of another sort.)

Not now, Lyan thought, though his gaze did skitter—only for an instant—toward the sway of Josephine’s hips as she shifted to check her scabbard straps. Heat pricked the back of his neck. He focused on the ridge cresting ahead, guessed distances, drew imaginary arcs of arrow shower.

Wilhelmina nudged his knee with hers, subtle but firm. "Mind on the ridge, commander," she whispered without turning her head. Her tone was neither scold nor tease—merely a necessary reminder. His jaw tightened, but the shame steadied him. He tapped the glaive pommel twice against his thigh in reply, silent promise.

They climbed out of the creekbed, fog now ankle-deep rather than chest-high. Frost glittered on low fern fronds where sunlight finally reached, shards catching pale fire before melting under hoofprints. A kestrel cried overhead, unseen. Belle reappeared long enough to signal: fork ahead, sight lines clear. She pointed two fingers left, then crossed them—danger minimal. Lyan acknowledged with a tilt of chin.

Josephine’s cavalry filed wider, hooves drumming an upbeat cadence onto the forest floor. She leaned forward, murmuring something to her horse; the animal snorted, eager. Her braid—fiery red loosened from its earlier coil—bounced against armor scales. She turned halfway in the saddle. "Archers," she called softly, "check fletching. No misfires today; my reputation depends on spectacular first impressions." A ripple of dry humor coursed back through the ranks.

Alicia veered nearer to Lyan. "Illusion is thin here," she said, voice thrumming with faint fatigue. "Too much open sky. I can weave thicker, but it costs light." She meant mana, but the small mage seldom used the scholarly term. Lyan considered. "Hold reserve," he decided. "They will seek us in the gullies. Better keep tricks for there." She dipped her chin, silver threads dissipating into the air like curling incense.

The column rounded an ancient yew where the bark blistered into faces—knots resembling long-dead guardians. Soldiers muttered protective charms under breath; even hardened veterans feared old spirits. Lyan touched the glaive haft to his shoulder in silent salute, superstitious perhaps but better safe.

A patch of ground ahead glistened black and wet. Not dew—sap, recently oozed where bark had been scraped. Lyan guided his stallion closer, leaned from the saddle. Four parallel gouges, half a finger deep—boot cleats bracing for sudden turn. Fresh. He sniffed; pine, earth, and something ranker: unwashed wool, maybe breath of a man who had run hard. No dropped gear—scout moving light. He raised two fingers, flicked them down. Wilhelmina saw, passed the sign to Belle with a series of small gestures. Belle vanished forward again.

Time stretched into heartbeats measured by distant raven caws. Ravia’s hand rose—halt. She listened. Xena followed, drawing an arrow halfway. The column stilled; even horse tails froze mid-swat. Nothing but the sigh of wind through high needles...and then, faint, a rustle too rhythmic for breeze. Lyan’s hand curled tighter round the reins.

Wilhelmina’s gaze flicked to him. She mouthed one word: scouts. He nodded once. freewebnøvel_com

Josephine rotated in her saddle, lifted two fingers to her lips, blew a trill—three descending notes. Light cavalry trotted sideways off the main track, forming a loose crescent that looked accidental. Spears lowered butts to ground, archers knocked arrows under cloaks.

(See?) Griselda hissed, pleased. (The trap sets its own teeth.)

From the tree line ahead, five...no, six Varzadian figures stepped into view. Greenish cloaks, mud-dark but not dark enough for this deeper fog. They moved with too much confidence, believing themselves unseen until the last second. One pointed toward Lyan’s vanguard, whispered to the others. Crossbows raised, bolts slipping onto strings with tiny clicks.

Lilith’s laugh rippled through Lyan’s thoughts. (Let them think first blood theirs.)

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