Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 486: Dance of The Decoys (End)

Josephine’s cavalry thundered past that same moment, hooves drumming a cadence that set tent ropes thrumming. She rode at their head, hips loose, one hand up in a swirling gesture almost decorative—except every swirl spaced her riders exactly where drifting dust would billow most. She wanted plumes that could be seen from the fort’s watch-towers, plumes that shouted a thousand men idle here. A junior knight reined close, concern furrowing his brow. "Ma’am, the horses are winded." Josephine flashed him a grin bright enough to shame sunrise. "Then let them breathe fire instead of steam—scatter more sand, make the dust do the galloping." She wheeled away, her laughter trailing like a red ribbon on the wind.

Alicia stood in the throat of the northern sally path, fingers flicking delicate runes into air thick with smoke and pine resins. Each sigil hung for a heartbeat—opalescent, trembling—then drifted downward to settle over a straw-filled cuirass. Under her whispered command the dummy’s shoulders rose and fell in the slightest imitation of breath, laces creaking just enough to fool the ear. Sweat carved silver tracks down her temples, but she kept weaving, voice a steady mantra. A sapper paused to watch, awe widening his eyes. "Looks...alive." Alicia didn’t glance up, only answered in a whisper grown hoarse, "That’s the point. Now fetch more straw—heavy on the chest, they slump if the hay’s damp."

Xena and Ravia ghosted through the outer tree line with thirty scouts, each woman a silent fulcrum about which the others pivoted. Xena’s bow never dipped below half-draw; whenever moonlight threatened to glint on its polished limbs she smeared a smear of river-sludge across the curve. Ravia marked trunks with chalk notches—one for clear, two for snares, three where creeping ivy disguised punji pits the Varzadians had hidden seasons ago. Every so often they paused, trading brief hand-signs: a swept thumb for cleared trail, two stiff fingers for distant torch-glow. Then they vanished deeper, leaving only the breathy tremor of leaves rebounding where bodies had brushed past.

Belle worked the interior lanes of camp like a conductor of ghosts. She mapped three separate egress routes to the capital, marking each with knotted ribbons on low branches—a language only her scouts would recognize. Whenever she found a dead angle, she pressed small bundles of dry tinder under wagon axles, a reserve of flame to be kindled at the retreat signal. She paused by one supply cart, knelt to study the wheel rut: depth, moisture, direction. Her gloved fingertip brushed the mud, then she nodded to herself. When she rose, her cloak swept out, catching torch-glow so it seemed a green wave breaking.

Throughout all this Lyan prowled—never hurried yet somehow everywhere at once. He checked the decoy ranks first, tugging at shoulder-knots, repositioning straw arms so spears angled skyward instead of drooping. One dummy’s helm sat too low; he lifted it with gloved fingertips, adjusting until the moon highlighted the steel just so. Satisfied, he strode on, cloak whispering across canvas.

He paused beside the torch crews to verify flame pots were spaced irregularly—real armies didn’t line their fires like parade lamps. "Break that pattern," he advised, tapping the ground where shadows pooled. "And scatter embers there; let the sentries think our cookfires starve for oxygen." His voice was calm, but his eyes darted, taking notes no one else saw: a drag-mark that looked too neat—scuff it; a barrel ringed by prints facing the wrong way—rotate it; a guard dummy whose silhouette would betray straw stuffing when backlit—double its cloak.

Approaching the siege-yard he paused under the massive arm of a half-dismantled trebuchet, looking up into the gearwork where black grease still glistened. A whistle’s melancholy trill drifted from the plank walk above—an engineer atop the frame twisting a spanner free. The sound reminded Lyan to glance toward the horizon; clouds slugged by, bellies silver. "Rain before dawn," he muttered. (Better damp hay than aflame dummies.) He ordered extra oilcloth thrown over the straw soldiers, but only lower half—enough to shed water while still allowing flicker-shadow.

By twilight the deception came alive. Dozens of fake sentries lined ramparts; from a distance their subtle Alicia-woven sways mimicked the bored shifting of night-watch. Fires blazed inside three empty barracks while real soldiers slept under tarp lean-tos fifty paces away. The smell of roasting jerky wafted where no cooks stood, thanks to Belle’s caches of seasoned fat smoldering on iron trivets. To any Varzadian eye the fort thrummed with life.

As final checks ended Lyan trudged the inner walkway one last time, glaive butt clacking softly on flagstones. The moon—a thin sickle—hung above like a watchful scythe. He paused near the supply stacks to adjust a lantern shutter—and there, on the wood lip of a crate, glittered something small and segmented. Not a beetle, too metallic; the leg joints gleamed brass in lamplight.

A Seltas Worker.

His pulse ticked harder. Raine’s familiars never strayed without purpose. He twisted the lantern down, letting darkness swallow the corner, then bent as if to re-tie his boot. Fingers cupped the tiny automaton; it whirred softly, turning its polished thorax toward the eastern treeline. Lyan set it loose and watched it scuttle—straight into the needles.

No hesitation.

He rose, casting a quick glance along the battlements: sentries—real and straw—watched outward; no one saw him slip through a shadowed side-gate. Cloak drawn tight to smother the glint of his buckles, he moved from birch trunk to boulder, boots kissing moss so gently even the owls stayed silent. Spirits in his skull stirred, curious but trusting.

You follow the thread, they murmured.

Mist closed behind him, dousing camp-fires to faint embers in the distance. Up ahead moonlight sheeted across dew-wet needles, painting the forest floor in patches of silver. The trail was faint—just disturbed lichen, a pebble knocked from root—but the Seltas Worker gleamed with each scurry, a breadcrumb of brass.

A clearing opened like a held breath. Birch trunks stood in a pale circle, bark reflecting moon shimmer until they looked carved of bone. In the center, where mist pooled deepest, stood a slim figure. Silver hair spilled over a dark butler coat, pale strands haloing her head every time she breathed. Even at a distance Lyan felt mischief rolling off her like warm breeze over night-cold water.

She saw him step from shadow and cocked her hip, grinning so wide dimples cut her cheeks. One hand flicked invisible lint from her lapel. "How’s it going, hubby?"

Her words barely left her lips before Lyan’s arms wrapped around her, pulling her close with a force that sent a rush of warmth flooding through her chest. Raine’s teasing smile faltered, but only for a heartbeat—because her arms found his back, gripping tight, nails pressing through the thick fabric of his cloak. Her heart thundered against her ribs, but she didn’t try to escape his embrace. If anything, she leaned into it, her cheek pressed against his chest, the steady drum of his heartbeat filling her ears.

"Missed me that much, huh?" she whispered, but her voice was softer now, lacking its usual playfulness.

Lyan pulled back just enough for their faces to meet, his storm-gray eyes intense, searching. "How’s everyone else?" His voice was urgent, a thin layer of worry threading through it.

Her smile returned, though softer, her mischief dulled by affection. "Everything’s perfect. Big sis Surena and Emilia are managing everything. Honestly, you worry too much."

But his jaw tightened, and his hands didn’t leave her shoulders, gripping her like he feared she might vanish. "You and the others are in more danger here. I’d rather fight alone than risk all of you."

A soft, warm laugh escaped her, and she leaned closer, letting her forehead touch his. "You’re such a worrywart." Her hand rose, slender fingers brushing against his lips, quieting him. "Stop worrying, okay?"

And before he could reply, her lips found his—warm, soft, and far hungrier than he expected. A muffled gasp escaped her as he kissed back with equal intensity, and what began as a gentle kiss quickly deepened. Her arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer, and her body pressed against his as if seeking to merge with him. Her mouth parted, and her tongue slipped forward, meeting his with a hunger she hadn’t fully realized until now.

"Mmm—" Raine’s soft, desperate sound vibrated against his mouth, her fingers burying in his hair, tugging slightly. Their tongues danced, each movement growing bolder, her breathing growing faster. The soft wet sounds of their kiss mingled with the quiet rustle of leaves and the gentle mist swirling around them.

Her body responded instinctively, pressing against the solid warmth of his frame. But as her thigh brushed something—something warm, thick, and already straining against his trousers—she froze for an instant, then let out a soft, surprised gasp. Her cheeks flushed hot, but her fingers slid lower, tracing the hard outline pressing against her.

"Oh..." she whispered, half laughing, half moaning. "It’s... it’s as monstrous as usual." Her voice was a breathless whisper, yet her fingers didn’t hesitate. They pressed more firmly, tracing the intimidating length hidden beneath fabric. "Don’t tell me... you must have already fucked big sis... Ravia... until her brain burst, right?"

Lyan’s lips found her ear, his breath hot against her skin. "Of course... and now it’s your turn." His voice was a low, gravelly promise.

Her lips crashed against his again, but this time her hands moved with purpose, fingers working at his cloak clasp, tossing it aside. Her touch danced over his chest, tracing the taut lines beneath his shirt as she tugged at the fabric, her impatience evident. Lyan’s hands weren’t idle either—one slipped beneath her butler’s coat, feeling the warmth of her waist, the subtle curve of her hip. Her coat slid from her shoulders, fabric whispering as it pooled around her feet.

"You really are... eager," he whispered, a sly grin breaking through his own hunger.

"Shut up." She laughed, though her voice quivered with excitement. "You’re the one who grabbed me first."

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