Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 496: Morning and Next Phase (1)

Lyan woke slowly to the faint glow of dawn filtering through the heavy canvas of the command tent. The first thing he noticed was warmth—a half-sleeping weight draped over one shoulder, another nestled against his hip, the faint tickle of stray hair across his throat. Lavender, pine resin, and a hint of last night’s camp-fire smoke mingled in the hush. He let the moment sit, heart beating in time with the soft breaths surrounding him.

Josephine’s crimson curls splayed across his shoulder like spilled wine. She muttered something in her sleep—probably another daring wager—then nuzzled closer, a lazy smile ghosting her lips. Wilhelmina, ever the picture of control, lay on his other side. Her pink braid had slipped free of its tie, stray strands framing a face that almost never looked this relaxed. Belle’s purplish-pink hair fanned over the blankets near his waist, her cheeks flushed with contentment. Beside her, Alicia rested lightly, platinum lashes fluttering as if she sparred with dream-figures. Xena and Ravia were a tangle of limbs at the foot of the bed, the former’s sun-bright curls contrasted sharply against the latter’s midnight braid.

(Don’t stare too long. Someone will notice your lecherous gaze.) Cynthia’s cool amusement echoed in his mind. A phantom finger tapped his temple.

Lilith chimed in, velvet and wicked. (Besides, if Josephine catches you, she’ll charge interest.)

Griselda crackled sparks of impatience. (Enough mooning. Steel waits, not women.)

Lyan exhaled, careful not to disturb the sleepers, and eased himself free. Each movement felt like pulling a thread from a tapestry—one wrong tug and the whole weave might unravel. When he slipped from the blankets, a cold shiver raced over his skin, reminding him how sheltered the night had been.

He dressed quickly, tugging on trousers, tunic, and his travel-worn cloak. The clasp—a plain steel hawk—caught a finger of dawn light, winking like a tiny oath. He lingered a breath longer, adjusting Wilhelmina’s blanket so her shoulder stayed covered, then stepped outside.

The camp murmured awake. Distant cooks stirred kettles; armor buckles clicked; a low laugh drifted from the picket line where two scouts compared bruises. Fog hugged the ground, swallowing boots to the ankle. Above, the River Fort’s parapets cut a jagged line against a sky turning rose at the edges.

Wilhelmina emerged moments later, fastening her cuirass with practiced snaps. "We don’t have long." Her voice carried the rasp of someone who had slept too little. "The Varzadians sent riders after the night assault. Reinforcements will be marching hard."

"Hours, not days." Josephine joined them, arms overhead in a languid stretch that popped three joints in her back. She grinned at Lyan’s quick glance, then dropped her arms, emerald eyes sharpening. "They’ll expect we dig in, repair walls, beg for Prince William to catch up."

"Which means we do the opposite." Lyan’s tone settled into that calm command he saved for maps and imminent danger. "Fortress Eboncliff. Hit fast, hold faster."

Belle padded up, still shrugging into her emerald cloak. Her hair, loosened for sleep, now framed her face in soft waves. She caught Lyan’s eye and offered a single nod. "I’ll need two scout pairs and six smoke pots. Enemy patrols are thin west of the limestone outcrop—easy to mislead."

"Take them." Lyan gestured toward the supply row where freshly sharpened spears rested against crates. "Paint the outcrop with their torch-marks. If they double back, I want them chasing ghosts."

Belle’s smile curved sly. "Leave the ghosts to me, Commander."

Alicia approached next, a small notebook tucked under one arm. Her silver eyes were clear despite the faint shadows beneath them. "I can maintain three major illusions at once without collapsing," she reported, fingers flicking through mental figures. "But large-scale mirage work—that’s Belle’s domain. My psychokinesis can shift loose stones, maybe topple a gate brace, nothing bright."

Lyan dipped his head. "Understood. We’ll marry both talents. Your kinetic push for structure sabotage, Belle’s veil for numbers."

Alicia looked relieved. "I’ll trace ley lines as we move. Less strain that way."

Josephine stepped closer, rolling a shoulder as if testing its range. "My riders?" The question was a spark inside green eyes.

"You’ll harry everything that moves between this fort and Eboncliff," Lyan answered. "Small strikes. Burn a cart. Kill one horse, let the driver flee. They must believe a legion shadows every tree."

She flicked an imaginary feather from her cuff. "Chaos is my native tongue."

Hooves clopped in the mist—Xena and Ravia led their infiltration unit up the main lane, light armor buckled, black cloaks damp. Xena’s bow already strung, arrow nocked but pointed ground-ward. Ravia’s hand rested on her curved blade, silver eyes scanning for new threats even inside camp.

"We’re set," Xena said. "Sentries count eight watch rotations north of Eboncliff. Two-thirds are conscripts."

"Conscripts lose nerve fast." Ravia spoke low, but her words cut crisp. "They’ll fold once we silence the captains."

Lyan met their gaze. "You’ll open the eastern gate. Try not to sound the alarm until Josephine starts her fires."

Xena’s grin was quick. "They won’t even see me loose."

Ravia merely inclined her head, confidence carved from stone.

A faint clank announced Wilhelmina adjusting her gorget. "Main force forms in three columns," she said, pulling a small slate from her side pouch. "I want sappers front-right, siege shield-left, archers center, ready to break into staggered lines on signal."

Josephine leaned to peek at the slate. "You wrote all that without ink?"

Wilhelmina tapped the chalk tip she’d wedged behind her ear. "Habits. We move before midday."

Lyan watched the interplay, noting how Belle’s foot bounced with contained energy, how Alicia shifted weight to keep circulation flowing, how Xena’s eyes tracked the sun’s crawl through the clouds. He filed each observation, weighing strengths against the timetable in his head.

(They’re ready, but bone-tired,) Cynthia murmured. (A lighter march pace buys them stamina for the walls.)

Lilith hummed a wicked lullaby. (Or you could promise sweeter rewards after victory.)

Lyan ignored the last comment and spoke loudly enough for the officers to hear but softly enough not to carry. "Rest of the fort will believe we entrench. Leave enough troops to make noise. Spare pikes rammed into parapets, cooking fires double-stoked. Show of force for any wandering scout."

Belle’s hand flicked a sign toward the scout sergeant. "I’ll seed false foot-prints along the north ditch. Six boots can read like sixty if they loop."

"Good," Lyan said.

From inside the tent a sleepy voice called, "You could have woken me, you know." Josephine turned—the remaining women were stirring. Xena offered them a sharp whistle. "On your feet, ladies. War waits for no one."

Ravia snorted. "Neither does breakfast. Someone throw oats on the fire."

Lyan gave them a moment, then cleared his throat. The small assembly focused. "Eboncliff is stone, but its garrison is flesh. We crack the flesh first."

He outlined assignments, voice steady, but every name carried weight: Belle, the wind in the forest; Josephine, the thunder clap; Alicia, the veil; Xena, the silent arrow; Ravia, the midnight blade; Wilhelmina, the iron wheel. He ended: "We hit at dusk. We finish before their night cookfires burn out."

Wilhelmina, arms folded, let the slate rest against her hip. A small, rare smile curved her lips—a crescent moon rising. "It’s bold. Risky. But it’ll work."Lyan woke slowly to the faint glow of dawn filtering through the heavy canvas of the command tent. The first thing he noticed was warmth—a half-sleeping weight draped over one shoulder, another nestled against his hip, the faint tickle of stray hair across his throat. Lavender, pine resin, and a hint of last night’s camp-fire smoke mingled in the hush. He let the moment sit, heart beating in time with the soft breaths surrounding him.

Josephine’s crimson curls splayed across his shoulder like spilled wine. She muttered something in her sleep—probably another daring wager—then nuzzled closer, a lazy smile ghosting her lips. Wilhelmina, ever the picture of control, lay on his other side. Her pink braid had slipped free of its tie, stray strands framing a face that almost never looked this relaxed. Belle’s purplish-pink hair fanned over the blankets near his waist, her cheeks flushed with contentment. Beside her, Alicia rested lightly, platinum lashes fluttering as if she sparred with dream-figures. Xena and Ravia were a tangle of limbs at the foot of the bed, the former’s sun-bright curls contrasted sharply against the latter’s midnight braid.

(Don’t stare too long. Someone will notice your lecherous gaze.) Cynthia’s cool amusement echoed in his mind. A phantom finger tapped his temple.

Lilith chimed in, velvet and wicked. (Besides, if Josephine catches you, she’ll charge interest.)

Griselda crackled sparks of impatience. (Enough mooning. Steel waits, not women.)

Lyan exhaled, careful not to disturb the sleepers, and eased himself free. Each movement felt like pulling a thread from a tapestry—one wrong tug and the whole weave might unravel. When he slipped from the blankets, a cold shiver raced over his skin, reminding him how sheltered the night had been.

He dressed quickly, tugging on trousers, tunic, and his travel-worn cloak. The clasp—a plain steel hawk—caught a finger of dawn light, winking like a tiny oath. He lingered a breath longer, adjusting Wilhelmina’s blanket so her shoulder stayed covered, then stepped outside.

The camp murmured awake. Distant cooks stirred kettles; armor buckles clicked; a low laugh drifted from the picket line where two scouts compared bruises. Fog hugged the ground, swallowing boots to the ankle. Above, the River Fort’s parapets cut a jagged line against a sky turning rose at the edges.

Wilhelmina emerged moments later, fastening her cuirass with practiced snaps. "We don’t have long." Her voice carried the rasp of someone who had slept too little. "The Varzadians sent riders after the night assault. Reinforcements will be marching hard."

Updat𝓮d fr𝙤m fre𝒆webnov(e)l.com