Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 498: Morning and Next Phase (3)

"Hold," he called, and like shutters slamming in high wind, the violence stopped.

No time for celebration. Varzadian banners were hauled from storage and raised anew atop the gatehouses. Belle inspected placements, ensuring angles looked natural to distant spyglasses. She added a faint shimmer over the ramparts—illusory torches, silhouettes pacing. From beyond, it would appear business as usual.

Alicia, pale and trembling, used her mind to lift debris, stacking broken crates into makeshift embrasures. She nudged a loose stone here, a toppled ladder there, every inch selling the story that defenders still worked.

Josephine’s riders took to the roads. They galloped past crossroads, pausing just long enough for pickets to glimpse Varzadian cloaks before charging onward, hooves hammering fear into any witness.

Inside, Wilhelmina reorganized squads, rotated watch shifts, and posted double sentries at every postern gate. Anyone approaching would see a fortress bristling with readiness.

Lyan scribbled his cipher: hawk-seal pressed firm. He selected a courier with fresh horse and cool nerves. "Ride. If the bridge is blocked, swim. Do not open the seal for any soul but William." The courier saluted, wheeled, and vanished into the fog.

_____

Smoke drifted in lazy ribbons beneath the hammer-beamed ceiling, catching the lamplight in thin gold sheets before bleeding into the higher dark. Eboncliff’s great hall had once been a place of feast—there were carvings of harvest garlands along the rafters, half-hidden under soot—but now the floor was a map-room, a sickbay, and an armory all at once.

A splintered trestle served as a surgeon’s bench. A sergeant with a bandaged thigh propped himself there, trying to look invisible while two chirurgeons argued in whispers over the best stitch. Nearby, a toppled wine cask became an impromptu stool for a courier who had ridden all night; his eyes kept drooping shut until another runner nudged him awake. The mingled tang of pitch smoke, blood, and boiled barley filled every breath.

Belle slipped through the door and shut it behind her with a theatrical sweep, the hinges protesting. The emerald of her cloak was smudged black at the hem, a smear across her cheek like war-paint, yet her grin was bright enough to outshine the torches. "Shadows report in," she announced, voice lilting. "Two enemy outriders reached the ridge, saw our banners, and decided discretion was holy. They’re riding the wrong direction as we speak."

Josephine leaned back against an overturned table, crossing her arms over the dent in her cuirass. A single feather from a stolen Varzadian plume still perched behind her ear. "And their reinforcements?" she asked, eyebrow cocked.

"Skittish foals," Belle replied. "They’re fussing on the high road. I left them a few phantom camp-fires to debate." frёeweɓηovel_coɱ

Josephine’s chuckle rolled low. "Lovely. Confusion tastes better than wine." She flicked a glance at Alicia, who stood near the hearth kneading stiffness from her wrists. "How’s your strength, little knight?"

Alicia gave a tiny one-shoulder shrug. "I can still shove stones around," she answered, voice quiet but steady. "But Belle’s illusions are carrying most of the glamour. I just... hide the seams." She lifted a hand; three tiny rubble stones rose, circled, and settled again. The motion looked effortless, but sweat beaded at her temple.

Lyan watched her a moment longer than necessary. He noted the slight tremor in her fingers, the way her sword belt hung ready despite fatigue. It spoke of discipline: she would fight even if she had to prop the blade with willpower alone.

Wilhelmina stepped forward, map case tucked beneath her arm. She cleared a patch of floor by nudging aside a crate of spare quarrels with her boot. The crate scraped loudly; heads turned. "Positions," she said, unrolling parchment inked fresh. Melted tallow pinned the corners. "Prince William is here—" her gloved fingertip tapped a charcoal ridge "—marching hard. If he keeps today’s pace, his vanguard meets our courier by dusk."

"William’s boys move like oxen," Josephine quipped, earning a soft ripple of laughter from a few riders nearby.

Wilhelmina did not smile, but her eyes flashed. "Then we prod the ox. We strike the capital wall in two days, not three." She traced a looping arrow. "Field camps here and here. We fake a siege tower on the west road to draw their artillery."

Belle whistled, impressed. "With what lumber? We burned half their yard."

"Canvas and scaffolding poles," Wilhelmina answered. "Alicia can topple it dramatically once they commit."

Alicia dipped her chin, already calculating stresses and fulcrums. "One good shove," she murmured, almost to herself.

Lyan folded arms across his chest, listening, weighing. His storm-gray eyes swept the room—every face, every injury, every spark of resolve. He caught Josephine’s playful grin, Wilhelmina’s exacting calm, Belle’s restless energy coiled like a cat’s tail, Xena’s hawk-bright focus as she sharpened an arrow in the corner, Ravia’s silent watchfulness beside her.

He let that picture settle. Then he spoke, voice low but carrying. "No mercy," he said. The words fell like a blade, chopping debate short. "We end this before the serpent grows a new head."

Silence gathered. Even the distant clang of a smith striking a hinge seemed to hush. Each officer met his gaze in turn, found no softness there, and gave assent.

Josephine broke the hush with a clap. "Right, you heard the hawk. Time’s bleeding." She tossed the stolen plume aside and strode toward the doors. "Cavalry with me. We need to look like half the world’s riding at our backs."

Xena sheathed her whetstone, arrow point gleaming. "Infiltration squad forms in the east courtyard," she called, voice confident but calm. "Ten arrows each. No armour bells." She caught Ravia’s eye; the taller woman answered with a faint nod.

Belle snagged a fresh water skin, knocked shoulders with Alicia on the way past. "Rest where you can. I’ll cover your blind side."

Alicia managed a small smile. "And I’ll make sure your ’ghosts’ have the right shadows."

The hall emptied in gusts—boots thudding, orders snapped, stretcher bearers weaving through without breaking stride. Wilhelmina lingered only long enough to fold her map, then strode after them, pink braid swinging with crisp purpose.

Soon only Lyan remained by the cold hearth. The wounded sergeant fixed him with weary admiration. Lyan walked over, rested a hand on the man’s good shoulder. "You held the line."

The sergeant swallowed. "Lost three men doing it, sir."

"We’ll carve their names in the capital gate," Lyan promised. The soldier’s mouth trembled—half pride, half grief—but he straightened.

When Lyan finally stepped out into the passage the hall behind him looked suddenly larger, as if drained of its heartbeat.

The battlements greeted him with chill air and the distant crash of waves on rock far below. Eboncliff earned its name—the keep perched over a black cliff face that dropped straight into white froth. Mist rolled up from the chasm, curling around stone like cautious fingers.

He paced to the merlon, hands flexing on the cold granite. Lanterns along the wall threw trembling halos on his boots. Down in the lower yard a training circle was already alive with motion: recruits running footwork drills by torch-glow, encouraged by a grizzled veteran who barked but didn’t slow his stride. Good—discipline bred courage.

Lyan’s gaze lifted to the dark stretch of road where Belle’s illusions patrolled. From up here they looked real—shifting spears, the occasional clink of mail conjured by a trick of sound. Beyond that veil he spotted the lights of Josephine’s riders cantering between switchbacks, torches bobbing like a string of fireflies. They turned what had been Varzadian supply lanes into a stage and filled it with rumor.

His chest tightened with an emotion harder than pride, softer than fear. Responsibility. He remembered Josephine’s laughter during breakfast raids, Wilhelmina standing alone in torchlight scribbling formations on her slate, Belle’s grin when her trick caught an enemy scout doubling back in confusion. He pictured Alicia’s fragile poise—how her sword hand never shook even when her magic did. Xena’s satisfaction at a silent kill. Ravia’s steady ritual of wiping her blade ’for the spirits,’ as she put it, so fallen enemies wouldn’t cling.

(You lead them well,) Lilith purred, warm as embers. (They follow because your fire lights theirs.)

(But keep the course steep,) Griselda crackled. (Complacency kills more than arrows.)

Cynthia’s voice slid in, gentle. (And remember the quiet ones. A commander’s glance can mend what a physician cannot.)

Lyan exhaled a plume that vanished into the swirling grey. The spirits’ counsel settled like layers of armor—different metals, same protection. His eyes sought the far horizon where the night began to bleach into fragile dawn. Somewhere beyond those hills the Varzadian capital woke with no idea the knife was already at its throat.

He let the weight of choice press on him—every order, every death, every promise made around dying fires. It pressed, yes, but it also forged. When he straightened, the line of his shoulders looked carved from the same stone as the battlements.

The mist churned below. He thought of William’s banner racing to meet them, of the final gates, of the serpents on the enemy standard and how they would burn. He thought of returning, maybe, to quiet days—of laughter spilling in a war-room turned nursery. He dared one breath on that image, then locked it away. Not yet.

He drew his cloak tighter, felt the runes on his glaive hilt brush his palm—steady, cold, ready.

The weight of his choices pressed heavily, resolve firming within his heart. He gazed into the mist, eyes set firmly on the horizon. They would see victory soon—no matter the cost.

Follow current novels on (f)reew𝒆bnovel