Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 499: The Siege Begins (1)

The mountain loomed like an ancient god above the Varzadian capital, its shoulders lost in slow–moving cloud. Wind whipped across the ridge, bringing the city’s smells all the way up to Lyan’s perch: coal-smoke, river mud, and the sharper tang of tanneries that clung to stone even in winter. He crouched behind a slab of wet basalt, elbows resting on his knees, spyglass pressed to one eye.

"Torch count on the north curtain just jumped," he muttered. "Either they rotated a fresh watch or they want us to think they did."

Wilhelmina knelt beside him, slate balanced on a leather-clad thigh. She scratched a mark. "Seventy-three visible flames. That’s short a squad if their roster is honest." A curl of pink hair broke free of her knot and blew across her cheek. She didn’t bother tucking it back.

Lyan kept the glass steady, mind racing. Beneath the outer slum wall he could see crooked alleys packed tight with shanties—roofs of mottled tin and rag banners flapping like surrender flags. Farther in rose the merchant arcades, lanterns glittering over arched gates. Then the noble wall: dark granite, higher than the others, studded with green-enameled towers shaped like rising serpents. Finally, the citadel clawed at the sky, all black basalt and pale pennants snapping in icy wind.

"Twelve thousand shields," Wilhelmina said, almost reading his thoughts. "And most of them rested behind stone."

"They’ve got numbers," Lyan answered, lowering the glass. "We’ve got imagination." He flashed a quick grin; she answered with a grunt that held the ghost of a smile.

Boots crunched on gravel behind them. Belle jogged up, cloak billowing, cheeks flushed pink. "Mirrors set. Three along the gully, two on that broken aqueduct. We pointed them so their watchfires bounce back at odd angles." She wiggled gloved fingers, showing a smear of silvery powder. "Light-dust for sparkle. Should make thirty men look like a brigade."

Wilhelmina tilted her slate for Belle to see. "Mark each mirror’s arc here. If their signal tower blinks, we have to shift." Belle’s eyes sparkled—she did love her craft—and bent to scribble.

Down-slope, Alicia knelt in a circle of white chalk etched into frozen earth. Her breath fogged the runes each time she exhaled. Tiny threads of light glimmered along the lines—ley energy coaxed to the surface. Lyan’s gaze lingered; damp strands of her platinum hair stuck to her temple, and her thin shoulders shook with each soft chant. A sting of worry hit him. She’d been pushing too hard since Eboncliff.

A sudden shout carried up from the squat towers near the eastern sluice gate. Lyan whipped the spyglass back. A Varzadian archer pointed, jabbing his finger in frustration at a banner that fluttered in the wrong wind—one of Belle’s glorified bedsheets on a stick.

"Glamour slip," Wilhelmina hissed.

Below, Alicia’s chalk lines sputtered, light winking out. She gasped, both palms slapping the ground as if she could hold the magic there by sheer will. The charm stuttered—caught—then shattered into sparks. A ripple of wrongness rolled through the illusions; two phantom watchmen flickered, their outlines blinking like dying embers.

Lyan didn’t think. He bolted down the steep goat path, boots skidding on scree, cape snapping. Belle darted after him, calling instructions to her lingering scouts to adjust mirrors and re-aim torches.

He reached Alicia as her arms buckled. She pitched forward into his chest. He caught her, knees bending to take the weight. Her skin felt like flame and snow all at once.

"Easy," he murmured, pressing her head to his shoulder. Strands of her silver hair tangled in his beard. A faint, guilty thrill spiked through him—her scent was lavender and parchment, oddly soothing. He shoved it away.

"I—I thought I anchored the ward," she rasped.

"It’s the city stones," he answered softly. "Their walls drink magic. You fought them long enough. Rest." He slid an arm under her legs and lifted. She weighed almost nothing; still, his heart thudded harder than the climb should allow.

Spirits kneedled him.

(Nice excuse to hold her,) Lilith purred.

Cynthia spoke more gently. (She needs protection. Focus on that.)

He carried Alicia toward a cluster of lean-tos where their surgeon waited. She clutched his cloak, whispering, "Don’t leave me on the bench long. I can still shape light."

"You’ll shape it tomorrow," he said, laying her on a bedroll. Fingers brushed a sweaty lock from her brow. "If I need night stars conjured, I’ll rouse you personally."

Her pale lips curved. "Stars are cheap. I’ll paint you a moon."

Belle jogged up, dropped to a crouch beside them. "I patched the banner with a simpler veil—pure shadow, no color. Won’t fool daylight watchers, but holds for night." She squeezed Alicia’s forearm. "Sleep, tiny miracle. We’ll wake you if the sky falls."

Wilhelmina arrived last, armor clinking. She surveyed the sagging illusions—now dimmer, ghostly shapes wavering along the walls. Her jaw tightened. "No more ghosts," she ordered in a low, firm tone. "Just blades and truth from now on."

Belle opened her mouth—caught the iron in Wilhelmina’s eyes—and closed it. She merely nodded.

Lyan straightened. "At dawn the cavalry tests their nerves."

First light spilled over the ridge in thin gray stripes. Josephine already had her cavalry mounted down in the sparse orchard that edged the south road. Frost steamed off the horses’ flanks. She rode bare-headed, red hair coiled high, smile sharp as a saber.

Lyan strode up. Josephine’s gaze flicked over him—lingering a touch too long on the way his cloak parted at the throat. He felt heat crawl under his collar.

"Commander." She dipped the barest bow from her saddle. "We aim to look loud and reckless. Permission to whoop?"

"Granted," he said dryly. "Just don’t ride into their pike drop range. I need you alive to gloat later."

She flashed teeth. "Then I’ll stay a hair’s breadth outside."

A trumpet sounded—a single bark—and Josephine’s wedge thundered down the slope. Dust plumed; hooves drummed. She led them in tight formation toward the southern gate, letting the column stretch just enough that watchers counted twice the number. As they got within bow range, she gave a mocking salute to the wall and veered hard left, loosing three fire-pots that shattered against the gatehouse. Flames leapt bright, only scorching paint, but the shock did the work. Varzadian horns blared warning.

On the parapet, a plumed officer leaned over, laughing. Lyan could almost hear the taunt. "Hill bandits," the man seemed to say, one hand waving dismissively while his underlings jeered.

From Lyan’s right, Wilhelmina’s hidden engineers pushed siege ladders, wrapped in tar-colored canvas, across the gravel toward the northeast bridge. They moved like dockhands at dawn, heads down, tools muffled. Belle’s illusions hid them inside drifting sheets of fog—nothing fancy, just a nudge to the eye so shadows swallowed motion.

A Varzadian sentry turned, squinting. The fog pulse shimmered. For a breath Lyan worried it would fail, but Alicia’s earlier work still lingered enough to blur edges. The sentry shrugged, resumed scanning the chaos at the southern wall.

Wilhelmina crouched near the bridge abutment, signaling archers. They shot arrows wrapped in thin glass bulbs; on impact those bulbs burst, releasing cooled vapor that billowed like dragon breath. The bridge vanished inside boiling white. Defenders on the tower leaned out, yelling to lower portcullis grates—but the crank jammed after only a foot. Someone had sawed half through the chain hours earlier. Belle winked across the gap at Lyan; sabotage had been her night project.

"Archers, ready," Wilhelmina hissed. Lyan flicked his glaive above his head. The ridge behind them answered: two hundred shafts hissed skyward, fletching whispering like wings of dark birds. The arrows disappeared into cloud, then slammed down on the opposite side of the city—Josephine’s false rear line. Defenders spun, confused: two fronts? three?

The officer who had laughed now barked furious orders that collided in mid-air. Some troops ran left, others right. Lyan felt a thrill—chaos blooming like red poppies.

And then hoofbeats—a deeper thunder—from behind their own ridge. The enemy officer’s head snapped up. So did Lyan’s.

Mounted archers poured over the skyline, silhouettes framed against the morning sun. They rode small, powerful horses; rawhide lamellar clacked with each stride. Eagle feathers fluttered from helmets. At their head flew a long black banner embroidered with silver knots: the Mountain Confederation.

Raine rode in front, silver hair loose, eyes bright with battle fever. She didn’t wear a helm—only war paint streaked across cheekbones. Beside her, Lara loosed an arrow without slowing. The shaft streaked down, striking a bronze bell on the mid-wall parapet. The clang echoed like prophecy.

Behind them, Surenacharged, ash-gray braid whipping. Emilia pounded along, great-sword catching sunlight in strobing flashes. Tara and Sigrid flanked, leading columns of shield-maidens whose battle-song rose over hoofbeats—a raw, rising howl that made even Lyan’s veterans shiver.

Josephine’s riders wheeled, cheering. They folded seamlessly into the mountain wedge, red hair and eagle feathers mingling like flame and smoke.

Up on the southern wall, defenders gaped. One man actually dropped his spear.

"About time," Lyan murmured, a smile tugging his lips despite the tension.

Surena emerged from the throng like a thunder-head cresting the ridge, ash-grey braid whipping over one mail-plated shoulder. Her stallion’s hooves struck sparks off the cobbles as she reined in beside the lead banner, eyes sweeping the smoking field below. Wind pressed her cloak flat against broad shoulders, and for a single heartbeat Lyan felt as if the mountain itself had grown a heartbeat and begun to march.

She spotted him, brow arching. "Late to the party, Commander?"

This 𝓬ontent is taken from f(r)eeweb(n)ovel.𝒄𝒐𝙢