Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 508: Children of Flesh and Shade (1)

The scent of warm stone and faint herbs still lingered as Lyan stood at the edge of the sanctuary, one hand resting on the cold curve of the door arch, the other brushing the worn leather of the grimoire at his belt. The chamber behind him was hushed but full—full of breaths, of slow heartbeats, of emotions too tangled to name. The Queen and her daughters sat in a small circle by the cracked altar, legs tucked under wool cloaks he had left earlier. Ara leaned forward, palms open to the gem-light like a girl trying to warm her fingers at a campfire. Kassia turned away, shoulders squared, spine rigid with pride that had nowhere left to aim. The Queen simply watched her daughters, lips moving in soundless prayer, eyes shining in the pale green glow.

Their peace seemed fragile, a fresh spider-web after rain, and Lyan told himself he would not disturb it. Yet the grimoire hummed at his side, a cat’s purr building into a drum, tugging at his attention like a child with a secret. He tried to ignore it. His gaze drifted—first to Ara’s slim neck, the soft hollow above her collarbone where the torchlight dimpled; then to the Queen’s heavy braid sliding over the curve of one quietly strong shoulder. Heat fluttered behind his ears. He forced his eyes upward, cleared his throat, pretended he had been studying the carvings on the far wall instead of the way silk clung to graceful backs. It was always like this: a flash of hunger, a lash of guilt, a quick disguise of intellect. No one ever noticed—or so he hoped.

The hum grew louder. A whisper of wind curled around him that didn’t belong to any draft; the braziers did not flicker, but his cloak lifted as if tugged by unseen fingers. He frowned and unclipped the leather strap. The Grimoire of Love pulsed once—just a heartbeat—and the cover split open by itself. Pages flipped in a frantic blur, parchment fluttering like startled doves. A thin thrill of alarm shot up his spine. The grimoire was many things—mischievous, temperamental—but it obeyed his hand; it did not act alone.

He stepped closer to the light, boots clicking softly. The pages stopped as suddenly as they had begun, ending on a sheet that hadn’t existed minutes before. The parchment was clean and crisp, the ink still wet enough to glisten in the gemlight. Symbol-lines curved across it, elegant strokes that pulsed faint silver. Lyan’s breath caught. The grimoire was writing new law into itself.

He traced the nearest sigil. A subtle warmth ran through his fingertip, as if the ink were alive. The symbol brightened, and a single word surfaced, letters hovering above the parchment like mist: Shadowbound.

He blinked. A soft click echoed inside his skull—the same crisp note the grimoire made when a new creature slot unlocked after a night of... research. But this note was deeper, almost mournful.

(You feel it too?) Cynthia’s calm voice flowed across his thoughts like candle-light across water.

(That’s not one of us.) Griselda snapped sparks in agreement, equal parts interest and warning.

Lyan exhaled through his nose. He leaned closer, reading. The text below the title flowed in graceful, archaic script. When passion burns past flesh and sinks into spirit, the lover’s shadow may answer the call. They are echoes, shaped by desire, tempered by loyalty, bound by the summoner’s breath. He skimmed further—descriptions of tiers, limitations, sample commands. Shadow Slaves. Not full spirits, not beasts, but something between—wraiths woven from emotion, anchored to his aura.

A rueful smile tugged his mouth. "Children of my sins," he murmured, words hardly louder than the hush of the gems.

(Or your stamina,) Lilith commented, velvet and amused. (Either way, congratulations on your... prolific devotion.)

Heat crept up his neck. He cleared his throat again—louder this time—to cover the blush. None of the women looked up; the Queen still prayed, Ara studied a chipped sapphire on the altar, Kassia honed her silence like a knife.

He focused on the page. A small spiral glyph in the lower corner glowed, pulsing in time with his heart. Instinct guided him; he pressed his palm flat against it. Cold flooded his veins first, then warmth, the two swirling like wine and water. Darkness bled out from the page, curling around his wrist in silky ribbons, sliding up his arm to the shoulder. The glow of the gems dimmed as the shadows thickened, until the air in front of him rippled.

Three silhouettes peeled away from the gloom as if stepping out of a mirror. They solidified slowly, detail by detail.

The first was slender as a reed, draped head to toe in shivering silk-black mist. Two slit eyes shone cat-bright beneath a hood, but no mouth marred the smooth lower half of its face. The edges of its form flickered, refusing to hold steady. Vharn. Lyan’s mind supplied the name without being told, as natural as recalling an old friend.

The second figure gained mass, shoulders broad, physique carved from shadowed obsidian. Its skin gleamed like polished stone; twin white eyes glowed gentle but sharp. Eloix inclined its head with the poise of a seasoned steward. The shadows at its feet melted silently into the floor.

The third creature stepped forward with a scrape of talons. Spindly legs, eight of them, lifted a lean body laced with shard-like armor plates. Two primary limbs ended in curved blades that glinted steel-bright. Where a face should be, rows of small, clicking teeth churned in perpetual hunger. Scythrel.

Lyan inhaled the cool scent that erupted around them—like night rain on slate. Surreal gratitude welled; these beings were his to command, born of nights filled with trust, sweat, whispered promises. He squared his shoulders.

"Vharn," he began, voice coming out steady despite the awe pooling in his gut. "Report if any scrying magic breaches the stone. You are silent unless you need to wake me." The hooded thing bowed; the silk of its form rippled once, then it leapt upward, folding into the ceiling’s dimmest corner, vanishing except for a faint distortion like heat over summer rock.

"Eloix." The humanoid shadow stepped forward. Up close, its expression was... kind. Strange for a shade. "Ensure they’re warm," Lyan ordered, glancing briefly at the Queen, resisting the instinct to study how the cloak settled over her curves. "Ensure they feel watched—but protected, not caged."

Eloix’s bow was slow, courtly. It drifted to the Queen’s side, folding its hands behind its back in a posture of silent guard. The Queen’s eyes widened for a moment, but she dipped her chin, acknowledging the new sentinel.

"Scythrel," Lyan whispered next. The beast straightened, blades brushing stone with a dry hiss. "Rip anything hostile. But... not too much. I want a torso left for questioning." He held its eyeless gaze—if the creature could even see. After a tense beat, Scythrel’s forelimbs folded like scissor blades, and it scuttled up to the doorframe, settling into stillness so perfect it became architecture.

Only then did Lyan allow a breath of relief. The shadows felt solid, obedient. Yet he sensed layers beneath, as if each held some imprint of his partners’ emotions: Belle’s soft reassurance in Eloix’s watchful stance; Josephine’s playful spark whispering in Vharn’s quick movements; perhaps even Wilhelmina’s ruthless precision in the way Scythrel’s limbs aligned perfectly with each crack of stone. The thought left him humbled—and a little afraid.

Ara still refused to look at him. But she held her injured arm lighter now, as if the presence of new guards eased an invisible weight. Kassia’s back remained a straight, immovable line—yet her sharpening slowed, the whetstone pause betraying curiosity. The Queen met his gaze at last. Her silver eyes were clear, no longer glazed by prophecy’s chains. She gave a long, slow nod. Approval. Gratitude. Command.

He returned it with a smaller nod, unable to trust his voice. A prickle of heat crawled from collar to hairline; he prayed they did not notice. Women always noticed, he feared, though they rarely said so.

There was nothing more to say. He had an army to coordinate, ruins to survey, dead to honor. He turned, boots whispering across flawless black marble. With each step up the spiral, fatigue tugged at his muscles, but another force pushed him onward: responsibility, yes, but also something newer, heavier—the knowledge that pieces of his own hidden heart now kept watch in this quiet tomb.

When he reached the first bend in the stair, he cast one look back. The sanctuary lay below like an ember in soot. Eloix had draped a spare cloak across Ara’s shoulders; Scythrel hunched above the arch like a gargoyle carved from night; the Queen leaned toward Kassia in soft counsel. It looked, absurdly, like a family.

He swallowed a thick knot in his throat and faced forward. Stone steps curved ahead, lit by torches guttering in war-torn brackets. Behind his eyes, Cynthia’s whisper followed him, a gentle hand between shoulder blades, urging but also soothing.

(They are not yet safe—but safer with you farther away for now.)

The air above the gutted observatory tower carried a thin, metallic chill, the kind that lingered after spell-fire charred the sky. Wind threaded through scorched merlons and whistled past cracked astrolabes, shivering the loose parchment scattered underfoot. Lyan rolled his shoulders once, forcing stiffness out of battered muscles, then pushed through the warped doorway. Smoke-tinged dawn poured in behind him, casting long blades of light across the chamber and making the dust drift like ghostly snow.

Someone—probably Arnold’s tireless quartermasters—had dragged the wreck of a stargazer’s worktable into the room’s center. Its once-polished mahogany edges were now splintered charcoal, but the surface held firm under layers of charcoal maps, broken sigil lenses, and scrolls sealed in cracked red wax. An empty seat waited at the table’s far side, its backrest scorched but upright—almost expectant.

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