Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 509: Children of Flesh and Shade (2)

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.

Erich leaned over a slender decanter of dark wine, hair still clotted with grey ash. He wore yesterday’s tunic, torn at one sleeve, and a smile that looked too casual for a man who’d tasted two hours of sleep. When he tipped the decanter, the stream wobbled, splashing crimson droplets onto a province-wide map of Varzadia. The ink bled. He didn’t notice.

Arnold sat half-perched on a corner of the table, boots dangling, methodically tearing strips from a slab of dried venison and placing them beside him—one for himself, one for any hungry soul who wandered past. He looked like a bear camped outside a beehive: dangerous, vaguely amused, and sticky with someone else’s blood that no one had bothered to wipe from his vambraces.

Wilhelmina arrived just before Lyan, her stride taut with caged thunder. A thin white bandage looped under one paul­dron where an arrow had glanced the previous night. She stood with arms folded, hair twisted tight in her war-knot, nodding at every logistics note but agreeing aloud with none. Every so often she cocked her head, listening for fresh reports from the runners scurrying up the tower stair.

Surena prowled the chamber’s edge like a lone wolf forced to share a den—eyes sharp, lips tight, checking casualty reports as scribes hurried in with fresh ink. She seldom spoke, only tapped numbers into an abacus with a muted click while her gaze drifted across the horizon through the shattered star-vault windows, weighing threats still hidden in the rubble below.

Josephine was the first to spot Lyan. She lifted two fingers in a lazy salute and kicked a chair back with her heel. "You’re late," she crowed, her grin too bright for the dim room. "Did the wind write you a poem on the climb, or are you just slow today?"

"No poem," Lyan answered, sliding into the seat. He tried not to wince when wood scraped a bruise on his ribs. "But it did critique my fashion sense, quite viciously."

A ripple of low laughter moved around the makeshift council. Even Wilhelmina’s stoic mouth twitched.

Arnold barked a deeper laugh, slapping his thigh hard enough to jingle mail rings. "You still wearing that butchered cloak? Ten thousand gold to whoever retrieves the King’s upper jaw from that throne gear," he added, half to himself. "I want to mount it over my hearth."

Erich raised the decanter in toast. "Add it to the war chest. We need something to pay the stonemasons once they tally every cracked pillar you two maniacs knocked down."

Lyan accepted a shallow tin cup from Josephine. The wine inside tasted like soot, but warmth unfurled through his chest all the same. His eyes skimmed the maps: whole districts reduced to charcoal smears; colored pins marking refugee clusters; hastily drawn war-fort symbols showing where sabotage charges still needed removal. Every pin felt like a shard of glass under his tongue. He forced himself to swallow.

Reports arrived in bursts, as though the runners outside worked a relay. Each parchment carried fresh ash from the streets or smelled of the triage tents’ pungent poultices.

"Two districts fully burned," Wilhelmina read out, her voice clipped yet steady. "Survivors relocated to the south courtyard. No clean water there yet."

"Teleportation nexus cracked—overflowing with raw mana," Surena added, flipping through her stack. "Healers say the flux is turning lantern glass into quartz."

"Western aquifer’s contaminated," Josephine continued, pressing a finger to the blotched script. Her tone softened. "They hauled six children out of mud that glowed green."

Lyan sipped and listened, the alcohol burning a path down his throat while his thoughts assembled like marching rows. "Seal the teleport hub," he said finally, voice low but clear. "Use dwarven spire-stakes. If it vents, the whole plateau collapses and we’ll wish for the King’s fireworks back."

Wilhelmina nodded once. "Harlan’s mages are an hour out. They’ll do it right."

Surena tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, leaving a streak of charcoal on her cheek. "One-third of the noble houses took caravans toward the border at dawn," she reported. "The rest surrendered before breakfast. Some dumped jewelled heirlooms in the streets as apology. Half the soldiers refused to chase them, said they’d had enough marching."

Erich rolled his cup between his palms, gaze fixed on the swirling wine. "A rebel faction from the southern marshes wants a diplomatic audience already. Claims they were never truly loyal to the Serpent Throne." He snorted. "Loyalty’s cheap when the throne’s ash."

Josephine tapped a pen against her teeth. "Funny how fast rats can read the wind. Wonder if they can read bread rations just as quick."

Wilhelmina cleared her throat, drawing all eyes. "We can’t glue this kingdom back together," she said, blunt as a hammer. "I propose we dismantle Varzadia—partition it into five protectorates, each overseen by Astellian governors. That gives us manageable pieces, prevents another tyrant wearing a shiny hat."

A murmur rumbled around the table—agreement mixed with caution. Lyan set his cup down gently. "Only under conditions," he said. "Conscripts get full pardons. No revenge courts dragging farmers to the gallows because they swung a spear when forced. And we feed them—grain, soup, bread. Desperate men listen to any new tyrant if their children starve."

Josephine’s eyes softened. "Make sure they fight for food, not flags." She shot Wilhelmina a look that said she would personally spear anyone who ignored that clause.

Erich exhaled through his nose and set the decanter away. "Agreed, then. Food first. Justice second." His mouth twisted wry. "And only after the stonemasons are paid, naturally."

Paper rustled at Surena’s elbow. She unfolded a crease-worn list and laid it flat. "Casualty roll," she said quietly. "Two hundred eleven Astellian under your banner, Commander." Her gaze flicked up, almost apologetic.

The room’s pulse slowed. Even the breeze outside seemed to hush. Lyan’s hand hovered before he forced fingers to lift the sheet. Ink blurred for a moment—perhaps sweat in his eyes, perhaps the ghosts crowding close. He traced down the columns, reading each name silently: foot soldiers he’d trained to hold formation; scouts he’d teased about poor camouflage; engineers who had joked about building a tavern in his honor after the war. Every name struck like a stone in deep water, sending ripples through memory.

Halfway down the second column he stopped. Orrin Hale. The letters looked too small, cramped between lines. Orrin—quiet boy with sand-brown hair who had brought Lyan bread the night he first came to the capital, back before titles mattered. The boy had laughed at Lyan’s awkward thanks, said he was practising for serving tables in peacetime. He had begged for a spot in Lyan’s expedition months later, beaming when granted messenger duty. Eager. Kind. Now ink on a list.

Josephine’s hand brushed Lyan’s sleeve. She didn’t speak, only squeezed, knuckles whitening. Wilhelmina bowed her head an inch; Surena set her abacus aside, throat working. Arnold chewed slower. Erich’s stare lost its focus, gaze drifting somewhere three streets away where the messenger had fallen.

Lyan folded the list with deliberate precision, creasing the paper into perfect quarters, then slipped it inside his coat pocket over his heart. The weight felt heavier than armor.

No one asked what he would do with it. They already knew: he would memorize every name, carry each like a quiet bell until the day those families found soil safe enough to plant grief.

A gust rattled the broken glass in the dome above. The moment passed. Arnold slapped the table, breaking the silence with forced thunder. "Enough sorrow. We still have a city to uncrook." He pushed the remaining jerky toward Lyan. "Eat something before you topple over, Commander. Ghosts don’t like skinny hosts."

Lyan accepted a strip and chewed, tasting ash, vinegar, and regret.

By mid-morning, the makeshift council disbanded to carry their directives downhill. Lyan swung into the saddle of a weary bay gelding alongside Erich and Arnold. The horse snorted, stamping on cobbles still warm enough to shimmer. Together they nudged their mounts down the main ramp that once paraded Varzadian triumphs. Now it bore gouges where siege claws had grasped for purchase.

The city groaned like an old ship. Masonry popped as it cooled; timbers wailed under shifting loads; somewhere a collapsed market stall finally surrendered with a bassy crunch. Soot painted everything the same tired grey until flakes of char began to look like untimely snow.

They passed under an archway split by an artillery shell. Lyan’s eyes caught movement—sparrows nesting in the crumbled cornice of a serpent king’s statue, weaving straw through the tyrant’s hollow eye sockets. A child, too small for war, had tied a faded red scarf around the stone neck, as if dressing a scarecrow to chase grief away.

They rode on. A bronze fountain depicting the first serpent queen now lay cracked in two; water pooled ankle-deep, tinting crimson where the copper leached. Refugees knelt to fill battered cups, too tired to marvel at corrupted beauty. Lyan dismounted, offered his canteen to a hunched woman whose hands shook. She refused at first—pride still defending scraps of dignity—then accepted, eyes glassy, whispering a blessing that turned to hoarse coughs.

Arnold guided his mount around fallen columns, noting each with a grunt and muttering costs under his breath. "Two hundred stones here, three hundred there—you’ll bankrupt us,"

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