Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 510: Morning and Next Phase (4)

The war chamber of Fortress Eboncliff smelled of damp slate, lamp-oil, and the lingering copper tang of the night’s slaughter. Smoke from an overworked brazier curled against the rafters, painting lazy whorls that never quite escaped into the higher dark. Outside, the clang of scavenged armor being hammered straight drifted up the stairwells in ragged intervals, every ring a reminder that dawn was already old and the ruse had to be perfect before sunset.

Wilhelmina’s boots clicked in impatient staccato as she paced from chart-table to arrow-slit, counting under her breath. She paused only long enough to swipe a sleeve across the frosted glass, squinting at the gray courtyard below where sappers wrestled broken beams into something vaguely resembling a catapult. Soot streaked the curve of her cheekbone; chalk dust powdered the knuckles of the hand gripping her slate.

Lyan tracked her movements while pretending to study the room’s battered map. The parchment was blotched by spilled wine—Varzadian, judging by the purple stain—and dotted with quick black circles where Wilhelmina had calculated false barracks, extra signal fires, phantom latrines. A fortress lives in its small noises, she had told him once; if the scouts catch even one missing clatter, they know the garrison’s thin. He believed her.

"How long?" he asked, breaking the silence that vibrated like a bow string drawn just shy of release.

Wilhelmina blew out a careful breath, words ghosting in the cold. "Three days if we’re lucky. Two if the mist lifts too soon. Illusions drink focus like brandy. Alicia’s sorcery is subtle but brittle—Belle’s glamour can mask the cracks, yet even she will fray if the strain lasts."

Belle, kneeling by the fire pit to warm her fingers, lifted her chin. The flames danced gold across purplish-pink hair that refused to stay braided. "They’ll see exactly what we want them to see," she said, voice soft but edged. "Let them count ten thousand torches. Let them smell bread baking for nonexistent mouths."

Josephine lounged at the end of the long table, one armored leg propped on a toppled chair. Her gauntlet tapped a brisk tattoo against the thigh-plate, emerald eyes flicking between Wilhelmina’s grim calculation and Belle’s poised confidence. "And while they’re gawking at ghost armies," she purred, "my riders will whisper in every hedgerow from here to the river. A wagon overturned, a patrol vanished, a phantom banner glimpsed at dusk. By the time the serpent sends scouts for answers, we’ll be drinking their wine in the capital square."

Lyan’s gaze, traitorous, dipped to the curve of Josephine’s calf where steel gave way to leather and then to bare skin nicked by a fresh graze. Heat pricked behind his ears. He snapped his attention to the glaive leaning against the wall, silently cursing the part of him that kept cataloging thigh-luster when doom marched toward them.

(Caught again,) Lilith cooed, amused silk curling through his thoughts.

(Discipline, commander,) Cynthia sighed, though a smile colored the words.

Ignoring them, Lyan cleared his throat. "And your cavalry?"

Josephine slid off the chair like water rolling from a blade, every movement deliberate provocation. "We’ll be ghosts haunting every path, Commander," she said, voice dropping into that smoky register she used right before dice were cast. "They’ll swear they saw an army on the high road, or heard it on the valley floor—won’t matter which, because the fear works either way."

Alicia hovered near the map’s edge, tiny notebook clutched like a talisman. Her silver eyes had dark crescents beneath them—evidence of a night spent knitting illusion threads until dawn pried them loose. Still, she stepped forward. "I can stitch patrol silhouettes to ramparts," she offered, the words brittle but determined. "Torches, distant boot-scuffs, the illusion of smiths beating iron. But I’ll need anchor points—actual lanterns, bits of mirrored glass—to catch stray moonlight."

"Done," Wilhelmina said before Lyan could. She scribbled a row of x marks along the north wall. "Quartermasters, six pikes with lantern hooks. Belle, sprinkle broken mirror shards near the torches. Scatter them, don’t line them up."

Belle saluted with two fingers, easy grin concealing exhaustion. "Shards and shadows—my favorite dice."

Lyan’s mind raced three steps farther, seeing the whole mirage breathing: corpses in tidy hero-poses, the stench of death hidden beneath pitch and straw; spare helmets bobbing on gate parapets as if watchmen dozed inside; a fake command tent big enough to house a general staff, where two illusionary Lyans would pace and confide in phantom captains. A flicker of amusement flitted through him—if only real strategy were that neat. He crushed it down; humor could wait.

"Xena, Ravia—" he began.

"We know," Ravia cut in calmly. Her voice was low stone on stone, silver eyes never blinking. "Silent paths only."

Xena offered a wolf-ish smirk. "They won’t hear us even if they strain." She tugged her bowstring, loosing a muted twang that promised arrowflight before a man could whisper.

Wilhelmina tapped the slate again, leaving a crescent of chalk under her nail. "One more layer: dummies in the courtyard." She glanced at Belle and Alicia. "Straw-filled armor, glamours to suggest breathing. Their proportions need variety—men, women, a few stooped as if older veterans. Scouts notice uniformity."

Alicia nodded, already sketching illusions in air. Belle added, "And some will lean on spears near the infirmary tent, feigning exhaustion. War’s messy; let’s make them smell it."

The door banged open. A quartermaster hustled in dragging an armload of battered cuirasses. He froze, eyes darting across the gathered officers as though he’d stumbled into the war council of demigods. Lyan waved him closer. "Stack them by the west archway," he ordered. The man obeyed, then scurried out, cheeks pale.

Josephine’s laughter fluttered behind him. "Even our own men think we’re legends now."

"Legends bleed like everyone else," Wilhelmina muttered, though her shoulders squared at the acknowledgement.

Night began its slow creep, violet seeping into narrow windows. One by one, the officers dispersed to oversee their slices of deception. Belle led a train of scouts carrying straw-stuffed mantles. Josephine strode off with a swagger, issuing mock orders to phantom sentries just to hear them echo. Xena melted into the hallway, Ravia gliding after her like a longer shadow.

Lyan lingered beside Alicia at the hearth. Sparks rose with every log shift, painting warm halos across her gaunt face. He noticed how she flexed her fingers after each sigil, pain buzzing under the skin. "Don’t overextend," he said, voice lowered so only she heard. "We need you whole at the gates of the capital."

She startled at the gentleness, then nodded, silver hair catching the glow. "I’ll rest in shifts." Her lips bent upward before she slipped away, shoulders straighter for the caution.

From the doorway Belle tossed a parting jibe: "Commander, your double in the fake tent needs a bit more smugness. Can you lend it a wink?"

"Just make them convincing," Lyan replied, but a ghost of a smile tugged his mouth.

Soon the hall was empty except for Wilhelmina, chalk whispers scraping as she revised calculations. Her braid had fallen completely loose, strands catching the torchlight like rose gold. Lyan approached, not bothering to hide the weariness in his eyes.

"You’ve checked the numbers thrice," he said softly.

"And I’ll check them a fourth." She blew gently on fresh chalk, smudging excess. Her fingers stilled, and she looked up. "But it will hold, Lyan. Three days. We only need one."

Across the chamber a cold draft flicked the torches, sending shadows scuttling like rats. Lyan felt the spirits stir.

(Ask her why she follows you,) Cynthia suggested, gentle as falling ash.

Lilith countered with languid amusement. (Ask her to share that braid again tonight. She ties order to chaos beautifully.)

He silenced them with a breath. "Thank you, Wilhelmina," he said instead. "For trusting my gamble."

She met his eyes, blue clear as glacier run-off. "You lead, I follow. Simple."

But he saw more in that steady gaze—fatigue rubbed raw by hope, the rare thrill of yielding command, maybe even a sliver of fear. Before he could decipher it, she snapped her slate shut, pivoted toward the door, and was gone—chalk dust swirling in her wake like snow caught by a closing window.

Night roared up from the courtyard. Alicia’s illusions came alive: cookfire smoke coiling where no embers burned, silhouettes pacing ramparts, sparks ringing from empty forges where phantom hammers struck phantom steel. A low wind carried the scent of pitch and damp straw across the walls, marrying lie to reality so tightly even Lyan had to squint to see the seams.

On the battlements, two "Lyan" figures appeared, conjured by Belle—one conferring with a fake strategist, the other scanning horizons with a spyglass. The real Lyan watched them move with uncanny accuracy, half expecting to feel his own bones turn puppet.

"You’ve got my limp wrong," he muttered, amused.

(The left knee twinges only in rain,) Lilith teased. (Tell her.)

Not tonight, he thought. Tonight perfection mattered more than pride.

Footsteps clattered behind him—Wilhelmina returned, slate swapped for helm. "All set," she murmured, voice tight but shining with hard purpose.

Lyan nodded, hand instinctively gripping his glaive. "Then we move."

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