Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 515: Scars and Promises (1)

The sun had begun to settle behind the scorched silhouette of Varzadia’s broken gates, staining the camp an autumn orange that made every torn banner look briefly like dying leaves. Lyan paused on a rise of rubble that used to be the guard-house parapet, hands braced on his knees, and let the whole vista soak into his bones. Broken walls, tents pitched in wild angles, cook-fires smoking where marble fountains had once sprayed scented water. The hush was uncanny. He could still feel where cannon-runed ballista bolts had screamed over this exact spot two nights ago, feel the phantom tremor of cavalry charging past, but the only noise now was the dry flap of canvas and the distant jangle of harness buckles.

His body didn’t know what to do with quiet. Muscles twitched, expecting the next alarm. Even the spirits were subdued—Griselda’s usual crackle lay soft as banked coals, Cynthia’s calm a deep, watchful stillness.

He ran a thumb across the edge of his breastplate, finding faint ridges where lightning had rebounded earlier that day. He should have asked a farrier to straighten them, but there had been queens to hide and shadows to bind. Priorities.

A soft whistle cut through the glow. Josephine strolled up the slope, hands tucked behind her head as if she were admiring a sunset over vineyards instead of the smoking carcass of a metropolis. Her curls were tied back with twine; soot streaked her laugh-lined cheeks.

"Still breathing? Disappointing." The smack she delivered to his chest was light but rang off metal like a hammer on a bell.

Lyan made a show of staggering. "That’s how you welcome the returning hero?"

She peered up at him—she was half a head shorter, but her grin always made her feel taller. "Hero? I thought you were just the walking disaster we follow for entertainment."

He tried to laugh and found his throat had gone dry. "There were... complications."

"I know. I counted the scorch marks." She leaned closer, voice dropping. "You got the royals tucked away?"

"Safe enough." His eyes flicked reflexively toward the palace ruins, though from here the hidden stairs were invisible. "For now."

"Good." She bounced on her heels. "Because your other headaches are waiting." She jerked her chin toward the lower camp meadow.

A ring of torches burned there, smoke curling into dusk like question marks. Within their circle he could pick out silhouettes—tall, short, slender, broad—all standing unnaturally still, as though they’d choreographed their poses to menace him.

His mouth went dry for a different reason. "All of them?"

"Every last jealous, half-starved, over-achieving one of them."

He exhaled through his nose. A healthy man would feel grateful. A smarter one might feel afraid. He felt both.

Josephine linked an arm through his and half-dragged, half-guided him down the path. As they walked, camp life parted around them: engineers repacking tools, scouts sharpening arrows, a pair of surgeons arguing about supply lists. Most offered a nod or a salute; some whispered, That’s him; one refugee child waved shyly before being whisked away by her older brother. Lyan returned each gesture automatically, but his attention kept sliding ahead to the circle of firelight where familiar figures waited.

The smell hit first—a pot of chickpea stew simmering somewhere, mingled with fresh-cut pine for torches, sweat from half-washed soldiers, and under it the faint, stubborn perfume of lilac. That would be Surena; she never smelled of blood even when soaked in it.

The women didn’t move when he crossed the torch-line. They didn’t have to—presence alone filled the space. It felt like stepping into the eye of a storm where all the wind had decided to hold its breath.

Raine broke ranks first. She looked impossibly pale against the glow, hair white as moon-bleached bone, but her eyes—bright quicksilver—shined alive. She launched herself the last meter, boots skidding, and rammed her forehead into his cuirass hard enough he grunted.

"You idiot," she whispered, voice shaking in a way she’d deny later. "I thought the palace ate you."

He touched the back of her head, fingers sliding into silk-fine strands. "I was busy."

"That’s your excuse?" She pulled back, slapped his shoulder, then fisted the leather strap of his chest guard and yanked him down for a kiss—short, fierce, tasting of cold tea and adrenaline.

The instant their lips parted, Surena stepped forward. Ash-grey hair brushed her shoulders, undulating with each poised stride. Everything about her exuded deliberate control: the measured blink, the half-lifted chin, the hand that caught his elbow even before he straightened.

"I counted six new scars," she murmured. "Explain."

"Later," he said.

"Mm." She didn’t smile, didn’t frown—just leaned in and pressed her lips to his cheekbone, then lower, finding the pulse just under the jaw hinge. It was so subtle, so silent, yet it made every hair on his arms rise.

Behind her, Emilia rolled her eyes like a restless lion penned too long. "Move over, commander." She slapped the flat of her greatsword to the ground as if planting a flag, then grabbed Lyan by the front of his armor and pulled. He half-expected the breastplate to warp.

Fire-colored hair fell around her shoulders, smelling faintly of cinnamon oil she used to polish sword hilts. Her kiss began aggressive—teeth scraping his lower lip—then melted into something slower, deeper, as though she were mapping the exact shape of safety inside his mouth. When she drew back her eyes glowed, and she gave a low satisfied hum like a smith approving the temper of steel.

Alina hopped in place, arms folded, black ponytail bouncing. "Some of us are short, remember? Kneel!"

He did. She seized his cheeks in kid-gloved hands and squished them until his lips puckered. "Too long," she scolded. "You promised letters."

"I sent two." The words came out garbled.

"Two? I wrote you eleven." She pressed a series of rapid-fire kisses to his cheeks, forehead, nose—each a tiny stamp of ownership—then, with a final huff, hugged him so tightly his ribs creaked. "You smell like ash," she mumbled into his collar. "I missed this smell."

Clarisse drifted in next—no rush. She moved like someone who always had one more secret than anyone else. Her gold hair captured every tongue of flame, turning it to molten metal around her shoulders. "Worry ages a woman," she said lightly. "Do you see new lines?" She lifted his hand to her face, guiding his thumb across the faint crinkle near her mouth.

"I see nothing but trouble," he said, letting the pad of his thumb pause at the corner of her lips.

"Lucky for you I enjoy trouble." She rose on tiptoe and brushed a whisper-soft kiss at the edge of his ear, breath tickling. "Don’t make a habit of near-death, darling. I have retirement plans."

Solia elbowed Clarisse aside. "Retirement’s boring." Brown hair escaped her braid in reckless curls. She planted both hands on Lyan’s shoulders, stepped up on his boots, and pressed a sudden hungry kiss to his mouth—no warning, all teeth and laughter. When she pulled back she left a playful nip that made him wince.

"Miss us?" she asked, brown eyes sparkling like fresh-struck flint.

"Every arrow’s flight," he said.

A low, throaty chuckle announced Sigrid. She loomed behind him, arms like sculpted oak branches. She grabbed his waist, hoisted him clean off the ground before he could squeak, and spun him in a dizzying arc. The world blurred—orange torches, grinning faces, darkening sky—then righted when she plunked him back on his feet. "Not broken," she pronounced. "Good." She bent, caught his mouth in a grin-wide kiss that was somehow both affectionate and slightly possessive, then patted his cheek like he was a favorite hound.

Tara slid in while his head was still spinning. Her brown hair was braided with tiny cedar beads that clicked softly. She cupped his jaw, studied him with healer’s precision, then tipped his face sideways and kissed him slow—her lips cool, thumb tracing the hinge of his jaw as if measuring pulse. When she withdrew, she smacked his shoulder. "You dared not write," she scolded, but her smile softened the reprimand.

He started to answer, lost the words, and murmured, "I might pass out."

(You’re smiling too wide, Lyan) Cynthia’s voice was warm water over stones.

(He looks like a drunk goat in love) Lilith’s velvet giggle followed.

(Quiet. Let him have this) Arturia gentle, approving.

A movement at the edge of the fire: Lara. The mountain scout approached like dusk incarnate, red hair dark in shadow, tan skin glowing faint with exertion. She didn’t speak—she rarely did—but she touched two fingertips to her lips, then to his heartplate: I’m glad you returned. He covered her hand with his, nodding. No more was needed.

And still one remained.

Emilia’s deep kiss had left him unsteady, but the camp grew quieter—as if everyone held collective breath—when Surena at last stepped forward. She didn’t rush, didn’t smile, just lifted elegant fingers to tilt his chin, turning his head as though examining a blade for nicks.

"I counted six new scars," she said again, softer. "Explain."

"Negotiations turned... physical."

A single brow rose. "You win?"

"Eventually."

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