Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 517: Scars and Promises (3)

"Hopeless romantics, the lot of you," Clarisse said, but her voice was breathy. She pulled Raine back to steal her taste straight from Raine’s lips—a quick flash of tongues—then winked at Lyan over Raine’s shoulder.

On the fringe, Lara hovered, silent shadow. Lyan reached a hand toward her. "You, too," he murmured. She stepped forward, not quite meeting any eyes, and knelt. Her kiss was feather-light—just a brush of lips, no sound but the faintest m—but her hands cupped his jaw with surprising heat. She tasted of mountain berries and rainwater collected in stone bowls. When she withdrew, she touched her forehead to his for one steady heartbeat, then sat back with a rare small smile.

The pile of affection threatened to topple him; his head swam. Each woman’s scent, taste, the sound of lips parting, the heat of breath—it layered like chords in a song, overwhelming yet harmonious.

Tara, half-laughing, fanned herself. "Okay, mathematicians—new calculation: we’re down to five hours if we keep this up."

Raine flopped beside Lyan, white hair spilling like moonlight over his thigh. "Someone put him in a ledger. We’ll take shares."

Alina, cheeks flushed rose, hugged his arm claimingly. "He’s mine tonight."

"Not all night!" Solia objected, sliding in to nuzzle Lyan’s shoulder—mmmh—leaving a wet imprint before licking it away with a playful flick. "I want at least the watch bell before dawn."

"Stop bargaining like merchants," Emilia growled, yet she was smiling. She pushed hair off her face, streak of soot now smudged across her brow like war paint. "We could just stack in order and swap positions every trumpet call."

Clarisse laughed—sharp, delighted. "We’ll have a queue outside like a soup line. How romantic."

A flicker of movement by the entrance silenced the uproar. Wilhelmina’s silhouette filled the flap, backlit by torchlight outside. She wore her undershirt and trousers, reed-straight posture unbent despite visible bandages crossing one muscular arm. In her hand: a tin mug of dark coffee that steamed faintly in the cool night air.

"If I have to watch another one of you unbuckle your boots," she said, each word clipped like dagger points, "I’m throwing him into the wagon and sealing it with runes."

Everyone froze mid-argument—hands halfway to laces, fingers caught in hair. Even Sigrid quieted, though her grin remained lion-wide.

Wilhelmina raised the mug to her lips, sipped, and arched an eyebrow. "Wait until Astellia."

Groans erupted: a choral wave of thwarted longing. Tara collapsed onto her back, pillow over her face. Solia flopped dramatically, arm over eyes. Raine pouted, bottom lip wobbling in exaggerated woe. Sigrid muttered something about missed opportunities in far-northern dialect.

Lyan managed a weak laugh, lifting one hand. "I second the motion to not die of exhaustion." He felt bruised in pleasant places already; the idea of eight separate love-marathons before sunrise tried to terrify his ribs.

Wilhelmina snorted, pivoted, and strode off, muttering, "Children," under her breath.

Left behind, the energy shifted. Not defeated, just redirected. They settled like embers inside a hearth—glowing rather than blazing. Alina curled against his left side, cheek on his chest. Raine draped across his right shoulder, fingers tracing lazy shapes along his pulse. Solia and Clarisse tangled together nearby, laughter turning to low giggles. Sigrid sprawled behind them, one thick arm thrown around everyone like a human blanket. Tara nestled against Lyan’s thigh, hammock of warmth. Emilia sat cross-legged, polishing a dagger but leaning her shoulder into his calves. Lara perched at the edge, silent guardian, though a gentle smile tugged her lips. The incense continued its slow twist of smoke, blurring lantern light into soft halos.

Stolen kisses replaced the earlier frenzy. Alina peppered mwah mwah along his collarbone. Raine pressed a hush of lips to the corner of his eye—mm. Clarisse leaned over to snatch a brief tongue-flicking kiss from him—slrp—and giggled when Sigrid’s hand smacked her hip in playful warning. Tara lifted his hand to her mouth, brushing each knuckle with almost devotional mh, mh, tasting the iron tang of dried blood no soap had removed.

He inhaled them all: clove smoke, sweat and perfume, faint aftertaste of mint from Solia’s earlier nibble, cinnamon breath from Emilia. The tension drained from his shoulders like thaw water.

(You look happy) Cynthia observed, a smile in thought.

(He’s cooked in honey) Lilith purred.

(Let the man rest) Arturia’s mental tone bore a grin.

Lyan closed his eyes against the flicker of lamp shadows. Somewhere outside, a watch horn sounded the hour—its low cry drifting under canvas like the call of distant whales. Boots thudded past: changing guard. The war machine still creaked, but inside this tent, time paused.

"Tomorrow," Surena said suddenly, voice soft yet carrying. She had slipped in to sit behind him, long legs folded. She pressed a chaste kiss to his shoulder, the whisper of her lips sparking a tiny shiver. "We’ll finish what we started."

_____

The march began while a silver dawn mist still clung to the valleys like gauze, softening the jagged outlines of Varzadia’s ruin behind them. Moisture beaded on iron helms and the manes of tired horses; every exhale rose in ghostly ribbons until the first shy rays of sunlight turned the world to pearl. Ahead lay the southern road—broken flagstones, mud-filled shell craters, a thousand discarded weapons glinting like teeth in the grass—but banners of Astellia fluttered anyway, tall and defiant, bright cobalt against the washed-out sky. They looked less like flags and more like declarations that some things, at least, had survived.

Lyan rode just left of the vanguard’s centerline. The dapple-grey gelding beneath him plodded with that careful, long-distance gait cavalry instructors drilled on day one—a march pace meant to conserve muscle and spare hooves. Raine hugged his back, arms looped under his cloak, cheek pillowed on the arch of his shoulder. Every bump in the road made her white hair tickle his chin. She dozed, but whenever the horse stumbled over a hidden rut, her fingers squeezed, and he felt her breath huff a soft mmf against his neck. The warmth of her was a small, secret fire in the morning chill.

Beside him Wilhelmina rode a black destrier so disciplined it never tossed its head, never nipped, never tired. Its polished chanfron matched the commander’s stern expression. She hadn’t smiled since dawn; she checked formation spacing by eye, counted supply wagons under her breath, and issued corrections with surgical precision: "Fourth file, close the interval... Scouts, stagger ninety paces." She caught Lyan glancing and gave a brusque nod—approval, or perhaps a reminder that leisure would wait.

Behind the pair, the heart of their odd army unspooled in loose braids rather than strict columns. Josephine strode on foot near the biscuit carts, tossing hardtack and dried fruit at passing soldiers like a mischievous innkeeper. "Catch or go hungry!" she sang, and helmets turned skyward like eager chicks. Her laughter rolled down the ranks, buoyant as spring water.

Emilia rode one flank, reins in one hand, the other tracing sigils that shimmered briefly around supply wagons—minor shield runes to ward against stray bandits. Sparks of crimson mana flickered across her broad knuckles each time her finger stitched a glyph, like tiny comets dying in daylight. She paused often to peer sideways at the forest, nostrils flaring for danger, the stance of a lioness shepherding cubs.

Clarisse had taken charge of an advance scouting knot. She and three light cavalrywomen in soot-stained cloaks broke ahead in bursts, weaving into overgrown lanes to flush out hidden paths, rejoining the column with jaunty salutes. Whenever she appeared, her golden hair caught the sun, turning her into a moving lantern that signaled road clear without a word.

Villages the war had only brushed now blinked awake to watch. First came timid faces at cracked shutters, then small knots at crossroads—potters with clay-stained hands, children half-hidden behind skirts, bakers clutching still-warm loaves. They waved hesitantly, uncertain if these newcomers were conquerors or deliverance. Lyan made a point of returning each gesture, two fingers lifted from his reins; it cost nothing, but he saw spines straighten, saw fear slacken its grip when the greeting was acknowledged.

Not everything was somber. Sigrid, walking alongside a wagon axle because even draft horses tired carrying her height all day, became a one-woman carnival. When a group of wide-eyed children clustered too close to the wheels, she bent, swung the smallest onto her broad shoulders, then—laughing—lifted an entire miniature mare they were feeding. The children shrieked joy; the pony blinked in mild confusion, legs pedaling at the air. Their mother gasped, then laughed too, pressing palms together in awed thanks. Sigrid grinned, flexed once, and set beast and boy back down as gently as if placing cups on a shelf.

Tara followed behind with healer’s pouches slung bandolier-style. She pressed herbal packets into calloused hands: comfrey for bruises, willow bark for fevers, lavender sprigs "for dreamless sleep." With each gift came a wink or a teasing admonishment: "Boil it, don’t chew it—unless you like tasting swamp," or "Rub this on your joints, not your bread." By the time the column passed the second hamlet, villagers lined the road just to see what blessing she’d hand out next.

Lyan took mental snapshots: the squeak of wagon wheels over broken cobble, the metallic clatter when a spare helmet tumbled from a cart, Josephine’s alto bark—"No, corporal, that’s pepper rations, not pitch!"—and Wilhelmina’s quieter replies into the eye of the wind. He noted which horses needed reshoeing, which supply crates rattled ominously, where the mud deepened enough to bog lighter carts. Old habits: always preparing for the moment peace fractured.

A few paces back, Surena reined her chestnut alongside Raine’s borrowed gelding. She kept her seat with feline ease, ash-grey hair braided tight against the breeze. "The cave ambush worked better than expected," she said, voice pitched low so it wouldn’t travel down the line.

Raine lifted her head from Lyan’s shoulder, eyelids heavy but bright. "And Abraham’s dagger work," she added, tone proud as any quartermaster unveiling new artillery. "Took out their rear chain of command in one night."

A grin curved Surena’s lips—rare, quicksilver. "Then the sudden retreat..."

"Perfectly timed," Raine finished. She straightened behind Lyan, arms tightening. "He doesn’t just play chess. He breaks the board."

Lyan, hearing every word though he pretended focus on the horizon, shook with a small, soundless laugh. Heat crept up the back of his neck despite the cool air.

(We’re proud of you) Cynthia murmured, warmth like a blanket pulled higher.

(Yes... and next time, fewer risks, please) Arturia’s chide feather-light.

(He looked cool though) Lilith purred, and he felt rather than heard her wicked smile.

He could have answered—I was terrified half the time—but let the spirits talk among themselves. Ahead a new village came into view, smoke rising from blacksmith chimneys, roofs patched with mismatched tiles. Lyan nudged his gelding to a slower pace so the column compressed, presenting a friendlier front.

As they passed the first house—a leaning wattle-and-daub hut with one shutter missing—an elderly man stepped onto the stoop holding a fiddle. Without preamble he dragged the bow across strings, coaxing a tremulous note that fluttered like a wounded bird, then steadied into a bright, skipping tune. Children poured from doorways, clapping off-beat, and more villagers appeared, forming a ragged procession alongside the march. The music spurred tired feet; soldiers straightened, some tapping spear shafts to the rhythm.

Josephine seized the opportunity. She popped open a crate, snatched a fistful of dried apple rings, and tossed them to a gaggle of children. Their delighted squeals harmonized with the fiddle. A swordswoman in the rearguard joined in, whistling counter-melody. Even Wilhelmina’s jaw unclenched enough to allow a faint upward twitch—gone in an instant, but Lyan caught it and stored it away like a rare gemstone.

At a crossroads shrine—a weather-dulled statue of the harvest goddess missing one arm—Clarisse’s scouts rejoined, cantering easy. "Road’s clear two leagues," she reported, saluting with her saber still sheathed. Then, sotto voce for Lyan’s ears only: "Some deserters shadowing, but they’re half-starved and headed north. I left them bread. Figured fear of famine’s worse than fear of us."

He nodded approval. Mercy where affordable tightened loyalty better than chains.

Sigrid shouted something guttural in her northern dialect and performed a handstand while still walking beside the wagon, bare arms bulging. The pony-ridden children from earlier screamed laughter; one tried to mimic the maneuver and landed in hay, triumphant anyway. Tara tossed Sigrid a pouch—"bone-knit powder, for your wrists later"—and the giantess answered with a salute executed upside-down.

Further back, Emilia dismounted long enough to help a broken-axle cart—they’d come across a refugee family struggling with two oxen and a wheel split at the rim. She jammed a dagger under the hub, muttered a strengthening cantrip, and the wood fused long enough for them to trundle into the next village. The father tried to kneel in thanks; she hauled him upright with a growled "Save your spine for plowing." Lyan watched the exchange, pride swelling: his people didn’t need orders to build the future they wanted.

Raine, still perched behind him, began humming the fiddle tune softly. Her breath vibrated against his neck, each note a small percussion on skin. She interlaced fingers across his sternum, thumbs stroking absent circles over the ringmail seams. "Your heart’s calmer than yesterday," she murmured.

"It enjoys music," he answered.

"And victory parades?"

"Those less so."

She snickered, kissed the nape of his neck—just a brush of lips he felt more than heard—and resumed humming.

Surena matched pace on the other side now, voice a susurrus under hoofbeats. "Tomorrow night when camp’s set, we’ll finish debrief. I want full annotation on that lightning-seal you improvised." frёeωebɳovel.com

"You’ll have it."

"And your ribs?"

"Only bruised."

Her eyes, silver-grey like distant rain, lingered on the edge of a smile. "Good." She let her horse drop back, giving orders to her sub-commanders, and Lyan breathed easier. Even praise felt like an interrogation under that gaze.

(We’re proud of you)

(Yes... and next time, fewer risks, please)

(He looked cool though)

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