Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 518: Scars and Promises (End)

At the rear of the column, an utterly ordinary wagon bounced along the ruts — so ordinary that most soldiers’ eyes slid right past its sagging tarpaulin, its mud-spattered wheels, the thin cracks in its faded paint. Only careful inspection revealed the whisper-fine runes drawn by Raine’s alchemy chalk: sigils that bent light so edges blurred, that dimmed sound, that coaxed attention elsewhere. The illusion was deliberate mundanity, the best kind of camouflage in a triumphant procession.

Inside, Ara sat ramrod straight on a crate of barley, hands folded in her lap as though she still expected palace tutors to grade her posture. She’d bound her hair into a traveler’s knot to hide its regal length, yet a few chestnut strands escaped to brush her cheeks each time the wagon jolted. She spent the bumps counting breaths, reminding herself she could breathe now without permission.

Kassia sprawled opposite, one boot braced on the sideboard, a weather-worn book balanced on her thigh. She turned pages with a casual flick that belied the tension singing through her shoulders. The book was a treatise on sword forms; Lyan had slipped it to her at dawn with a muttered "For the boredom." She pretended disinterest, but Ara noticed how her sister’s fingertip lingered on margin notes where Lyan’s ink sketched corrections: Step left to break line. Use reflection only as last resort. Each annotation seemed to steady her, like invisible handholds.

Their mother, no longer draped in state robes but in a plain wool traveling cloak, sat between them sipping tea from a dented tin cup. She cradled it as if it were a chalice. The Queen — former Queen, Ara corrected — said little, yet every slow blink, every thoughtful sip spoke volumes. Freed from the crown’s prophetic tyranny, she was relearning silence as something chosen, not enforced.

Eloix, the shadow servant, moved about with unhurried precision. Though its form looked carved from evening mist, each gesture preserved perfect etiquette: kneel, pour, present. A faint sparkle of tourmaline at its wrist marked the mana tether to Lyan’s will, but the creature’s poise felt wholly organic, almost proud.

"Starleaf, with a pinch of frostmint. Mistress Raine’s instructions," Eloix said gently, steam swirling around its shapeless mouth. The voice was tonal but not cold — a quiet baritone that somehow filled the cramped space without echoing.

Kassia narrowed suspicious eyes over the book spine. "Why does a shadow know how to steep tea?"

Eloix tilted its head like a librarian humoring a noisy patron. "Perfection takes practice," it replied, offering the cup with a slight incline, as though the answer were self-evident. Ara saw a twitch at her sister’s lips — the beginning of a reluctant smile quickly smothered by pride.

The wagon lurched over a pothole, sending everyone into a gentle sway. The Queen steadied Ara with one hand, Kassia with the other. Her touch was light, almost hesitant, as if she feared exerting authority now that the title was gone.

Outside, the world changed cadence when Lyan’s horse drew parallel to the wagon boards. The rhythmic clop of hooves slowed; leather saddles creaked. Every few minutes he would reach out and rap knuckles on the planks: tap-pause-tap-tap. Two longs and two shorts — a code he had improvised that first night: Still with you. Each repetition carried a different undertone: earlier, reassurance; later, something closer to affection.

Kassia closed her book over a finger to mark the page. "He thinks he’s subtle," she muttered, but the faint color on her cheeks betrayed gratitude.

Ara’s expression softened. "He’s not," she whispered, adjusting the shawl across her concealed bandages.

Their mother allowed herself the smallest nod, eyes reflecting torchlight that slipped through canvas seams. "He’s trying." There was reverence in her tone, as though trying itself were sacred after years of people who offered only demands.

Spirits of the road seeped into the wagon: distant hoofbeats, the occasional cheer drifting down the ranks, the metallic scent of wet soil warming under mid-morning sun. Ara closed her eyes a moment and tried to imagine these sounds divorced from fear. For the first time such imagining felt possible.

By noon the high walls of Astellia crowned the horizon, white stone gleaming where last week’s drizzle had washed away siege soot. Trumpeters on the battlements spotted returning banners and sent bright fanfares spiraling over the valley. Petal bearers — children from guild orphanages, florists hoping for favor — lined the approach road, baskets trembling in small hands. As each regiment crested the ridge, petals soared into sunlight: bursts of rose and saffron, snow flurries of cherry blossom that caught on helmets and braided hair. Horses snorted when blossoms drifted across their eyes; soldiers laughed, brushing pink confetti from breastplates.

The enchanted wagon merged with a supply line and vanished into background churn. Glamour runes blurred its outline until onlookers saw only another hay cart wobbling along. Lyan, still riding guard, dropped back a pace, hat brim shadowing his face. From beneath, his eyes roved every rooftop for archers, every alley for silhouettes that didn’t clap. Old habits again.

Trumpets blasted a final chord as the column passed under the Gate of Dawn. Commerce shutters flapped open, revealing balconies draped in blue-and-silver bunting. Merchants hurled ribbons that snagged on spears like fishhooks; bakers flung heel-ends of sweet loaves soldiers snatched mid-air. Somewhere a bard had coaxed a portable organ onto a balcony and pumped out an enthusiastic, if slightly off-key, victory march that collided cheerfully with the martial drums near the palace square.

But not a single herald proclaimed salvation of Varzadia’s royals. Court scribes, briefed hours earlier, shouted an edited chronicle: "Lyan Arcanium, breaker of the Serpent Throne!" "Heroes of the Western Front!" "Peace secured, tyrants undone beneath crumbling stone!" The crowd roared approval, none the wiser that three of those tyrants rode within arm’s reach disguised as refugees.

(Feels strange erasing them so quickly,) Cynthia murmured.

(Better ink than blood,) Arturia answered.

Lilith giggled. (And secrets make life spicy.)

Erich waited atop the marble steps of the diplomatic hall, polished boots planted wide, cape billowing with practiced flair. Behind him unfurled the full court pageant: lords in brocade, stewards with scroll cases, town captains in best mail pretending not to gape at Sigrid’s height as she lumbered past. When Lyan dismounted, Erich descended two steps, arms open.

"Another victory," he boomed, drawing Lyan into a crushing embrace that smelled of lavender soap and parade sweat. He leaned close enough for only Lyan to hear, "Another refusal. You’ll say yes eventually."

Lyan chuckled, though his ribs ached. "And become your problem? No thanks." freewēbnoveℓ.com

Erich threw his head back and laughed for the crowd, making rejection look like camaraderie. Applause rippled outward.

Wilhelmina strode down the line, parchment rolls tucked under one arm like cudgels. She distributed troop dispersal orders with swift precision, each packet sealed in red wax still warm from the sigil press. When a cluster of admirers surged forward waving garlands, she responded with a flat glare capable of sanding wood. One particularly bold young woman thrust a bouquet directly at her breastplate; Wilhelmina slapped the flowers aside so hard petals exploded like tiny fireworks.

Josephine rolled her eyes theatrically. "She needs wine," she stage-whispered to no one in particular. Then, spotting a wineseller’s stall, she commandeered two goblets, shoved a coin into the stunned vendor’s hand, and marched after the scowling commander.

Crowd noise blurred for Lyan. Trumpets and cheers echoed in marble canyons, but some corner of his mind tracked the dull wagon as it peeled from the procession, directed by subtle hand signals from a shadowy aide into a narrow estate road flanked by sculpted hedges. Good. Eloix would guide them to the villa.

Petals papered his cloak; one lodged behind his ear. Raine, remounted now, flicked it away with a soft laugh. Sigrid accepted three wreaths—one on each massive bicep like absurd corsages, one balanced on her head like a too-small crown. Emilia graciously bowed to an old veteran who pinned his last campaign ribbon onto her sash.

For a flicker Lyan allowed himself to believe this could last: the smell of sweetbread mingling with cavalry dust, children’s cheers drowning out sentinel drums. But instinct tugged his gaze to an alley where shadow lingered a breath too long. His eyes narrowed; the shape resolved into nothing more sinister than a stray dog rifling garbage. Still, he felt his shoulders tense, armor creak. Peace, he reminded himself, needed practice too.

Erich turned back, waving him toward the council doors. "At least share the dais," the prince insisted.

But Lyan had already begun to slip sideways, steps silent on flagstone. One moment he stood haloed by petals; the next, he was a blur in the milling throng, cloak hood dipping, body threading through gaps between cheering townsfolk.

Wilhelmina spotted him vanishing and nearly growled, but Josephine caught her elbow and forced the wine cup into her hand. "Drink. He’ll come back—he always does."

Wilhelmina sniffed, sipped, almost smiled at the taste, then glared at the emptied street where the mercenary had disappeared.

And Lyan slipped away from the celebration.

_____

The moon was high and round above the hills when Lyan left the cobbled carriageway and followed a narrow, rose-hedged path up to the villa. Here, beyond the last lamplit avenues of Astellia, the night felt older, tinged with wood-smoke from distant hearths and the dusty perfume of late-blooming jasmine. Josephine’s seal—a stylised lily etched into a copper sigil plate—pulsed blue at the wrought-iron gate, answering the silent key of his aura. In that faint shimmer he could see how neglect had softened the estate: ivy curling around unused lantern brackets, a shutter hanging slightly askew, moss freckling marble stairs that once gleamed for banquets.

He knocked only once—three slow knuckles on weather-dark cedar—then let his hand drop. Soft footsteps crossed the vestibule; a bolt slid back with a muted clack. When the door opened, the woman standing there looked almost like a stranger wearing the Queen’s bones. She was barefoot on the cool tiles, plain wool dress cinched at the waist, dark hair unadorned except for a single ribbon to keep it off her brow. The absence of a crown—or the hum of any relic—made her seem lighter, as though royalty itself had been a lead weight set aside.

"So," she said after a heartbeat, voice carrying the calm of stone chambers and sleepless nights. "We’re dead."

"You’re free," he answered, and discovered the words had waited all day in his chest. They felt heavier out here, where no cheering crowd could drown them in metaphor.

Lines tightened at the corners of her eyes—grief, relief, something in between—and she stepped back, allowing him across the threshold. The foyer smelled faintly of beeswax and fresh bread; candles in wall sconces fluttered, casting warm ellipses across parquet once polished to mirror shine. Somewhere deeper in the villa, floorboards creaked.

Ara appeared first at the archway to a side salon. The lamplight clung to the curve of her cheek, highlighting a healing bruise she hadn’t bothered to conceal. She wore borrowed riding trousers rolled at the ankles and an oversized men’s shirt she’d knotted at her waist. It should have looked ridiculous, but the confidence with which she carried the fabric turned it into regalia of its own. Brown eyes, clearer than when he last saw them in the wagon, locked on him.

"Then let me live," she said—not a plea, but a compact. It was the same phrase she’d spoken that morning, yet now the quiet drawing room held space for those words to echo.

Lyan’s throat worked. Answers crowded there—promises, warnings—but none felt right. Instead, he lifted a hand and laid his fingertips gently on her shoulder, the same place he’d once pressed to pour healing mana. The warmth through cotton was real, human; he let it say everything he couldn’t.

From deeper inside the villa came a flicker of lamplight and the rustle of pages turning. Kassia glided into the corridor like a cat, steps soundless on the inlaid wood. The oversized cloak she’d worn for travel had been exchanged for a simple tunic belted with jute cord; her freshly cut hair brushed jawline, catching silver where the moon filtered through lattice windows. A slim duelling manual was tucked beneath her arm, thumb marking a page.

"Mother has claimed the east wing bedroom," she announced, tone dry. "Ara keeps unpacking crates we’re meant to leave untouched. And I," she held up the book, "found this among the villa library’s ’light reading.’"

Lyan managed a half smile. "Good. Nobody’s idle."

"Idle?" Kassia’s brow arched. "I’ve spent all afternoon ensuring the kitchen knives aren’t ceremonial." The corner of her mouth twitched upward. "Someone around here should know what’s practical."

She set the manual on a side table, then stepped past Ara, gliding until she and Lyan stood beneath a spindle-window where moonlight laid clean bars on the floorboards. When Kassia angled her head, strands of gold-brown hair caught the pale light like softened copper.

"Walk me out." It sounded like an order, but the tilt of her eyes—almost shy—softened the edges.

Lyan dipped his head, nudged the door wider, and motioned her through. Outside, the veranda opened to a terraced garden tangled with untended box-hedges, broadleaf lilies, and fragrant night-violets that perfumed the air. Gravel crunched underfoot as they descended shallow steps. Two stone benches flanked a dry fountain, its once-singing waterworks stilled by neglect.

They halted near the fountain basin. From here, the capital’s distant glow barely cleared the tree line, a faint amber dome behind black silhouettes of cypress. Above, lunar light spilled over Kassia’s shoulders, illuminating the faint scar along her collarbone where the gauntlet’s runes had burned.

She folded arms, stared up at the stars as if choosing one. "One day," she said quietly—voice softer than in the wagon, stripped of either sarcasm or desperation—"I’ll make you regret not kissing me when I asked."

A cricket chirped somewhere in the shrubbery. He heard his own breath, felt heartbeats pacing each other: his and hers.

"You never asked," he reminded, but the words lacked rebuke; they were invitation.

"Then I’ll start now." She turned fully, close enough that her boot toes touched his. Moonlight outlined her lashes, softened the cut of her jaw.

She leaned in. Warm breath met his lips, smelling faintly of mint tea and something floral—night-violet? Her eyes half-closed, waiting. Lyan felt the universe shrink to a single trembling thread: if he breathed too hard, it might snap; if he moved forward, everything could change.

But he didn’t move. The memory of his promise to the sisters—choice before gratitude—hung weighty. Kassia’s choice was clear; his was turbid with worry about power, about wounds too fresh. He let that uncertainty anchor him.

Their lips didn’t touch. A breath, a handspan of charged silence, lingered between them. He could feel the heat of her skin, the tilt of her pulse in the hollow at her throat. She didn’t close the gap either. Perhaps she sensed the fissure under his composure.

When she finally spoke, it was barely louder than a breeze through the hedges. "Coward," she whispered, but she smiled—a real, unguarded smile he doubted many had ever seen. She eased back half a step, gaze still locked on his. "For now."

In his mind, Lilith exhaled—a sultry puff of amusement. (Lyan... don’t cry.)

He blinked, surprised to feel moisture pricking. "I’m not," he murmured.

(Then don’t blink like that, it makes me sad) Cynthia soothed, wrapping the thought in calm.

He chuckled, low and self-deprecating. Tears didn’t fall, but they glimmered unshed, and Kassia saw. Her smile softened further; she lifted a knuckle, swiped it gently beneath his lower eyelid—a gesture half tease, half tenderness.

"I’m alive because you chose mercy," she murmured. "That matters more than a kiss tonight."

Moonlight gilded the edge of the fountain, sparking tiny prisms where limestone had chipped. Somewhere behind them, Ara’s laughter drifted from an open window—lighter than he’d ever heard, a tinkling chime. It sounded like a possibility none of them dared hope for in the sanctum.

Kassia inhaled, turned her face skyward. "We should go in. Ara’s probably reorganising the pantry again." She pivoted, cloak whispering, and ascended the veranda steps without haste. On the threshold, she looked back once, offered a two-finger salute at her brow. Challenge left unspoken—Next time, commander.

Lyan remained by the fountain. Cicadas droned in ivy. He traced a finger across the dry marble lip, feeling ridges where water once polished stone, and exhaled until tension bled out with the breath. Freedom tasted sharp tonight—like new steel honed too thin, beautiful and dangerous in equal measure.

He glanced to the arched doorway. The Queen had reappeared there, silhouetted in lamplight; she raised her cup in silent benediction and withdrew. A shadow—Eloix—drew curtains, leaving only garden starlight.

His work was not done: there would be papers to forge, new identities to weave, a border villa staffed by loyal servants who asked no questions. He’d need Raine’s forgery kit, Surena’s logistics, Josephine’s coaxing smiles. But for this single heartbeat, the world stood balanced on a quiet lawn, drenched in silver.

He turned toward the hedged path. Gravel shifted beneath boots worn from too many marches. The moon rode high, unblinking guardian over capital and countryside alike, washing his cloak in pale fire. As he walked, its light pooled against his back, stretching his shadow long and thin—no serpent crown, no shattered throne, just a tired man heading down a garden path toward uncertainties he would shoulder for others.

He turned and walked away, the moon silver on his back.

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