Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 521: Refuge for the Dethroned, Glory for the Named (3)

Beside the forge three barefoot children balanced on a toppled barrel, each trying to outscream the other as they belted a tavern ditty newly minted by some clever busker:

"The lightning man came with a storm in his fist,

He kissed the Queen’s ghost and vanished in mist!"

Their voices cracked on the high note; the smallest boy flung his arms wide in an exaggerated swoop, nearly pitching into the quench bucket. His friends yanked him back, laughing. Ash gleamed on their cheeks like war paint. Lyan winced—part amusement, part sting of recognition.

Lilith will love that verse, he thought, and sure enough her velvet chortle fluttered inside his skull.

(I might commission sheet music,) she purred.

(Absolutely not,) Arturia huffed, flustered.

(Do the lyrics specify which kiss? Asking for accuracy,) Cynthia teased, halo bright with mischief.

Lyan turned away before the children noticed the flush climbing his neck. Half a block on, a priest in simple flax robes addressed a cluster of laborers resting on overturned crates. The priest held a rough-forged dagger—edge dulled—displaying it to the group like a lesson prop.

"Steel remembers the fire," he intoned, voice carrying. "But if it does not break, it becomes a blade. So must we." He bent, planted the dagger upright in the soil at his feet, and let it stand wobbling in the morning breeze. Several heads nodded—black-haired dockhands, a mother with an infant slung across her back, an elderly potter with clay still under her nails. They might not quote the sermon tomorrow, but Lyan knew the image would linger: a blade, point down, roots seeking earth.

He exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and slipped down a side alley where damp moss mottled the walls and dripping gutters sang a hollow percussion. A crooked wooden sign creaked above a door barely wide enough for one man—Mara’s Remedies painted in flaking indigo letters. The smell of dried lavender greeted him before the bell above the lintel finished its tired jingle.

Shelves crammed every inch: stoppered jars filled with crushed petals, seeds, powdered resins; bundles of herbs woven into tight spirals; a sleepy calico cat sprawled across a scale pan. Behind the counter stood an old woman with silver coils of hair pinned by bone needles. Her sharp moss-green eyes flicked up, took him in head to heel, and—Lyan suspected—saw more than the cloak’s attempt at anonymity.

"Hair dye," he muttered, glancing at a rack of small ceramic pots. "Dark chestnut. And..." He rubbed two fingers along the edge of his brow. "A calming tonic. Half-strength."

She hummed, soft and knowing, as she lifted a jar that held crushed henna bark borne from the Southern Coasts. "Trouble sleeping, dear?"

"Something like that." He traced a sigil in the dust of the counter idly—spiral for focus, crossbar for sealing nightmares—but wiped it away before she noticed.

She exchanged the jar for a smaller one. "Henna’s stubborn. You want walnut husk—takes gentler to pale hair." She set it down, then fetched a cork-edged bottle where flecks of silver leaf danced in pale blue liquid. "Two sips after sundown. Clears battlefield noise from the skull. My husband swore by it after the River Rebellion." A shadow softened her eyes; memory, maybe.

Lyan offered coin. She pushed his hand back, wrapping his purchase in wax paper. "Payment received at the gate," she murmured. He looked down: between their palms she’d pressed a small iron charm shaped like a closed eye. "Hang it in the room of whoever wears the dye. Ker keeps soldiers from dreaming steel."

Words thickened in his throat. "Thank you," he managed.

On his way out the cat yawned, exposing tiny white fangs, and head-butted his shin. He knelt, scratching behind its ears until it purred—a vibration like a miniature forge.

◈ ◈ ◈

Night fell soft over Celestine Manor, draping corridors in velvet hush. Lyan padded barefoot along the runner, carrying a silver tray: dark bread still warm, goat-milk cheese speckled with herbs, sliced pears, and a pot of chamomile steeped strong. His footsteps matched the metronome of his heartbeat; victory ceremonies were loud, but politics afterward louder, and he craved quiet like a wound craves salve.

He tapped twice on the Queen’s door—a courtesy, not a request—and entered. Curtains had been drawn back; moonlight spilled through tall windows, glazing the carpet in pale frost. The Queen sat there, silhouette against the glass, midnight cloak clasped at her throat though the room was comfortably warm.

"My people are dead," she said without turning. Her voice was iron cooled too fast—brittle, liable to fracture. "My crown is ash. But my daughters sleep with dreams again." She lifted a hand—as if to touch one dream drifting above the city—but lowered it.

Lyan set the tray on a low table. "Two Varzadian cities are resisting integration," he reported quietly. "Skirmishes may spark along the Thalor border come harvest. But Astellia’s convinced you perished in the collapse." He poured tea, steam threading silver ribbons in lamplight. "They won’t chase ghosts."

On the bed Ara stirred, shawl cocooned around her shoulders. Her face, soft with evening vulnerability, peeked above wool. "Are we to stay buried forever?"

"For now," he answered. "While peace is still this fragile." He watched how her eyes flinched at the word peace, as if it were both promise and threat.

Across the room Kassia lay on her stomach atop a heap of pillows—boots off but sword within reach. She had been thumbing a book but now snapped it closed and launched a pillow across the room. It smacked Lyan square in the chest with a satisfying whumph.

"I hate hiding," she growled, the dim lamplight turning her cropped hair to burnished bronze. "But I hate kingdoms more. So... thank you, I guess." She scowled, as if gratitude itself were a splinter she couldn’t pry.

Lyan caught the rogue pillow, tossed it back gently. "There’s bread," he offered, gesturing to the tray. "Eat before it goes cold." He took a seat on a footstool beside the table, leaving space indicated but unsummoned.

Ara slid off the mattress, padding barefoot across the rug. She chose a slice of bread, sniffed the herb-cheese, and offered the first bite to her mother. The Queen accepted slowly, lips brushing Ara’s knuckles. For a heartbeat they looked more like weary travelers than dethroned royalty—two women, three, sharing night rations in a city that only pretended to know them.

Kassia pushed herself upright, crossed the floor, and selected a pear slice. She inspected it theatrically, as if expecting poison, then bit and chewed with deliberate enjoyment. "If we’re hiding, at least the food’s decent," she muttered.

In the quiet that followed, only the chiming of the distant city clocks drifted through the window: tenth bell, then another. Lyan watched moonbeams paint silver bars across the carpet and thought of chains—those visible and those chosen. For tonight, he decided, words could rest.

◈ ◈ ◈

Later that week, long after palace torches guttered low, he descended narrow stairs into the castle’s forge vault. Heat slammed into him—an anvil-stroke of furnace air carrying iron, charred oak, and sweat. Sparks danced among rafters like summer fireflies.

Aldric, broad as a carriage and twice as grizzled, paused mid-swing and squinted. Soot streaked his bald pate; his apron bore scars of projects whispered about but never recorded. "What brings the new Lord of Everything to my hovel at this indecent hour?" His voice rumbled deeper than the furnace.

Lyan loosened a cloth wrap and laid three relic remnants on a steel table: the Queen’s ceremonial blade hilt—gold wiring dulled, family crest half-melted; Kassia’s once-glorious gauntlet, dented and runeless; Ara’s broken ring, gemstone cracked like frozen tears.

"Recast them," Lyan said, fingers lingering a moment on each piece. "Keep their weight, but not their name."

Aldric turned the hilt under furnace glow, whistling softly when fractured gold exposed duller iron beneath. "Staff-head for Her Quiet Majesty. Blade for the younger tiger. Pendant for the hawk-eyed dreamer." He scratched his beard, eyes bright behind smoke. "Steel doesn’t forget. But you can lie to it. If you heat it long enough."

He plunged the hilt into the heart of the forge. Flame coiled, angry red giving way to alchemical white. Metal glowed, wires sloughing like old skin. Lyan felt a phantom echo—heat blooming along his scars, memories softening to magma. Sweat beaded at his temples even though he stood meters away.

(You’ve melted too, haven’t you?) Cynthia’s whisper held no accusation—only empathy.

(You wonder if you’ve kept your shape,) Arturia observed, grave. (Or if you’re just pretending to hold it.)

(We all pretend, Lyan. That’s how peace survives. On lies we pretend are truths,) Lilith finished, her voice a lullaby edged in sad laughter.

The forge roared. Aldric hammered softened steel into a new bar, sparks bursting like sunrise. Every strike rang with a note of transformation—pain turned to purpose, fear hammered thin, hope folded within. Lyan watched, shoulders unmoving, eyes reflecting the molten glow. He let the rhythm fill his lungs until each breath matched the hammerfall.

He said nothing.

Just kept watching the fire.

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