Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 522: Refuge for the Dethroned, Glory for the Named (4)

The cold of the underground sanctum clung stubbornly to the air, thick and unmoving like the breath of a place long abandoned. Lyan’s first step off the stair – a muffled click of boot leather on polished basalt – sent a slow echo into the curved ceiling and back again. Dust motes drifted through the lamplight in lazy spirals, each one catching a brief glimmer before vanishing into gloom, and his muscles tightened in instinctive readiness. Nothing stirred except the hearth’s weak orange coal and the soft rustle of cloaks.

The queen sat on a long stone bench that had once held sacramental scrolls; now it bore only her weight and the heavy grey cloak that disguised crimson silk. She met Lyan’s gaze with calm dignity, but the tired crease between her brows betrayed a night without sleep. Shadows framed her cheekbones, giving her the fragile look of a woman carved from winter branches rather than crowned marble. Still, her spine never bent.

Ara pretended to read, legs folded neatly on a threadbare rug near the hearth. The flames were so low they barely flickered, but she kept turning pages anyway, eyes skating across lines without seeing them. Every half-page she sneaked another glance at Lyan, curiosity and worry wrangling in the tilt of her brows. A soot-smudge streaked her chin; she must have wiped away sweat in the wagon and forgotten to check her reflection. He felt the tug to brush it away, resisted.

Kassia leaned against a pillar just inside the arch, one boot heel propped behind her. Of the three, she wore impatience like armor: arms folded, steely gaze following his every motion. She tapped two fingers on her elbow in a rhythm that told him she had counted his steps, the beat of his breathing, perhaps even how many heartbeats had passed since he last blinked. A freshly cut lock of her hair curled against her jaw, the tips still uneven from the hurried trim. She hadn’t bothered to smooth them. She wanted the world to see the edge.

The sanctum itself felt neither safe nor hostile – just suspended, like a breath held too long. Ancient runes of warding pulsed faintly where the walls met the domed ceiling; they were dull now, starved of royal mana. Lyan’s senses scraped over each faint pulse, cataloguing weaknesses he might need to shore up. In three places the sigil lines cracked, spiderwebbing where heat from the palace collapse had licked the stones. He filed it away: patch with quicksilver dust when supplies arrived.

He exhaled, gathering focus, and drew a thumb-sized silver seal from his belt pouch. The metal hissed faintly at the shock of cold air. He knelt, palms flat, and pressed the seal to the floor. A pulse of mana rippled into the stone, and for a breath nothing happened. Then the summoning circle flared to life – thin strands of shadow unfurling like ink poured underwater, crawling outward until a perfect ring enclosed him. Its light was not bright; instead it deepened every darkness in the room, as if the shadows bowed under it.

He traced the final rune with the side of his thumb, feeling the glyph’s serrated edges bite his skin. Old binding words slipped from his mouth – harsh consonants that left a taste of iron and campfire smoke. The air thickened. Somewhere far overhead a chord seemed to snap. freewebnσvel.cѳm

A tremor passed through the chamber, shaking dust from the rafters. The first shadow emerged, tall and impossibly thin, limbs tapering to points that never quite resolved into hands. Vharn. Its body looked woven from dusk itself, edges blurring whenever he tried to anchor them with sight. It bowed without creaking a joint, and for the briefest instant a pair of pale slits winked open like cat eyes and vanished again.

Ara’s book slipped an inch in her lap. Kassia’s shoulders tensed, then eased when she saw Lyan’s measured calm. The queen did not move, but he caught the way her fingers gripped her cloak.

The second summon came as if poured from oil: Eloix rose from the circle with deliberate grace, torso and arms sculpted like a scholar’s statue. His surface gleamed as though polished obsidian had learned to breathe. A faint luminescence traced veins under the skin-shade, and his eyes shone low amber. "I am here," he said, voice even, syllables perfectly spaced as if they’d been practiced since creation.

The third answered the call like a hammer through glass. The stone cracked, a fist-sized segment giving way, and Scythrel tore itself free. The beast’s carapace clicked as plates settled; claws scratched a quiet warning against basalt. Its head resembled a helm split open by lightning: jagged, toothy gaps where a visor should sit, every edge ghosting blue-white. Its breathing was slow but carried weight, like bellows made of granite dust.

Heat prickled under Lyan’s collar as the binding settled across his shoulders: a mantle of purpose, cold at first, then pulsing to match his heartbeat. He met each shadow’s blank stare to seal obedience.

"Vharn," he said, calm, "patrol every corridor between here and the upper stairs. Detect any scrying thread, any divination bead, any stray whisper of mana. If you find a caster..." He paused. The sisters and queen had gone rigid. "Erase them before they finish a second breath."

Vharn bowed again; its body collapsed into a fold of dark that poured across the floor and vanished with a hush like cloth brushing silk. Not a single mote of dust lifted in its wake.

He turned to Eloix. "You remain here. They will need a calm mind. No violence unless necessary. Report their needs." He hesitated, glanced toward the queen. "And speak plainly. They deserve clarity."

Eloix inclined his head. "Understood." The reply had no tremor of emotion, yet something like gentle certainty underpinned the vowels.

"Scythrel." He faced the beast last, feeling its slow exhale stir the ends of his hair. "Guard the entrance arch. No one enters or exits unless Vharn or I give leave. If that order is challenged, you respond with finality."

Scythrel lowered its massive head once. The sound resembled a millstone grinding. Muscles beneath obsidian plating flexed, and in three bounding steps it occupied the corridor mouth, folding into statue-stillness. Ara let out a breath she’d been holding; Kassia’s fingers drifted from her hidden dagger pommel.

Lyan unclenched his fists. Sweat cooled under his gloves. He reached for the polished sigil stone – smooth, almost warm from long hours in his pocket. The etched grooves glowed soft silver where his mana pooled. He approached the queen and, with careful gentleness, laid the stone in her open palm. Her skin was cooler than the sigil.

"If the kingdom truly falls," he said, meeting her steady gaze, "crush it. You’ll find me."

The queen’s fingers curled around the stone, and something in her posture loosened, like a bowstring unstrung. She didn’t answer, but her eyes glimmered with too-many stories unsaid.

Ara rose, smoothing her skirt though it held stubborn wrinkles. She stepped close enough for him to feel the warmth of her breath, and her smile – so small it might have been mistaken for a sigh – touched the edges of her tired eyes. She reached out, brushing two knuckles against his sleeve, like one testing reality after a dream. "If I do come to find you," she whispered, voice a hush meant only for him, "you better not run."

A surge of tenderness, unexpected, punched through his chest. For a heartbeat words deserted him. He forced a smirk, light, teasing. "Just don’t forget the code on the back." He showed her the tiny etched numerals on the sigil’s underside – a pattern of prime runes only they two had discussed on the road.

Kassia snorted, pushing off the pillar with a flick of her cloak. "Oh, please. She’ll forget the code, but remember your shoe size." Her voice carried mock exasperation, but the curve of her mouth softened the barb. She stepped closer, eyes flicking to his boots – dusty, scuffed, decidedly un-noble – then back to his face. Challenge, curiosity, a hint of worry.

"Big feet, heavy steps," Lyan muttered, waving her off before he could register the ripple of warmth creeping up his neck.

Big hands too, Cynthia hummed, a giggle riding the words like sunlight on water.

You’re impossible, Arturia grumbled, mortification decorating every syllable.

He flicked his gaze over Kassia one last time and, despite his inner scold, his eyes tracked the practiced balance of her stance, the way travel leggings hugged strong thighs, the subtle arch of her back as she shifted weight. He forced his stare upward, catching her eyes, but that half-second lingered.

Tch, caught again, Griselda crackled, amused.

You’re doing that thing again, Lilith purred. The one where you think you’re subtle.

Heat flared across his ears. He tugged the leather of his gloves tighter, fabric creaking. To mask his embarrassment he cleared his throat – loud, deliberate, an officer’s bark mis-placed in a tomb.

"Stay alive," he managed, voice steadier than he felt. "And stay free."

"We plan to," the Queen said softly.

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