Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 524: Refuge for the Dethroned, Glory for the Named (End)

The woman’s rough-knuckled hands hovered mid-air for a breath, unsure whether to let go of gratitude now that it had found shape. At last she stepped back, wiping palms on her apron. Lyan caught a glimpse of faded embroidery on the cloth—small sprigs of lavender, perhaps stitched years ago before war turned violet thread into a frivolous commodity. She gave him a quick nod, eyes shimmering in the sun, and turned to shepherd two barefoot children away from a precarious stack of rubble. Her voice—gentle, exhausted—floated back: "Keep it hot, yeah? Best when the crust sings."

(Your hands are trembling,) Cynthia observed, soothing warmth dancing behind her words.

He flexed his fingers on the loaf, feeling how the crust crackled like dry leaves under gentle pressure. I’m fine, he answered, though fine felt like a ragged tent patch slapped over a spear hole.

A breeze whisked along the lane, carrying the faint metallic whine of saws cutting warped beams, the clink-clink of bricklayers setting new corners. Further along the path, murals now blanketed most wall spaces. Flowers wound over scorched royal crests—blue hyacinth vines swallowing golden serpents, red poppies bursting from the mouths of once-proud stone gryphons. Tiny handprints dotted the lowest portions of the paintings: stubby fingers dipped in lime pigment, pressed with solemn care. Each handprint looked like a promise that small palms would not hold swords—at least, not yet.

Erich examined one mural where a child had painted a crude crown—lopsided, but balanced atop a scarecrow figure with raised arms. The prince’s mouth curved as if tasting something bittersweet. "Think we could commission that for the palace?" he joked, then raked calloused fingers through dusty hair. "What am I saying? They’d burn it by noon, call it a slur against fashion."

Lyan only grunted, gaze hopping from painted vines to the cracked keystones above windows. He checked the angle of a support beam propping a half-collapsed arch—too steep, he noted; in heavy rain it might slip. He’d tell Wilhelmina’s engineers. Habit kept him cataloguing: a toppled column there could be pried apart for workable marble; a charred doorframe might serve as makeshift braces in another quarter. His brain kept counting, listing, planning even as his heart lagged.

A thin whistle pierced the medley of construction sounds. Arnold chuckled and nudged Lyan’s elbow. "Kid at your six," he murmured around a mouthful of apple. "Looks like trouble."

Near the cracked city fountain—the one that now gurgled only when rainwater collected—stood a boy no older than eight winters, hair a halo of soot and straw. He clutched a rectangle of scavenged slate and a stub of chalk scraped nearly to his fingernails. Wide eyes fixed on Lyan with intent that felt far too heavy for so small a chest. He darted forward, tugging at the edge of Lyan’s cloak.

"Mister, look!" The words burst out like a corked bottle opened too quick. His slate thrust forward with both hands, as precious to him as the queen’s sigil stone. The drawing, though shaky, was unmistakable: Lyan, rendered several heads taller than any fortress wall, wings of lightning crackling outward, one fist raised to shatter a jagged mountain shape below. Sparks skittered from chalk lines where the boy had pressed extra hard, leaving little streaks of powder on his knuckles.

Lyan crouched, knees protesting. Up close, the drawing revealed smudges where the boy had tried to shade muscle lines into the arms, and the horns of the serpent-mountain still bore the faint outline of erased crowns. He noticed, too, a single tiny stick figure tucked behind the wing—maybe the artist himself, safe in the storm’s shadow. That detail pierced deeper than the thunderbolts.

He smiled—not too wide; genuine felt fragile. "No," he said softly, smoothing a soot-and-chalk smudge from the boy’s brow with the back of a gloved finger. "I just made it stop." His words scratched like gravel, because he wanted to say more—about the burden of stories and how storms leave mud—but children deserved simpler certainties.

The boy’s shoulders squared, unconvinced. "You still did it," he insisted, then bolted away to share the drawing with a cluster of friends who held makeshift kites fashioned from torn banners. Lyan watched him run, chalk dust trailing and glittering.

Arnold edged closer, crunching through rubble. "They’re already turning you into a statue," he said, apple half-eaten now. Juice glistened on his beard. "Give it a month, maybe two, and there’ll be a bronze giant right where that fountain dribbles."

"Then make sure it crumbles someday." Lyan’s grip on the loaf tightened, the crust crackling under his thumb. "I want them to outgrow me." He pictured vines creeping over a forgotten hero’s pedestal, children carving initials into the bronze knees one careless summer. The vision eased some knot in his chest. No name lasted forever; best to plan for that.

Just then, a gust lifted from over the rooftops, scattering petals—red and white, maybe surplus from some merchant’s stall—across their path. A few stuck to Lyan’s half-torn cloak, bright flecks on grey. He resisted the urge to brush them away. Let them stay; let color rest where once was only ash.

Together they made their way to the Grand Cathedral Plaza, where crowds thronged until movement slowed to a shuffle. Smoke from incense braziers wove loops in the air, mingling with the sharper tang of torches just kindled for the ceremony. Low chants rippled like a tide—fragments of prayer, fragments of gossip.

The dais held the pyre: a careful arrangement of pale lilies under the three relics. Josephine darted forward, fussing with placement. She adjusted Kassia’s sword so the blade angle would catch the first tongues of flame, then repositioned the crown shard until it sat dead center, glinting soft gold in dying sunlight. Her jaw clenched as she worked; this mattered to her far more than she let on.

Lyan smelled sandalwood resin smoldering beneath the pile, ready to spark high. He scanned the periphery: archers atop unfinished colonnades, eyes trained outward; Wilhelmina posted behind the crowd, hand resting on her sheathed saber; Surena’s scouts ghosting among the steps, marking any shift in mood.

When Josephine stepped back, torch-bearers advanced. The first kiss of fire curled around the lilies, blackening petals in seconds. Gold leaf on the crest flared green, then white, sloughing like winter bark. Somehow seeing the sword go last—blue steel bright one heartbeat, swallowed the next—hurt most, as though the blade still remembered the calluses of a princess who hadn’t decided whether to forgive.

He inhaled once, letting smoke scratch his lungs, then called across the hush: "Let their deaths close this book. Write a gentler one tomorrow." His voice carried—not thunder, but steady rain on roof tiles, the tone Sergeants used to end a drill. The words settled on cloth and skin like dew.

A keening wail broke from somewhere near the front: a Varzadian matron clutching her own ash-glass orb, tears tracking through soot. Beside her, a younger man answered with a raw cheer, fist raised. Grief and celebration braided, tight as cord, weaving through the crowd until those who couldn’t choose simply turned away, shoulders shaking.

Behind filigreed fans, nobles leaned in. Lyan caught snatches: "...brilliant stagecraft," "...keeps rebels docile," "...he’s not nearly old enough for this." He marked faces, memorised which lips moved, which remained stiff. Politics never slept.

Josephine, soot on her forehead, sidled to his elbow. "You just turned three people into symbols," she said, voice weary but oddly proud.

"Better myths than martyrs." He kept his gaze on the flames until only blackened stems remained. A breeze sighed. Ash lifted, swirling skyward like a flock of silver moths. ƒree𝑤ebnσvel-com

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Night muffled the palace. Stars hid behind smoke-veil clouds, and Lyan’s route back to the sanctum threaded unlit service corridors where scullery smells lingered. He moved like Vharn’s silent cousin, each step placed on memory. Scythrel curled at the archway, great head resting on crossed claws, plates reflecting torchlines. It shifted just enough to acknowledge his scent, then froze again, becoming statue once more.

Inside, warmth greeted him: real heat, not the damp chill of earlier days. Someone—Eloix, he guessed—had coaxed the mantle stones into radiating subtle fire. Ara sat cross-legged, giggling at something Kassia said while she ran an oiled cloth along her blade. The scowl that usually guarded Kassia’s features had eased to a half-smirk, a look Lyan suspected few had ever survived seeing.

The queen, cloaked in charcoal wool, held a slim book of Astellian fables. The lamplight turning the page’s gilded edges to sunrise gold. She looked up, eyes reflecting the hearth like twin stars caught in tide pools.

"You made us disappear," she said, no accusation, only statement of fact.

"I made you free." He shrugged out of his cloak, draping it on a hook. "Hidden is only the first step to freedom. After that, you choose what name to carry."

Ara unfolded, padding forward with new quiet confidence. "If I come to Astellia someday... would you mind?"

He softened, hitching a brow. "Come as you are. Not as a ghost." He meant scars, questions, all of it.

Kassia slid her sword home with a soft hiss of steel on scabbard. She rose, meeting his gaze with a spark. "I’ll sharpen my blade. And my questions."

"I’ll answer them. One swing at a time." He reached into his vest inner pocket, producing a sealed cream-paper envelope embossed with his personal sigil. Kneeling—armor creaking—he placed it in the queen’s open palm. Wax still warm. "For the day you decide to live in sunlight again."

Their fingers brushed—hers, steady; his, trembling faintly. She squeezed once, promise rather than thanks.

No more words needed. He pivoted, cloak swirling, and let the darkness swallow him.

¤¤¤

Dawn painted the sky bruised peach. Out beyond the last Varzadian rampart, the mustering ground buzzed. Surena paced the line, her voice sharp enough to cut armor straps: "Left wheel: check mule shoes! Alchemical carts, give me rune-seals double-tight!" She spotted a loose helm and fixed the recruit in place with such a glare that he forgot to breathe until she nodded.

Wilhelmina scanned the north ridge, wind tugging stray strands of hair across her stern face. Responsibility lay on her shoulders heavier than pauldrons; she bore it like habit.

Josephine snapped leather gloves into place beside Lyan, hip-checking him lightly. "Did they say goodbye?"

"Not in words." He lifted his reins. The dappled mare snorted, eager for road.

(You left your heart in a stone room, didn’t you) Lilith murmured, a caress of midnight silk.

(And your guilt in the flames) Arturia added, voice no longer stern but soft as candle smoke.

He urged the mare forward. Morning sun caught the frayed edge of his cloak, painting it bronze. Ahead lay the first mile marker—still charred, yet someone had hung a bouquet of white asters at its base. Behind him, Scythrel’s silhouette perched above the sanctum stairs, unwavering. Somewhere deep beneath the ruined palace, three women watched firelight dance across hewn stone and waited for the day walking into dawn felt safe.

He did not look back.

Behind him, shadows stayed. And beneath the burned kingdom, the quiet throne of three women waited—not to be reclaimed, but to one day walk again.

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