Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 526: The Lord’s Return (2)

He should have let her keep ranting.

But he didn’t.

In three long strides, he closed the distance, ignoring the shuffling soldiers and curious glances from his companions. His hand cupped her flushed, frantic face, his thumb grazing the warm, ink-smeared skin just below her cheekbone. Her breath hitched, her tirade cut off mid-word as her mouth fell slightly open in shock. And then he leaned in and claimed her lips in a kiss that silenced everything.

The scrolls tumbled from her hands, parchment slipping from her fingers like frightened pigeons scattering into the rafters. A few sheets fluttered against his boots, ignored. The air between them thickened, the weight of her breath mingling with his as her initial stiffness crumbled in his arms. She sagged into him with a strangled sound, something between a protest and a shuddering relief, her arms snapping around his neck like iron shackles.

His grip tightened, lifting her off the ground with one effortless pull, her boots scraping against his shins as she clung to him with almost desperate force. Their lips moved together, a feverish tangle that was far less polished than he imagined but far more real. His tongue slipped between her trembling lips, coaxing hers to meet his, tasting ink and the faintest trace of the sweet tea she always drank too cold. The first tentative brush of their tongues sent a shiver through her, a faint (Slrp!) sound crackling between them as their lips parted briefly and crashed back together.

(Slrp...slrp...slrp...)

His tongue flicked along the roof of her mouth, teasing, drawing out a soft whimper from her throat. She retaliated by tightening her hold, pressing her body flush against his chest, her tongue curling around his in frantic rhythm. She tasted sharp—cinnamon, ink, the faint bite of long days without rest. He devoured every taste greedily, his breathing ragged now, his pulse hammering in his ears. Her fingers threaded into his hair, tugging, pulling him deeper, dragging him closer, until their kiss was no longer just a kiss—it was a promise, a tether, a demand to stay.

(Oh my...) Cynthia’s giggle fizzled like sweet wine across his mind.

(This is so indecent! This is public! This is a military hall!) Arturia yelped, her flustered panic nearly drowning out her words.

(Let him have it. He earned it.) Lilith’s low chuckle rumbled like distant thunder.

Their mouths broke apart for the briefest gasp of air, their lips swollen, glistening, their breathing loud and messy. But Arielle didn’t let go. She pressed her forehead against his, her lashes trembling, her chest heaving in sync with his.

"You... you can relax now," he murmured, his voice low, still rough with the taste of her.

"You... you absolute bastard..." she whispered back, but her tone trembled—not with anger, but with something far softer, something that made her fingers dig into his hair like she’d lose him if she let go. "You can’t... you can’t just..."

"I can," he breathed, his lips brushing against hers again, the taste of her still sweet on his tongue. He tilted her chin gently, coaxing her into another slow, deep kiss. (Slrp...slrp...) Their tongues danced, slow this time, savoring, tasting the leftover spice of her breath. He pressed closer, his thumb tracing the flushed curve of her jaw, and she moaned softly into his mouth, clinging as if the weight of the entire territory rested between their lips.

And in that fragile, stolen moment, it did.

The rest of the hall blurred—footsteps, muffled voices, the faint rustle of fallen papers—all of it dissolving into the background as if the walls themselves had bowed away to give them this sliver of stolen time.

But the world, as always, came crashing back.

"Enough!" Wilhelmina’s voice sliced through the haze like a well-aimed spear, sharp, cool, and utterly unsympathetic. "This is not the time."

Surena approached from the side, her expression unreadable, but her grip was firm as she tugged Arielle gently out of Lyan’s arms, separating them as efficiently as if she were breaking up a tavern brawl. The moment fractured with the ease of snapping twine.

"Business first," Surena said flatly.

Arielle ’s feet thudded back to the stone floor, her body still leaning toward Lyan’s as if reluctant to let go. Her lips remained parted, her face flushed to the tips of her ears, her breath still unsteady. For a heartbeat, her hands lingered on his sleeves, her thumb brushing circles into the fabric before she reluctantly withdrew, her fingers trembling as she stooped to gather her scattered papers.

"We’ll finish that later," she hissed under her breath, her voice low, fierce, and laced with promises that made Lyan’s stomach twist in the most dangerous way.

His pulse still roared in his ears as he straightened his cloak, failing to suppress the stupid grin stretching across his face. He could feel the sweat cooling at his temple, the lingering warmth of her breath still clinging to his lips.

Wilhelmina’s glare could have etched words into stone. Josephine’s expression wobbled between deadpan and barely contained laughter. Surena, as always, was unreadable.

But for now—just for now—Lyan savored the taste of ink and cinnamon on his tongue.

Business could wait.

For now.

They sat together to review the territories, but the sharp energy that had filled the hall minutes earlier had dulled into something more bearable now, something human. Lyan lounged in his chair, not in the way of someone lazily ignoring responsibility, but in the way of a man who had accepted that responsibility would follow him like a loyal hound until the end of his days. His gaze flicked to Arielle , watching as she carefully unrolled the thick scroll across the table between them, her fingers brushing over the parchment with the same nervous urgency that had trembled in her grip when she’d clung to his sleeves just moments earlier.

The color hadn’t fully left her cheeks. She fidgeted with her quill, tapping it against the rim of the ink pot, and when she caught him staring, she scowled so hard it made him want to kiss her again just to watch her dissolve.

Wilhelmina’s voice pulled him back. She and Josephine had already begun to report directly to Arielle , their words precise, clipped, and efficient. It didn’t take long for Arielle’s ramrod posture to soften, the near-constant strain in her shoulders easing, her breathing growing steadier now that someone else—someone competent—was finally sharing the weight.

The list she handed him was thick enough to paper a small manor.

His eyes scanned the scroll, and he couldn’t help the quiet huff of laughter that slipped from his throat. Suspicious noble movements probing at Grafen’s new edges like hyenas testing a fence. Reports of shadowy creatures moving within Norhallow’s wild forests—unconfirmed, but too consistent to dismiss. Dunbridge tunnels teeming with new smuggler networks, slippery as river eels. And Valmere, Valmere’s salt flats once again shimmering with strange mana mists that choked the air and confounded the alchemists.

"You kept the territory alive," he said, his voice low, sincere, the faintest trace of pride warming the edge of his words. "More than I expected. You can let the steam out now."

"Hmph." She pressed the quill’s feather tip against her lower lip, a sharp bite of frustration clinging to the sound. "Not until you swear you’re not running off again."

Lyan tilted his head, grinning slowly. "We’ll see."

Her eyes narrowed in a look that promised retribution, but before she could fire back, Josephine slid another report across the table, redirecting Arielle ’s fury for the time being.

Blending his army with the official garrison turned out to be its own kind of battlefield—a subtle war of routines and discipline, where swords weren’t the weapons, but tradition was.

The Astellian commanders, rigid and protocol-bound, tried to hammer Lyan’s mercenaries into neat formations, enforcing strict curfews, perfect drill patterns, and immaculate morning lineups. But they quickly discovered that Lyan’s men didn’t follow the ledgers—they made their own. They rotated night watches based on gut instinct, meals were prepared by whoever could find a clean pot first, and drills happened because the mercenaries wanted to win bets, not because the bell chimed.

"Your men have no order," one captain grumbled after witnessing a morning spar that began with four mercenaries tossing dice to decide who would duel first.

Lyan arched an eyebrow, deadpan. "Yet they’re always ready before yours."

The man sputtered but had no answer.

The mountain tribesmen only added another layer of wildness to the soup. They bickered with Astellian soldiers over stew recipes as if defending ancient culinary secrets. Tent arrangements became a spirited game of musical stakes, with tribesmen happily rearranging sleeping quarters just to prove they could. Card games turned into passionate debates over rules that no one remembered writing down, but everyone swore were ancient tradition.

One tribesman even challenged a young Astellian officer to a stew contest in the middle of the mess hall.

"I’ll duel you," the tribesman declared, slapping a wooden spoon against his palm, "but only if you bet your boots."

The officer blinked in disbelief, then stripped off his boots on the spot, much to the roaring laughter of everyone present.

Lyan often strolled through the training yards during twilight, watching as both sides slowly bent toward each other. His mercenaries taught the Astellian soldiers how to fight dirty—how to throw sand into an enemy’s eyes, how to drive a dagger’s hilt into a knee instead of waiting for the clean opening. Meanwhile, the Astellian knights stubbornly drilled shield formations into the mercenaries, barking at them until they held their lines with something that resembled proper structure.

They argued over banner designs, who would lead night watches, whether stew should have more pepper or less, but despite the noise, there was laughter—real laughter, not the forced camaraderie of shared orders, but the kind born from grudging respect.

Josephine caught up to him one evening, popping roasted nuts into her mouth with the casual grace of someone who had seen enough wars to know where the real battles were fought.

"Host joint competitions," she suggested, cracking a nut between her teeth. "Stew contests, card tournaments, sparring duels. Make them fight each other, then sit them down with bad wine and overcooked meat. Bond them through bruises and burnt tongues."

"You sound like you’ve done this before."

"I’ve survived worse."

That night, the feast sprawled across Grafen’s main square, fires crackling high into the night air. The mountain tribes brought their fire dances, spinning torches in dizzying arcs, their chants rising above the crackling flames. Astellian soldiers, once so stiff-backed, now clinked mugs with mercenaries and tribesmen alike, their voices raised in songs that mixed old war chants with the playful nonsense of the mountain roads.

The war stories grew wilder with each passing drink. Some told tales where Lyan had apparently summoned thunder from his fingertips and shattered entire fortresses in a single swing. Others claimed he had tamed dragons in the hills and marched with a cloak spun from lightning.

Josephine elbowed him every time the stories grew more ridiculous. "Oh? Thunder god now? When did you grow glowing hair?"

Lyan shrugged, deadpan. "It’s the humidity."

Raine, utterly exhausted, rested her head against his shoulder, her soft humming blending with the crackling fires. He tilted his head slightly to rest against hers, feeling the faint tremble in her breathing—a quiet kind of happiness she was still learning how to hold.

Wilhelmina, sitting nearby, finally let her iron posture slacken, a rare, almost tender smile pulling at her lips as she watched the soldiers joke and brawl like old friends.

Arielle nursed her drink faster than anyone, grumbling under her breath, "Never again. Never this many provinces again. I swear on every tax ledger—never again."

Surena, ever the sentinel, stayed at the edges, her gaze already dissecting the newcomers, her mental notes forming sharp, clean lists of who was reliable, who was slow, who needed a blade pressed to their throat as a reminder.

The firelight flickered over their faces, and something inside Lyan loosened—a knot he hadn’t realized he’d been gripping for weeks. But the work wasn’t done. Norhallow’s forests needed his attention. Dunbridge’s tunnels demanded exploration. Valmere’s mana mists refused to be ignored.

"I bet if I take a real vacation, Arielle will storm the mountains to drag me back."

(You know she will) Cynthia’s laughter was soft, fond.

(Maybe I’ll help her) Lilith’s voice dripped mischief.

(Please rest first, Lyan) Sylphia’s timid plea tugged gently at his heart.

His gaze swept over the crowd again, over soldiers turned neighbors, strangers turned kin. This was no longer a temporary post. It was home. His home. His people. His burden—and his choice.

When he finally retreated to his chambers, the quiet settled over him like a warm cloak, the faint laughter from the square still echoing down the stone halls. He set his gauntlets on the table, unclipped his Guardian’s cloak, and let his body sink into the chair by the window. The wooden frame creaked softly beneath his weight.

(You did well today) Cynthia’s voice brushed against him like the softest touch of light.

(But you won’t sleep, will you) Arturia sighed, resigned.

(You should cuddle something. Or someone) Lilith cooed, sly and unrelenting.

A quiet chuckle escaped him as he rested his head against the window frame, the cool glass a brief comfort against his skin. He promised them he would visit Norhallow first—but after he allowed himself the luxury of sleeping for an entire day.

His eyes drifted to the desk, to the loaf of bread sitting untouched where he had carefully placed it. The crust had hardened, the softness long gone, but he wouldn’t throw it away.

It was a promise. A memory. A reminder.

One city at a time. One village at a time. One step at a time.

He blew out the candle.

Updat𝒆d fr𝒐m freew𝒆bnov𝒆l.c(o)m