Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 532: Festival Ashes, Strategic Fires

"Long live the pervert lord!" they shrieked, scattering a flock of pigeons.

Lyan pinched the bridge of his nose. "Josephine’s influence," he muttered, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him with a reluctant grin.

(Perhaps we should commission kinder titles,) Cynthia suggested, all maternal concern.

Lilith hummed. (No, no—pervert lord has a certain candor. Accurate branding.)

Arturia sighed. (Heralds will have headaches rewriting the ballads.)

He stepped aside as three recruits jogged by in half-armor, each trading mock blows with a tribesman wielding an antler club padded in straw. Friendly rivalries crackled in the training yard beyond: Astellian sword forms met mountain grappling, laughter punctuating every failed flourish. One tribeswoman flipped a broad-shouldered knight flat on his back; the yard erupted in cheers, equal parts admiration and teasing.

Past the drills, the main market spilled into two branching streets, stalls jam-packed so tightly the canvas roofs looked like overlapping sails. Fresh cabbages the size of helmets, strings of sun-dried peppers, jars of cloud-berry jam, bolts of violet silk that shimmered like oil on water—every colour clamoured for attention. Vendors hailed him with half bows, some sincere, some theatrical.

A plume of steam wafted from the baker’s booth. The young baker—flour dusting his eyebrows like early snow—beamed at Lyan and lifted a loaf high for inspection. The bread was unmistakably sculpted into a caricature of Lyan’s own face: sharp brow, wind-tousled hair, a heroic jaw somehow inflated like a balloon. Even the tiny bread-wolf on the shoulder sported a smug grin.

"I... see you’ve spared no expense," Lyan managed, eyeing the doughy doppelgänger.

"Made from finest Grafen wheat, sir!" The baker’s voice cracked with pride—and nerves. "Crisp crust, soft crumb, a dash of honey for, uh... sweetness?"

"Please tell me you didn’t use the bathing sketch from last week as reference."

"Well," the baker hedged, scratching at the flour on his cheek, "it was the clearest likeness, my lord."

(Next time close the bath-house shutters,) Eira advised coolly.

Lyan accepted the loaf with exaggerated solemnity, cradling it as if it were a sacred relic. "I shall display it in the war room," he promised, "as a warning to all who doubt my... crust."

The baker’s relieved laugh chased him down the avenue.

He paused at a cluster of barrels serving as makeshift workbenches near the public well. Half a dozen tribesmen had spread herbs and monster bits across the staves: fern-green glacier leaves that held flecks of frost despite the summer heat, slivers of iridescent wyvern claw, threads of silversap bark. Curious villagers leaned closer, murmuring.

One broad-shouldered tribesman with frost tattoos down his arms demonstrated, crushing a glacier leaf with a stone pestle until its juices shimmered blue. He smeared the pulp onto a volunteer militiaman’s bruised elbow; the militiaman hissed, then blinked in surprise as the swelling receded. A boy of maybe ten squeaked, "Magic leaf!" and tried to pocket a handful before his mother cuffed him gently.

The militiaman flexed his arm and bellowed, "The lord should be declared High Priest of Lust and Logistics!"

The crowd laughed; someone else shouted, "May his sheets never cool!" Another voice offered, "And may the treasury never empty!" That one drew the loudest cheer.

(Your cult grows,) Lilith teased.

He lifted a hand in mock blessing. "If any of you find additional herbs, report to the infirmary. We’ll pay fair coin or bread credit."

Even as he spoke, he catalogued details: which herbs shrank swelling fastest, whether wyvern claw dust truly sped clotting, the ratio of pulp to binding cloth. Old habit—file everything in the war-room of his mind.

Ahead, a spry sergeant directed an impromptu spar. Mountain archers launched blunt-tipped arrows; Astellian shield-bearers formed rotating walls to catch them. Each thunk rang like applause. Whenever a shield-wall wobble opened, an arrow smacked a helmet with a satisfying clong and the tribesmen cackled. The sergeant spotted Lyan and barked, "Company, present!" Instantly every participant—sweaty, grinning, bruised—pounded fist to chest in salute.

"At ease," Lyan called. "Keep mixing squads; you’ll need to understand each other’s curses before winter patrols." The soldiers chuckled. One tribeswoman twirled an arrow between fingers and winked at him; he pretended not to notice the flex of her shoulders.

(Your eyes are loud again,) Cynthia scolded gently.

The main square approached, dominated now by merchant tents. A jeweller displayed mana-sensitive trinkets that brightened when a passer-by’s aura brushed them; sparks danced in tiny glass orbs. A seamstress snipped a piece of dusk-blue lace then pressed it to Lyan’s wrist: the fabric warmed, shaping itself into a wolf motif. "For your lady, lord," she said shyly. He bought two lengths—one for Raine and one, on impulse, for Wilhelmina—filing a note to reimburse from his own purse, not the garrison’s.

A cluster of teenage boys huddled around a travelling illusionist, jaws slack. The magician conjured miniature copies of Lyan and Josephine—bread-doll scale—locked in a teasing chase around a glowing heart. The crowd hooted. Lyan shook his head, bemused, but discreetly tossed a silver coin into the illusionist’s hat. Propaganda, yes, but joyful propaganda.

(You should charge licensing fees,) Griselda suggested dryly.

Near the fountain, two washerwomen gossiped loud enough for every pigeon to hear. "They say the lord’s beard hides secret runes," one whispered theatrically. "If you kiss him upside-down, the runes light up!" The younger woman’s eyes went wide and she blushed scarlet; Lyan kept walking, collar high, face aflame.

Market smells shifted on every breeze: hot honey bread followed by sharp goat cheese, roasted chestnuts, and the smoky-sweet tang of charred rosemary. At one stall, a pot simmered with rabbit stew and glacier leaf—tribal and village cuisine mingling. The cook, sleeves rolled, handed Lyan a small clay cup. "Taste-test for the lord," she said. He sipped; flavors burst—gamey meat mellowed by cooling herb, peppered with bright river mint. "Name it," he praised. The cook’s eyes sparkled. "We call it Peace-pot." He raised the cup to the sky in silent toast.

As he continued, voices braided into an ever-changing chorus: an Astellian merchant haggling over sapphire prices, a tribeswoman singing a lullaby while her sister bartered for leather, a guard cursing cheerfully at geese clogging an alley. Everything felt oversized—colours brighter, jokes louder, griefs momentarily set aside like heavy coats in summer heat.

Then came the painter.

He was slight, all elbows and charcoal smudges, with an easel strapped to his back like an unwieldy pair of wings. He practically skidded to a halt in front of Lyan, nearly entangling himself in the canvas straps. "My lord, pardon—Pardon the intrusion!" He bowed so deeply his floppy hat slapped his knees. "I, Cedran of the Royal Portrait Guild—probationary—humbly request permission to capture your Hearthlord image. The people adore—no, venerate—your visage. They hunger for memorabilia!"

"Hearthlord... image." Lyan tested the phrase as though it were spoiled milk.

Cedran nodded vigorously. "A symbol of protection, domestic warmth, and, uh... vibrant leadership." He produced a charcoal sketch—apparently from memory. The drawing depicted Lyan seated on a throne made of interlocking swords... while wearing only a half-buttoned shirt and surrounded by doting women. The throne’s armrest doubled as a wolf’s snarling head; its eyes were suspiciously heart-shaped.

"I... appreciate the effort," Lyan managed. "But the throne is inaccurate. We have benches." He gestured toward the modest stone seats by the fountain.

"Oh, artistic license, my lord!" Cedran fluttered a hand. Charcoal dust poofed. "May I proceed?"

Lyan’s gaze flicked across the square: children re-enacting imaginary duels, bakers hawking pervert-lord buns, soldiers learning herb poultices, a jeweller packaging love-lace bracelets. This was his city—messy, booming, a little scandalous, alive. If he refused, Cedran would surely sketch him from hiding and sell the prints anyway—and the people would buy them, truth warped into myth.

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "If I say no, you’ll do it anyway, won’t you?"

_____

Surena swept into the war-room like a length of dusk-coloured silk, the hem of her coat stirring candle-smoke into restless coils. She planted three leather tubes on the central table, each thumping down hard enough to quiver the map weights. Everyone in the chamber felt the mood shift from festival glow to blades-out tension.

"Three fresh fires," she announced, voice flat as river stone. "Norhallow, Dunbridge, Valmere."

Her thumbnail flicked the copper clasp on the first tube. A map unfurled, weighted corners snapping against oak. Lyan leaned in and caught the forest scent still clinging to the parchment; the scouts must have sketched it an hour ago. Dark conifer icons marked the Norhallow border; beside them, neat blue triangles indicated Grafen patrol posts. Someone—Surena’s tidy hand—had added angry red dots where none should be.

"Minor nobles probing for weakness," she said. "Riders skirt our watch-fires, counting heads. No open banners—cowards’ work."

Lyan traced a finger along the northern ridge. He could almost feel the damp moss under his boots, hear the hush of pines swallowing hoofbeats. "Distance between red dots and our nearest outpost?"

"Five hundred paces at the closest." Surena flicked her wrist; a thin wire dart pinned one red dot. "Too far for a shouted warning, close enough for an arrow at a careless lantern."

Arielle, perched on a creaking ladder to reach the higher shelves, called down, "If they’re gauging our numbers, they’ll come at new moon, not twilight. Less silhouette."

Alice slipped through the doorway then, hair still rumpled from whatever corner of the archives she’d napped in, yet her green eyes razor-bright. She unrolled the second tube next to Surena’s forest. "Already mapped likely escape burrows," she said without preamble. The parchment showed Dunbridge—a spider’s web of forgotten mineshafts beneath the township. Some tunnels glowed faintly where she’d brushed them with phosphor ink. "Those three glow lines are where smugglers funnel contraband. We’ll station bait patrols in side chambers—make noise, light torches, appear fat and inattentive. When the rats nibble, we collapse the bypass entrances." She tapped a chalked X. "Small charges of firepowder. Stone falls, shafts seal. Easy."

Lyan’s brow lifted. "And if the smugglers bring friends? Goblin hirelings like last winter?"

Alice’s sleepy smirk could have sliced ice. "I’ve accounted for their noses. Saltpeter smoke and a drop of wyvern-vinegar in lantern oil—the stench will make any goblin pack bolt before steel’s drawn."

Belle pressed a knuckle against her lips to stifle a laugh. "Goblins hate sour fumes," she stage-whispered to Alina, who nodded sagely as though this were common pillow talk.

Surena rolled open the final map—Valmere’s salt flats rendered in pale inks, almost colourless except for swirls of ghostly violet where mana mist thickened. "Mana concentration up thirty percent in a fortnight," she said, tapping the swirl. "Fisherfolk report sprites flitting through brine pools at night. If the vapor blooms any further, we risk arcane poisoning of the water table."

Josephine whistled, low and appreciative. "That explains the lantern fish glowing like festival baubles. Saw one in the market this morning."

Lyan folded his arms, gaze cycling over the three parchments, weighing priorities like stones on a scale. Nobles sniffing meant political trouble; tunnels meant lost revenue; mana mist meant civilians sick. "Our order of response," he began—and Wilhelmina strode in, cloak swirling, parchments clutched like throwing knives. Her boots clicked to a halt; her controlled breathing alone broadcast bad news delivered, contingency drafted, counter-contingency primed.

"Our spy network is feeding false leads to every loud earl within three provinces," she reported, handing Lyan a thin ledger sealed in grey wax. "Two minor lords—Roston of Valehaven and Cherten the Younger—now swear they have proof Grafen discovered a cache of dragon eggs."

"Dragon eggs?"

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