Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 583: Learning to Set It Down (1)

The first thing Erich did when the Saintess let go of his hands was sit very, very still.

The hollow was quiet. The water kept falling in its thin silver line. Moss held its own breath. Even the air seemed to wait.

Lyan watched him.

The prince’s shoulders were hunched like he was afraid to move and spill something fragile. His fingers were still curved like he was holding water, even though it had already soaked into the moss at his feet.

"Stand," the Saintess said gently.

He did. Slowly.

He swayed once, then put a hand on the flat stone beside him to steady himself. The little clay bottle in his other hand clicked softly against his knuckles.

"Thank you," he said.

His voice was rough, but it didn’t crack. That felt like an achievement.

The Saintess smiled, small and real.

"Remember," she said, "you climb again every time you choose to be honest. The path is not only made of stone."

Erich gave a short nod. It was a prince’s nod, out of habit, but the stiffness in it felt less like arrogance and more like someone holding themselves together.

Her gaze slid to Lyan.

"You already know how to carry guilt," she said, quietly enough that Erich wouldn’t hear it if he wasn’t trying. "Learn how to put it down before it rots your hands."

Lyan’s mouth twitched.

"I’ll add it to the list," he said.

Her eyes were kind and sharp at once.

"Do," she said.

Then she turned away as if the most important part of her morning was done.

She went back to the pool, bare feet sinking a little into the moss, and knelt to skim some stray leaves from the surface. After that, she moved to her shelves, checking jars and bundles, fingers working with the easy practice of someone used to small, steady tasks.

No light burst. No choir sang.

Just a woman doing her work.

(Respectful,) Eira said.

(It is how real saints live.)

Cynthia’s voice was soft.

(Yes. The quiet after the miracle is the heavier part.)

Hestia sniffed.

(She is not a merchant. If she were, she would at least charge for the view.)

Lyan’s gaze had already tried to wander once.

He dragged his eyes away from the Saintess’s calves and the way the robe brushed the line of her hip, cursing his own instincts.

"I am in a holy place," he reminded himself, firmly.

(Looks holy,) Lilith purred.

Long pink hair and lazy smile brushed the back of his mind.

(You, however, are still an incubus. Don’t pretend your eyes are pure.)

Arturia made a distressed sound.

(You should not... ogle... while standing on sacred ground!)

"I’m not ogling," Lyan muttered under his breath. "I’m... acknowledging."

Azelia giggled.

(Acknowledging her legs.)

Sylphia’s whisper trembled at the edge.

P-please... maybe don’t say it out loud...

Lyan exhaled, long and slow.

"Come on," he said to Erich. "Before my brain gets into a fight with itself about theology."

Erich blinked, then nodded.

They bowed, each in their own way.

Erich’s bow was clean, formal, learned at court. Lyan’s was smaller, a warrior’s nod to someone who had just patched up the most important weak point on his field.

"Thank you," Lyan said again.

The Saintess looked over her shoulder at them.

"Go down carefully," she said. "Bodies tired by pride can still slip on simple stones."

"Noted," Erich said.

They left the hollow.

The first few steps down felt wrong.

Lyan always found it that way on mountains. Going up hurt the lungs, but it made sense. Down was trickier. Gravity wanted you to hurry. Knees disagreed.

The path narrowed quickly, hugging the side of the mountain. Wind slid along the rock, tugging at cloaks and hair. The sky felt closer and farther at the same time.

The air was lighter.

Lyan could feel it. Something had shifted. Not in the mountain. In the man walking a few paces ahead of him, one hand on the rock wall, one pressed unconsciously over the pocket where the little bottle sat.

Erich didn’t talk.

He didn’t hum or joke or complain about his knees. He just watched his feet and breathed, slow and careful, like every inhale was a decision.

They walked in silence long enough for sweat to bead at Lyan’s neck again.

He let it stretch until it felt like a string pulled too tight.

Then he cut it.

"You know," Lyan said casually, "you were weak that night."

The words dropped into the thin air between them like a stone.

Erich flinched.

Not huge. Just a small jerk of his shoulders. His hand on the rock clenched.

Lyan saw the old reflex flash through him.

Stomach clench.

The first lick of heat in his face.

The instinct to curl around the word like it was a blade.

But:

Erich caught it.

He breathed in, sharp.

He remembered the Saintess’s voice.

I failed once because I pushed past my limits.

I am not a number in a tavern song.

The word weak rose up like it always did.

This time, it didn’t slam. It just pressed.

He pressed back.

He turned his head slowly and squinted at Lyan.

"If I die," he said, voice steady enough to surprise even himself, "because you decided to test my psychological triggers on a path with no railing, I am haunting you. Personally."

Lyan’s mouth twitched.

"Good," he said. "Then at least I’ll never be lonely."

(He argued,) Cynthia said.

Her tone had a smile in it.

(That is better than folding.)

Griselda crackled.

(If he has enough breath to threaten you, he’s still fighting.)

Arturia huffed.

(I still do not approve of you saying such things so lightly, but...)

She hesitated, then added, softer.

(It is brave to answer instead of hiding.)

Lyan let his shoulders relax a fraction.

"Progress," he said.

Erich snorted and turned his face back toward the path.

They moved on.

The mountain did what mountains did.

It didn’t care about their steps or their feelings. It just existed, a long slope of stone and scrub, sometimes kind, sometimes not.

The path came to a section where it narrowed more than Lyan liked.

Loose gravel slid under their boots. A few pebbles skipped over the edge and vanished into the drop with no sound of landing.

"Careful," Lyan said.

Erich made a small, impatient sound.

"I’m not a child," he said.

The mountain did not care about that either.

His foot hit a patch of gravel that shifted all at once.

His heel slid.

For a second, his weight tipped toward the empty air. His stomach swung with it.

His hand scrabbled at the rock, fingers catching nothing but dust.

"Will," Lyan said.

He dropped his own center of gravity without thinking, one knee bending, one foot braced. His hand shot out and grabbed the back of Erich’s cloak, fingers closing on thick fabric just as the prince’s boot lost any real grip.

The world tilted.

Erich’s breath left him in a short, sharp sound.

Then Lyan yanked.

Muscles in his shoulder screamed. Gravel skittered under both their boots. For a second, it felt like they might both slide.

Then Erich’s foot found stone.

He lurched back against Lyan, shoulder slamming into his chest.

"Ow," Lyan said mildly.

Erich sucked in air like a man who had almost been dunked in a river.

He stared at the drop, then at the rock wall, then at Lyan’s hand, still tangled in his cloak.

"If I die because of your therapy experiments," he said, voice a little too high, "I really am going to haunt you. I will clank chains at the end of your bed every night."

"You’d have to die first," Lyan said. "Try not to."

He loosened his grip slowly.

Erich’s legs shook for a heartbeat.

He planted his boots more firmly, then sucked in another breath and forced them to stop.

Around them, the mountain went on pretending it had nothing to do with any of this.

Cynthia’s presence was warm.

(He didn’t freeze.)

Griselda hummed.

(And he can still curse you while terrified.)

(Such language,) Arturia murmured.

Her voice was scandalized, but there was respect in it now.

(It takes courage to keep walking on a path that nearly took your life.)

Lilith’s laughter curled.

(He nearly fell into your arms again. How romantic.)

"Shut up," Lyan thought at her.

He gestured ahead.

"Move," he told Erich. "Slow. One step at a time. Don’t look down unless you want to vomit on a god."

Erich swallowed.

"I hate this mountain," he muttered.

"You hate everything that makes you sweat," Lyan said.

"That’s not true," Erich said. "I—"

He cut himself off.

"Actually, never mind," he said quickly. "Not finishing that sentence with you listening."

(Shame,) Lilith sighed.

Azelia giggled.

(He was going to say something fun.)

Sylphia sounded like she wanted to hide under a leaf.

P-please... maybe later...

They picked their way along the narrow stretch until the path widened again, then exhaled together.

Lyan rolled his shoulder once, feeling the strain from hauling a full-grown prince away from gravity.

"Next time," he said, "listen when I say ’careful.’"

Erich blew out a breath.

"Next time," he said, "build a railing."

The way-station shelf came into view like a small mercy.

Flat stone. Simple carved bench. The same basin cut into the rock, water dripping slowly into it from a crack above.

Above the basin, the weather-softened words waited.

Drink and remember why you climb.

Lyan felt something unwinding in his chest just seeing it.

His legs ached. His back throbbed with a dull, familiar pain. His body remembered other climbs—some in other worlds, some under worse skies.

He sat down with a sigh that was only half for show.

Erich dropped onto the bench beside him, cloak brushing Lyan’s arm.

"I am officially tired of walking," Erich announced.

"You weren’t official before?" Lyan asked.

"I was in denial before," Erich said. "Now it’s policy."