Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 585: Learning to Set It Down (End)

"This was left at a safe house in the lower quarter with instructions for a man answering to that name," he said. "It was suggested I look near the mountain road if I wanted to find him."

Erich took the tube.

His fingers knew what to do.

He cracked the wax with his thumb, slid the rolled paper out, and scanned it.

His jaw tightened by degrees.

"What is it?" Lyan asked.

"News," Erich said.

He took a breath, the kind that court taught you to take when something awful arrived at a banquet and you had to read it anyway.

"Gilded Morrow made a move," he said. "They’re pushing harder into the lower quarter. Using that apothecary network. Someone in court tried to push a law that would give them a legal shield as ’medical suppliers.’ It was delayed. Barely."

"Let me guess," Lyan said. "Someone whispered that the prince is too busy chasing songs to watch his own city."

Erich’s mouth pulled.

"The rumor about me being ’weak’ made it home," he said. "They’re using it. Not just for jokes. For politics."

Hestia’s voice sharpened.

(Of course they are.)

She sounded almost pleased to be proven right about the cruelty of markets and courts.

(A reputation is a commodity. They are buying and selling his.)

Griselda hummed, low.

(An enemy that hits pride and law at the same time. Efficient.)

Cynthia sighed.

(This is why you came, too, even if you did not say it.)

Erich rolled the message up and tapped it against his palm.

"I wanted to fix one quiet problem," he said softly. "And the loud ones found me again anyway."

"That’s how crowns work," Lyan said. "They don’t ring first."

Erich huffed a humorless laugh.

"I know," he said. "Part of me hoped the world would wait politely while I... recalibrated."

"The world has never been polite," Lyan said. "Especially not to men like you."

"Men like me?" Erich asked.

"Ones who try to be better while everyone is watching," Lyan said.

The rider cleared his throat.

"My orders said to bring you back if I found you," he said carefully. "Quietly."

"Of course they did," Erich muttered.

He glanced at Lyan.

"Well?"

Lyan lifted one shoulder.

"We were going back anyway," he said. "I still owe a certain tonic some revenge."

"And the people it hurt justice," Arturia added.

Her voice was firm now.

(We have seen the man who heals. It is only fair we deal with the ones who harm.)

They packed to leave with more purpose than when they’d arrived.

In the small rented room, Erich checked and rechecked his things.

Sword belt. Cloak. The little sturdy box where he kept personal letters.

His hand went, almost shyly, to the inner pocket where the clay bottle pressed against cloth.

He touched it with two fingers.

"I know this isn’t a miracle," he said.

Lyan tightened the straps on his own pack.

"It isn’t," he agreed.

"But it feels like..." Erich frowned, searching. "A chance."

"That’s all it is," Lyan said. "Use it if you need it. But don’t make it your new legend. You already saw where chasing legends gets you."

Erich made a face.

"Yes, yes," he said. "No more murals. I’ll settle for being a competent sketch."

Lilith laughed.

(A very pretty sketch.)

Sylphia made a small flustered noise.

Y-you can be... more than that...

Azelia bubbled.

(He’ll grow more leaves later.)

"He says that about everybody," Lyan told Erich.

"I’m not sure if that makes me feel better or worse," Erich said.

Down by the paddock, the boy held the horses’ reins.

They were brushed and fed, ears flicking as if mildly interested in the idea of going somewhere that wasn’t up.

"You’re going?" the boy asked.

"Yes," Erich said. "The mountain doesn’t need us staring at it any longer."

The boy squinted.

"You’ll come back?" he asked.

Lyan swung into his saddle with only a small grunt.

"Maybe when our knees forget," he said.

The boy nodded like that was an acceptable answer.

"When you’re old and break something else," he said. "People always do."

Erich almost laughed.

"I hope I break fewer things by then," he said.

"People say that too," the boy replied.

Hestia made an amused sound.

(He’ll be a good merchant one day. He already understands repeat customers.)

They rode out of the village as the morning thickened.

Prayer flags fluttered them farewell. The mountain watched without comment.

The road down from the foothills felt different.

Wider. Less ready to kill them.

Trees stretched overhead, leaves filtering the light into softer pieces. The air smelled of damp bark and distant smoke.

Erich rode with his shoulders straighter than on the way up.

He still winced when the saddle reminded him that he had a spine, but he complained less.

For a long time, they rode in silence, each wrapped in his own thoughts. 𝗳𝐫𝚎𝗲𝚠𝚎𝗯𝕟𝐨𝘃𝚎𝗹.𝗰𝗼𝗺

Lyan’s hand strayed once to his pack.

He knew where the stolen vial from the apothecary sat.

He thought of Vargan’s smile, of Kora’s hard eyes, of shelves of fake hope in pretty bottles.

(Hestia,) he thought.

Her fiery presence brightened.

(Yes?)

"When we get back," he said in his mind, "I want you and Cynthia to take a look at that tonic. See exactly what it is. And how many men it could hurt before it fails."

Cynthia hummed.

(Gladly.)

Hestia’s voice took on a merchant’s sharp edge.

(If we know the trick, we can break their market. No more fake miracles for high prices.)

Griselda crackled.

(Or turn it against them. Let their own brew choke their plans.)

Arturia, as always, steered them back to honor.

(We destroy it before it harms more innocents. Justice is not bargaining.)

"We’ll see," Lyan thought.

The road dipped.

They passed a little stream, horses splashing through.

Erich’s voice broke the quiet.

"When I’m king," he said, "I’m going to shut every apothecary like that down. The ones that prey on desperation."

Lyan raised a brow.

"You’ll have to be careful," he said. "You can’t close all of them. Some are actually trying to help."

"I know," Erich said. "But the ones that sell hope in bottles that barely work? The ones that lie on labels and buy nobles to protect them? I want laws for that."

"Good," Lyan said. "Write them before someone offers you a very large bribe to look away."

Erich snorted.

"If I ever start taking bribes for that, I want you to personally throw me off a mountain," he said.

"Which one?" Lyan asked. "There are many."

"Any," Erich said. "Preferably one with nice scenery."

(You see?) Cynthia said softly.

(He is already thinking like a king. Not about glory. About regulation.)

"Don’t say ’regulation’ in my head," Lyan thought. "It sounds like paperwork."

Azelia laughed.

(Paperwork is just leaves with words.)

"You are not helping," he told her.

They rode until the trees thinned and the road widened more, becoming a proper trade route again.

Wagons passed them now and then. A cart with barrels. A man leading goats. A woman with bundles of herbs tied to her back.

Most people didn’t look twice at them.

Two men on horses, a little dusty, a little bruised. Nothing special.

"So," Lyan said finally. "How do you feel about tavern songs now?"

Erich grimaced.

"If anyone writes one about this trip," he said, "I’ll burn the tavern down."

"Growth," Lyan said. "Previously you wanted to outrun them. Now you’re ready to censor them."

"I am ready to prevent them from existing," Erich said. "That’s different."

"More aggressive," Lyan agreed.

(If he must have a song,) Lilith said lazily,

(it should at least mention that he climbed a mountain to fix his heart, not his lower parts.)

Arturia sputtered.

(Do not... say it like that!)

Sylphia sounded like she wanted to vanish.

P-please...

Erich shifted in his saddle.

"I should probably tell my future wife, shouldn’t I?" he said suddenly.

Lyan glanced over.

"Tell her what?" he asked. "That you went up a mountain to talk to a holy woman about your heroic equipment?"

Erich groaned.

"When you say it like that, it sounds worse," he said. "I mean... tell her the truth. About that night. About why I went. Before she hears a twisted version from someone else."

Lyan considered it.

"Depends," he said. "If she’s kind, yes. If she’s terrifying, definitely yes. So she doesn’t hear it from my wives first."

Erich stared.

"Your wives would tell her?"

"Lilith would," Lyan said. "Cynthia would turn it into a sermon. Hestia would calculate the economic impact of your embarrassment on the wedding market. Arturia would die on the spot and come back just to judge your phrasing."

(That is unfair,) Arturia protested.

(I would not— I mean— I would not gossip.)

Azelia giggled.

(But you would blush.)

Arturia went quiet in a way that meant she was, in fact, blushing somewhere in spirit-space.

Erich rubbed his face.

"I am doomed," he said.

"Probably," Lyan said.

They shared a real laugh then.

Not the brittle kind that covered pain. The tired, relieved kind that came when you had survived something ugly and the world had not fallen apart.

As the sun dipped lower, the road curved.

In the far distance, a smudge of darker smoke marked where the city sat.

From here, it looked peaceful.

Lyan knew better.

Behind those walls, syndicates were sharpening knives behind medicine counters. Court factions were whispering weakness into ears that mattered. People were getting hurt in small, quiet ways that didn’t make songs.

He adjusted his cloak against a mild breeze.

"The tea at that village was weak," he said.

He said it deliberately, casually, like a man commenting on weather.

Erich flinched.

Just a little.

His fingers tightened on the reins.

Then he rolled his eyes, slow and big.

"You’re weak," he said. "Your jokes are weak. Your entire fashion sense is weak."

Lyan looked down at his very normal, practical gear.

"What is wrong with my fashion sense?" he asked.

"You wear the same cloak for battles, bandit ambushes, mountain climbs, and holy pilgrimages," Erich said. "It’s a miracle in itself you haven’t been arrested by the style guard."

"There is no style guard," Lyan said.

"Not yet," Erich said darkly. "When I’m king, there will be."

Cynthia laughed.

(He lives. He jokes.)

Griselda hummed approval.

(And he throws the word back now. Not at himself. At you.)

"I noticed," Lyan thought.

Clouds were gathering above the line of the city in the distance.

Not storm clouds. Not yet.

Just the kind that hinted at weather thinking about changing.

The world below didn’t know that a prince had climbed a mountain to break one quiet spell in his head.

It didn’t care.

But the next time someone whispered "weak" about him in a corridor, it would land differently.

And somewhere high above, a woman in a storm-grey robe might pause in skimming leaves from a pool and feel, for just a moment, that one more man had decided to try being a man instead of a mural.

Lyan nudged his horse a little faster.

"Come on," he said. "We fixed one thing. Time to break something else."

Erich sighed.

"Responsibly," he said.

"Responsibly," Lyan agreed.

The horses trotted on, hooves beating a stubborn rhythm toward a city that hadn’t asked for them, but would need them anyway.