Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 528: The Lord’s Return (4)

"Lord Evocatore," she began, voice striving for crisp formality but wobbling as his elbow grazed hers. "First garrison report."

He angled himself to read over her shoulder. Ink splotches betrayed late-night drafting. "Soldiers: discipline stable," he recited, nodding at the neatly written lines. "Mercenaries: integrating—what does culinary disputes mean?"

She coughed, fluster widening her eyes behind spectacles. "Yesterday’s lunch service devolved into a shouting match over pepper versus juniper. A saucepan was wielded as a shield. No casualties—except one beet stew."

He bit the inside of his cheek, smothering a chuckle. "Noted. And the tribes?"

"Mischief trending upward." She flipped the scroll, revealing stick-figure diagrams she’d drawn of recent incidents. "This is a depiction of them herding geese through the mess hall at dawn. Morale improved but cleanliness plummeted."

He couldn’t stop the laugh this time. Geese. Of course. "Reward initiative. Encourage mischief that cleans itself up—no livestock inside kitchens without written consent."

Arielle’s quill scratched as she jotted the instruction. Her hand trembled slightly; he pretended not to notice. The sweet scent of berry drifted again. She followed his sniff toward the well. "Children harvested early. I’m arranging payment in barley cakes so the farmers don’t complain."

He tapped the scroll. "Good. And remind the bakers—gratitude loaves are welcome, but we’ll pay for ingredients."

Her posture slackened, scroll lowering. "Three pages of reports maximum?"

"Three," he confirmed. "Anything above that I’ll feed to the geese." The joke earned a breathy laugh that sounded like relief.

Footsteps clanged—Wilhelmina, all black mail and clipped efficiency, approached like an oncoming spear tip. Sunlight struck her polished pauldrons, shooting sparks across the courtyard stones. "Patrol notes." She snapped a thin slate into his palm. Charcoal lines mapped the northern ridge, small X’s marking probable smuggler crossings. "Patterns changed—traffic favors the birch-grove route now. I want double pickets, hounds if we can spare them." freeweɓnøvel~com

He scanned the slate, appreciating her condensed handwriting. "Approved. Rotate the rookies in so they learn terrain." He passed the slate back.

A shadow detached from the arch’s far column—Surena in slate-grey leathers, arms folded but eyes busy. She spoke without small talk. "Three minor nobles met last night at the Miller’s Knot inn. Coin changed hands. They’re testing who’ll sell them deeds in Norhallow. I’ve placed a pair of scouts in the taproom."

"Nudge the tavern keeper," Lyan said. "Free rounds for eavesdropping, but water down the ale. Loose tongues are an asset."

Surena’s mouth twitched—the closest she came to a smile. "Velvet gloves, as always."

Wilhelmina snorted approval. "But with steel lining."

They dismissed themselves, boots ringing in opposite directions, leaving him an expanding bubble of quiet in the center of courtyard chaos. A weaver’s cart trundled past, stacked with new pennants: silver wolves on dusk-blue cloth, ready for town rooftops. The driver tipped his hat, pride shining in threadbare eyes.

A list formed behind Lyan’s eyes: check aqueduct joints—yesterday’s patch still leaked; tour the tanner’s yard—mountain hides needed curing advice; sit with the chief of harvest to chart levy ratios that wouldn’t starve winter villages; meet the salt merchant envoy—Valmere disputes brine-tax percentages. Each item pulsed like a drumbeat at the edge of his skull.

(But heart’s light,) Azelia whispered, voice like dew sliding down a leaf.

He exhaled slowly, picturing her little horn bobbing as she giggled, sandals kicking in meadow grass. The tension eased enough he noticed the warmth of sunlight on his collar—startlingly gentle.

"Guardian!" a voice piped.

He turned—Raine hurried toward him, postal satchel banging against her thigh. Her pale hair, normally so neat, was wind-tossed; a loose ribbon fluttered behind. She skidded to a stop, breathing hard but smiling. "Letters from Erich." She extended a bundle bound with blue silk. "He sends official thanks—and, um, this." She unfolded a smaller scrap, eyes sparkling. "’Try not to over-collect wives before the next council session.’ He drew a little frowning stick figure with three hearts. I think it’s meant to be you?"

Lyan barked a laugh. "Tell him I accept his challenge." Then he sobered at her stiffening shoulders. She carried weight too—paper cuts across her knuckles, ink on her cuff. He softened his tone. "What else?"

"Supply rights formalized," she said, catching her breath. "Plus a teasing note that I might seize your bed if you don’t negotiate peace with your paperwork."

Her voice quavered on "truce." He’d thought her unshakable once; he realized now that steadiness was something she worked at every morning, like a shield she chose to lift.

He reached to squeeze her forearm. "I’ll defend my bed from all comers," he said lightly, then, gentler, "including restless scribes."

Pink climbed her cheeks. "I’m not— I wouldn’t—" She bit the inside of her lip, then blurted, "Just don’t burn out before you rest."

He heard the fear under the joke. "I won’t," he promised, holding her gaze long enough that she nodded, satisfied.

He cleared his throat, raising his voice over a sudden cheer from the sparring yard. "Gather the others. Tonight we host the welcoming banquet."

The courtyard seemed to pause, as if the word banquet cast a fragrant spell. Nearby bakers straightened, ears perking; soldiers wiped brows with sudden enthusiasm; a tribesman mid-vault landed and whooped loud enough to startle pigeons from the parapet. Cheers rippled outward like rings in a pond.

Raine’s eyes brightened. She saluted—still awkward with the gesture, but earnest—then spun on her heel, running to relay the order. Lyan watched her go, feeling the sweet berry scent swirl one more time on the waking breeze.

Her voice quivered on the word truce, and Lyan realized how he’d taken her steadiness for granted. "I’ll defend my bed from all comers," he promised, then cleared his throat. "Gather the others. Tonight we host the welcoming banquet."

_____

Musicians near the hearth struck up a rolling cadence—pipes and hammered dulcimers—chasing each other through reels so quick the notes felt like sparks popping off pine logs. The sound leapt from flagstone to rafter until even the chandeliers seemed to sway in time. Lyan’s boots barely touched the ground as Tara dragged him deeper into the drum circle. Her braids whipped in dizzy spirals, herbs woven between strands releasing a sharp, green scent every time she spun. She planted his hands on her waist—bold, guiding—and he followed the rhythm she stamped into the straw. When she laughed, it rumbled from her belly, a sound so full it rattled the beads on her necklace.

Sigrid barreled through next, two casks under each arm as though they were kindling. "Ale for cowards, mead for heroes!" she roared, slamming the jugs down hard enough that froth geysered over the rims. The nearest Astellian officer—petite, immaculate buckles—accepted the challenge with a game grin. They clinked mugs the size of helmets. One gulp, two—then the officer sputtered, wiping foam from his chin while Sigrid only belched victoriously. She slammed her empty against his and thundered, "Again!" The troops nearby chanted her name, the rhythm half challenge, half reverence.

Across the table line, Lara’s ballad tapered to a hush—her final note sustained like silver thread. The bustle softened to catch it. Her eyes were closed, expression serene, as though she still heard mountain wind even indoors. Lyan found himself standing still, heart drumming slower to match her quiet. When the last quiver of sound vanished, he bowed, palm over his heart. She opened her eyes, sea-glass green, and inclined her head in return, cheeks flushed with shy pride.

Wilhelmina intercepted him before he could take a step. She thrust a goblet into his hand, iron bracer clicking the stem. "To stability," she said, steel in every syllable. "Try not to cause a riot." Her lips twitched—almost a smile. He brushed a kiss against her temple; she froze, then sheathed her sternness long enough to lean in, her breath ginger-mint against his ear. "Just don’t forget morning drill." She shoved the goblet back at him and stalked off, cloak snapping like a banner.

No sooner had he turned than Arielle fussed with the silver clasp at his shoulder. "Tilted two degrees," she muttered, adjusting. Tears sparkled behind her glasses, though she tried to hide them by looking at the floor-length tassel. He knelt a little so she could reach and smoothed her hair behind her ear, whispering, "Grafen stands because of you." Her answering smile was blinding, and when she hugged him it felt like parchment and ink giving way to warmth.

Solia appeared with the glide of a dancer, palm landing flat over his heart. "Slow down," she murmured, leading him beneath a lantern’s soft halo. They swayed—no formal steps, just the hush of fabric and breath. She smelled of peaches and soft linen. For a moment the hall blurred; there was only her heartbeat under his palm, steady and reassuring. She pressed a single kiss to his sternum through his tunic. "Keep that strong," she ordered, before letting him go.

Alicia caught him next, brandishing a plate stacked with miniature honey wheels. "Taste test." She pressed one to his lips; sugar crumbled, floral syrup burst across his tongue. He coughed, half choking as she smirked. "Too sweet?" she teased. He licked sugar from his thumb, eyes watering. "Perfect," he rasped. She popped another between his teeth for good measure and skipped away victorious.

Loud laughter drew him to the game circle where Alina and Belle manned a shell-and-cup table. Three wooden cups clacked, Belle’s hands a blur. "Bet five coppers you guess the seed," she said. Lyan narrowed his eyes; Alina winked and gave the cups a wicked spin of her own. He pointed—wrong. Groans and cheers rose. Again, wrong. After the fifth failed attempt Belle blew him a kiss. "House wins!" She swept imaginary coin toward her apron pocket, and Alina rewarded him with a consolatory peck on the cheek that tasted like lime. "Loser’s tax," she declared, tugging his laughing face down for a second kiss.

Emilia drifted to the balcony threshold, subtle as dawn mist. She raised one brow, tilting her head toward the open night. Lyan excused himself and followed. Outside, the air tasted of pine woodsmoke. She handed him a goblet, their fingers brushing. "I fought wars hoping for nights like this," she confessed, voice pitched low so the revel couldn’t steal it. "Nights where the swords rest and there’s... music." Her smile was uncharacteristically soft. He clinked his cup to hers. "Then we keep making them," he promised. They drank, and the wine was dark plum, velvet on the tongue.

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