Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 575: Violence as Therapy (1)

The light found him first.

It slipped past the thin shutters and landed right on his face, a sharp spear of morning that stabbed straight through his eyelids.

Lyan grimaced and tried to turn away. His body disagreed.

Pain crawled down his side when he rolled his shoulder. His ribs complained. His knuckles felt like someone had driven nails through them one by one. Even his jaw twinged, a dull reminder of when a fist had slipped past his guard in the apothecary.

He froze for a moment and let out a slow breath.

"...Still alive," he muttered.

(You sound disappointed.)

Cynthia’s warm, amused tone brushed the back of his mind.

He cracked one eye open. The inn room was small and plain—two narrow beds, one lopsided chair, a wobbly table with a cracked basin on it. Dust floated in the bar of light like lazy spirits.

On the other bed, Erich lay sprawled on his back, mouth slightly open, one arm hanging off the edge. His cloak was half on, half off, like he’d tried to remove it and fallen asleep halfway through the attempt.

Lyan pushed himself upright.

Every muscle protested at once.

His ribs ached when he inhaled. His shoulder throbbed. Something tight pulled at the corner of his mouth. He touched his lip and his fingers came away with the faint grit of dried blood and... glitter.

He stared at his hand.

"Perfect," he said. "Potion glitter. Exactly what I wanted to keep."

(That is what you get for pulling down shelves in a criminal’s shop.)

Eira’s cool voice slid through his thoughts like ice water.

(At least you didn’t die.)

Griselda sounded half annoyed, half impressed.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed. His feet hit the floorboards, which creaked like they were offended by the weight.

On the other bed, Erich groaned.

"Don’t move too fast," Lyan said. "You might discover a new kind of pain."

Erich flinched at the sound of his voice. His hand went up to his face and he cracked one eye open directly into the sunbeam.

"Ow," he said flatly.

He threw his arm over his eyes and tried again.

"Why is it bright?"

"It’s morning," Lyan said.

"It feels personal," Erich muttered. He shifted, then winced and clutched his lower back. "Why does my hair hurt? Hair shouldn’t be able to hurt."

"You landed headfirst into two different men and a crate," Lyan said. "Be grateful it’s only your hair."

Erich carefully rolled to his side, then to his back again, as if testing each angle for betrayal.

"Lyan," he said finally, voice hoarse, "I think my spine filed a formal complaint."

"That sounds accurate," Lyan said. He let his shoulders slump back against the wall. "Mine sent a strongly worded letter around the third bandit."

Erich blinked a few times, then squinted at him.

"...Did we win?"

Lyan thought about the tavern full of groaning bodies, the apothecary’s shelves in ruins, the way they had tumbled through the door with glass and potion dust.

"We fought bandits," he said. "Then we fought potions. Then the district decided to fight us back."

Erich let his head fall back against the pillow.

"Ah," he groaned. "That lines up with how everything feels like it lost."

"And," Lyan added, "you insulted a crime boss’ flagship tonic to his face."

"In my defense," Erich said weakly, "it was bad."

(It was also very expensive.)

Hestia’s tone had that sharp, merchant’s sting.

(From a business point of view, the fraud was almost impressive.)

Arturia’s voice came in like a huff.

(This entire affair was disgraceful. A knight should not be fighting in shops full of unknown brews.)

Cynthia laughed softly.

(He’s cute when he’s stubborn, though.)

Lyan pressed his fingers briefly against his temple.

"Quiet," he thought at them.

Azelia’s small, sleepy tone bubbled up anyway.

(Your body hurts, Big Bro Lyan. You should stay in bed and let the grass grow over you.)

"That is not how healing works," he muttered under his breath.

Erich turned his head toward him.

"What isn’t how healing works?"

"Nothing," Lyan said. He rubbed at his eyes and took another slow breath. His chest pulled in protest. "We could," he said after a moment, half serious, "declare this a sign from the gods and give up."

Erich stared at the ceiling.

"And let a single word from a tired maid destroy me forever?" he said. "No. Absolutely not. This is a hostile takeover of my pride."

(At least he admits it.)

Griselda sounded amused now.

(A man who knows why he fights is easier to aim.)

Arturia still sounded scandalized.

(It is still about that... topic.)

Cynthia hummed.

(Everything is always about that topic eventually.)

Sylphia’s faint whisper floated at the edge.

(I-it’s... a little embarrassing...)

Lyan shoved them all to the back of his mind with practice.

He looked at Erich instead.

The prince’s right eye was darkening nicely, a bruise blooming under the skin. His knuckles were scraped. He looked ridiculous and dangerous and entirely serious.

"We’re not done," Lyan said quietly. "We just lost one stupid option."

Erich huffed.

"Good," he muttered. "I want the real cure anyway. Not bottled optimism."

He tried to sit up. His arms shook. He managed it on the third try and immediately regretted it.

"First," Lyan said, pushing himself to his feet, "we need food. Then you can make more bad decisions."

"You say that like you aren’t coming with me," Erich said.

Lyan rolled his sore shoulder and reached for his boots.

"I’m already here," he said. "It’s too late to escape."

The inn’s common room smelled like watered-down stew, old wood, and the faint bitter tang of overboiled coffee.

They found a table near the wall. Lyan sat carefully. Erich lowered himself onto the bench like an old man who had fallen down too many stairs.

The innkeeper’s granddaughter—a thin girl with quick eyes and a dishcloth over her shoulder—brought them bowls and a chipped mug each.

The stew looked like it had started life as water that someone had thought encouraging thoughts at. A few tired vegetables floated in it like survivors.

Erich stared into his bowl as if it had insulted him.

"This," he said, "is an attack."

Lyan tasted it. It was, technically, warm and vaguely salty.

"I’ve had worse," he said.

"Where?" Erich demanded. "In a ditch?"

"Once," Lyan said calmly, "a cook misread a recipe and put sugar in a cabbage soup. That tasted like betrayal. This is just... sad."

The coffee was worse.

Erich took one sip, made a face, and put the mug down carefully like it might bite him.

"That is not coffee," he said. "That is punishment."

"Drink it," Lyan said. "You need to stay awake long enough to regret your choices."

Erich poked his stew with the spoon.

"I already regret most of them," he muttered. "Especially the part where I ran through roofs."

They ate in slow, pained silence for a while. Every movement made some joint creak. The low murmur of other guests filled the room, the scrape of chairs, the clink of crockery.

Halfway through his second bite, Erich’s eyes widened.

He froze, spoon halfway to his mouth.

"Wait," he said.

Lyan glanced up. "What."

Erich set the spoon down, leaned back a little, and snapped his fingers.

"There is another option," he said.

Lyan narrowed his eyes.

"I already don’t like this," he said.

"No, listen," Erich said, sudden energy pushing through the bruises. "I heard a rumor. At court. Months ago. I didn’t think much of it then, because, you know, everything was still working. But now—"

Lyan made a circling motion with his hand. "Get to the part after ’rumor.’"

Erich lowered his voice.

"There’s a woman," he said. "They call her the Saintess of the High Spring."

(Oh.)

Cynthia sounded interested instantly.

(A saintess, is it? I wonder what kind.)

"She lives near a mountain not far from the capital," Erich went on. "People go up there for all sorts of things. Wounds that won’t heal. Curses. Old scars. Quiet... problems."

He coughed.

"Private issues," he said. "That nobody wants to talk about."

Lyan raised an eyebrow.

"And she fixes them?"

"That’s the rumor," Erich said. "Without shaming anyone. She doesn’t even ask for names. People say she listens, she touches your hand, says some prayer, and... things ease. Bodies remember how to work again. Minds too."

Cynthia hummed.

(That sounds familiar.)

Arturia made a small, offended noise.

(Real saintesses do not meddle with men’s lower matters.)

Cynthia’s laugh sparkled.

(You were a real saintess once.)

(And I meddled with hearts, not—)

Lyan tuned them out.

"Key rumor?" he asked dryly.

Erich hesitated, then grimaced.

"Some minor noble," he said, "took too many stamina herbs before his wedding night. You know, the kind they sell in back alleys with names like ’Dragon’s Pride’ and ’Lord’s Triumph.’ He couldn’t... turn off. For two days."

Lyan stared at him.

"The gods punish the stupid,"