Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 576: Violence as Therapy (2)

"The gods punish the stupid," he said.

"I agree," Erich said. "Anyway. They carried him up the mountain half-conscious. He came back down walking normally and talking softly and saying he’d never disrespect his body again."

Azelia’s voice bubbled through.

(I hope they gave him water.)

Griselda snorted.

(They should have given him a shovel and told him to dig his own grave.)

Lyan focused on the man across from him.

"So," he said slowly, "your brilliant idea is to bother a holy woman about your heroic equipment."

Erich winced.

"I prefer to think of it," he said, "as consulting a specialist."

"You’re going to ask a saintess to fix your pride," Lyan said.

"...my condition is attached to my pride, yes," Erich admitted.

Lyan leaned back. The bench creaked under him.

He thought of the Gilded Morrow’s reach, of Vargan’s quiet gaze, of the way shutters had snapped shut around them.

"If we leave now," he said slowly, "we’ll be out of the syndicate’s range for a while. They’ll be busy picking glitter out of their hair and rewriting supply lists."

Erich nodded quickly.

"And maybe," he added, "I stop hearing ’weak’ every time someone says ’tea is weak.’ I almost slapped a server yesterday."

"That would have been excessive," Lyan said.

"I’m hanging by a thread," Erich muttered.

Lyan weighed it.

A week’s detour. Some climbing. Possibly another kind of trouble.

He had done worse things for worse reasons.

"Fine," he said. "We go."

Erich blinked. "Really?"

"On one condition," Lyan said. "You do not call it an ’urgent state matter’ if someone asks why we left the capital."

Erich hesitated.

"I can call it a ’personal security emergency,’" he suggested.

"No," Lyan said.

"A ’critical morale operation’?"

"No."

Erich sighed.

"Fine," he said. "I’ll just say I needed air."

"That will be the first true statement you make this week," Lyan said.

They finished what they could of the stew. Erich failed to finish the coffee. Lyan didn’t blame him.

They paid the innkeeper and went back upstairs to gather their things.

Lyan checked the straps on his pack, the buckles on his armor, the weight of his coin pouch. The stolen vial sat where he’d left it on the table. He picked it up, turned it in his fingers, then slipped it deeper into his bag.

Evidence. Or ingredients.

Erich strapped on his sword with a small grunt of pain.

The innkeeper saw them out at the door. The street outside still smelled faintly of smoke and last night’s spilled ale.

"You heading toward the capital?" the innkeeper asked.

"Toward the mountain," Lyan said.

The man’s expression tightened.

"Road that way runs past rough territory," he said. "Bandits. Beasts. And pilgrims who’ve lost their minds and forgotten to go home."

Erich managed a grin.

"Sounds familiar," he said.

Lyan nodded once.

"So," he murmured, adjusting his cloak as they stepped out into the morning, "the usual."

They left the town as the sun dragged itself higher over the crooked roofs.

Lyan rode like he always did—balanced, easy, his body falling into old soldier habits despite the protests from his bruises. The horse knew his hand by now, answering small shifts without fuss.

Erich rode like a man trying very hard to look casual and not like every step was a small betrayal.

"Why is the saddle made of knives," he muttered as they trotted past the last of the customs posts.

"It’s made of leather," Lyan said. "You’re made of softness."

"I am made of heroic spine," Erich snapped.

"Your heroic spine is complaining louder than you are," Lyan said. "And that’s saying something."

Erich adjusted his cloak and tried to sit straighter. The movement made him hiss through his teeth.

"If you tell anyone I made that sound," he said, "I will deny everything."

"You’re the crown prince," Lyan said. "Your entire life is witnesses."

They left the border grime behind by degrees.

The road widened for a while, clean packed earth under the hooves. Low hills rolled away on either side, dotted with scrub and the occasional scraggly tree. Farther off, they saw a handful of farmhouses, tiny squares of tilled land clinging to the soil.

Bit by bit, even those faded. The houses grew fewer, the fields rougher, the road narrower.

Erich broke the silence first.

"We should plan what to say," he said.

"To the saintess," Lyan guessed.

"Yes," Erich said. "We can’t just walk in and say, ’Hello, holy woman, my manhood flinches at the word ’weak,’ please fix me.’"

"That would be honest," Lyan said.

"That would be vulgar," Erich said. "We need... graceful phrasing. Something like, ’a subtle misalignment of confidence.’"

Lyan stared at him.

"Repeat that," he said.

"A subtle misalignment of confidence," Erich said proudly.

"No," Lyan said. "Just say you panic and your body refuses to cooperate."

Erich made a face. "That’s worse."

"That’s accurate," Lyan said.

"Accuracy is not the priority," Erich muttered.

(You should be honest with a healer.)

Cynthia’s tone was gentle.

(They can’t mend what you hide.)

(He can say it however he wants.)

Griselda crackled in his thoughts.

(As long as he admits it’s a flaw.)

Arturia sounded like she wanted to cover her ears. 𝐟𝐫𝕖𝗲𝘄𝚎𝗯𝕟𝐨𝕧𝐞𝚕.𝕔𝕠𝐦

(This is not suitable talk while riding in the open air.)

The road wound between low trees now, the branches leaning in overhead. Birds chattered somewhere out of sight. The sun climbed higher.

Lyan’s gaze sharpened.

Branches broken at odd angles. A patch of dirt scuffed where wheels had skidded. A discarded scrap of cloth half buried in the dust.

He slowed his horse.

"Eyes up," he said quietly. "This is bandit country."

Erich straightened despite his complaints.

"I see nothing yet," he said.

"That’s how you know they’re doing it badly," Lyan said. "If they were good, we wouldn’t see anything at all."

Another bend in the road, and there it was.

A crude barricade of logs and an overturned cart blocked the way ahead. Six or seven men lounged by it, weapons in easy reach—clubs, short swords, one rusty spear. They straightened when they saw the riders.

One of them squinted at Erich like he was trying to place him.

"Morning," their leader said, stepping forward. He had a beard that looked like it had been cut with a knife and eyes that were too hungry. "Road toll."

Lyan let his horse come to a stop a few paces away.

"Already paid," he said calmly. "At the actual gate."

The leader smiled, showing too many teeth.

"This is the real gate," he said. "We’ll be taking your coin and your horses."

He glanced at Erich again.

"Maybe your cloaks, too," he added. "Nice fabric."

Erich rubbed his face with one hand, like he was tired of this whole script.

"You picked the wrong morning," Lyan said.

The leader’s smile twitched.

"And why’s that?"

"Because my friend," Lyan said, nodding toward Erich, "is in a terrible mood and everything on his body hurts."

Erich sighed.

"Yes," he said. "And I would very much like to share this feeling."

One of the bandits snorted.

"Soft nobles," he said under his breath. "They always talk pretty before they squeal."

Lyan swung down from his horse in one smooth, practiced motion. The ground jarred his knees, but he didn’t let it show.

Erich followed, a little stiffer, but his stance settled into something Lyan recognized from a hundred drills. Shoulders loose. Weight balanced. Hand near the sword, but not on it yet.

The bandits hesitated just a fraction.

Then greed won.

"Get ’em," the leader snapped.

They surged forward.

Lyan stepped into the first one’s space as if he’d invited him for tea. A fist came toward his face. He turned his head just enough, let the punch scrape past his ear, and drove his palm into the man’s chest. The air whooshed out of him and he staggered back, wheezing.

To his left, Erich raised one hand.

A thin wash of heat flickered across his knuckles.

He punched a bandit in the gut. There was a soft, surprised yelp as cloth smoldered. The man doubled over, clutching his stomach.

"That one’s going to smell like burnt onions," Erich muttered.

Another man swung a club at Lyan’s head.

He ducked, stepped in, and caught the man’s wrist with one hand. His other hand chopped down on the elbow. The club dropped. Lyan kicked it aside.

Beside him, Erich grunted.

"On the left!" he called.

Lyan shifted his weight without looking. The shadow on the ground told him enough. He spun, brought his arm up, and deflected a wild sword slash with the flat of his bracer. His boot came up, catching the attacker in the knee.

The man went down with a howl.

"You two always talk this much?" one of the bandits gasped, swinging at Erich.

"Yes," Lyan and Erich said together.

Erich ducked the blow, stepped inside the man’s guard, and drove his shoulder into his chest. They both went staggering, but Erich stayed on his feet.

Pain flared across his ribs. He ignored it.

"This is for my spine," he muttered, punching the man in the jaw.

Lyan moved like a knife through water. Every step placed him where he needed to be, just out of reach, just close enough to strike.

He caught one bandit’s collar as the man tried to circle around toward the horses, yanked him back, and flipped him over his hip. The man hit the dirt and stayed there.

The one who had been squinting at Erich finally snapped his fingers.

"Wait," he blurted. "Aren’t you—"

Erich elbowed him in the face.

"No," he said. "I’m Milo."