Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 529: The Lord’s Return (5)

Josephine ambushed him on re-entry, looping her ribbon around his wrist and dragging him into a spinning reel. "Captain of hearts!" she crowed. Her laughter rushed into his ears, wild and bright. Mid-spin she deftly untied the ribbon and flicked it across his nose. "String for later," she whispered, eyes glimmering with more promises than the night had hours.

At the high windows Raine stood silhouetted against moonlight, tracing constellations on the glass. "See the one they call Strayed Wolf?" she asked, pointing. He looked. Only after a heartbeat did he realize she’d placed her hand over his, guiding. "That’s you," she said shyly, "always wandering but always looking back." He leaned close, lips brushing her hair. "Then you’re North Star," he answered. She colored, resting against him while the music slipped through the mullions.

Ravia materialized with a platter of jewel-cut fruit. She lifted a slice of star-pear, sliding it between his lips. Juice dripped down his chin; she laughed and dabbed it away with her thumb—then licked the sweetness off her own skin. His brain blanked for the space of a heartbeat. "Focus, Guardian," she teased, winking as she walked off.

Surena, ever spectral, offered a fresh goblet without a word. Their eyes met—hers assessing, sombre, yet the brush of her fingers lingered on the back of his hand longer than necessity allowed. In that silent exchange she said everything: she was still watching the doors, the shadows, the empty spaces behind tapestries. He squeezed once in thanks; she moved on.

Xena pounced near the roast boar, hooking an arm around his neck. "Mine," she growled before devouring his mouth in a kiss spiced with cloves and rum. Saucy catcalls erupted from mercenaries at the carving board. She broke the kiss with a smack, leaving him dizzy. "Back to the hunt," she declared, snatching a meat skewer and stalking off.

Clarisse slipped through the crowd like candlelight on glass, late but luminous. Her gown was a subdued sea-blue, her hair swept up with silver pins that flashed when she turned her head. "I hope I’m not intruding," she murmured, voice a soft hush that cut through the revel noise. He took her hand, pressing his lips to her knuckles. "You belong," he assured. She guided him to a quiet alcove behind a drape of ivy wreaths. "For everything," she whispered, and kissed him—almond and night-air—delicate yet sure. His hand cupped her cheek, feeling the tremble of relief thrumming beneath her composure.

As trumpets blared the next hour, bakers emerged from the side doors carrying a wolf-shaped cake taller than a man’s waist. Cheers rolled like thunder. Children danced around it, flinging fistfuls of flower petals until the flagstones looked snow-dusted. A mountain drummer switched to a slower rhythm, and spontaneously every disparate group—tribes, soldiers, townsfolk—locked arms in a wide circle. Lyan found himself clasping fingers with an elderly potter on one side and a scar-cheeked centurion on the other. Round and round they stepped, mismatched boots and bare feet alike scuffing straw into the seams of the floor.

(They’re weaving stories about you,) Cynthia murmured, pride brimming.

(See how many eyes drink you in,) Lilith sighed, luxuriating.

Arturia cleared her throat. (Remember: humility is a knight’s first garment.)

He answered them only with a smile—because right now his mouth belonged to laughter.

When the circle dance broke, he was pulled back onto the dais. A bard handed him a lute, daring. He strummed—horribly off-key. The hall erupted in good-natured groans. So he exaggerated, plunking a discordant chord; Josephine booed theatrically. Then Lara stepped up, placed her hands over his, and guided the shape of a simple mountain melody. Their duet stumbled, then found footing; soon soldiers hummed, tribesmen clapped in sync, Arielle scribbled the tune on stray parchment. By the final cadence, the hall rang with a new song—a song birthed in that very moment, half laughter, half vow.

Wilhelmina, arms crossed but eyes shining, started the first toast. "To the Guardian," she declared, voice firm enough to still chatter. "He held the walls, he found us food, he let geese into the mess and still expects our respect. May his judgment stay sharp... because his taste in lovers is reckless." Laughter roared. She raised her cup; everyone followed suit. Lyan bowed, cheek flushed. freewёbnoνel-com

From there the toasts piled like snowflakes. A baker thanked him for ordering flour subsidies that saved winter crusts. A tribesman pledged their spears until stones forgot their names. An old seamstress shyly thanked him for commissioning banners that kept her apprentices fed. Each voice layered over the next until the gratitude felt heavy as chainmail. He carried it gladly.

Trumpets sounded again, marking the hour when village curfews usually began—yet no one left. Lanterns blazed brighter, torches relit. Somewhere a fiddler switched to a slow waltz; couples spun in lazy orbits. Lyan caught Belle dipping Alina dramatically; the two dissolved into giggles on the floor. Emilia had coaxed Surena into a dance—stiff at first, then fluid. Even Sigrid moved gently now, guiding a limping veteran with surprising delicacy.

A breeze wafted through high arrow slits, stirring banner fringes. Candlewax pooled, casting ripples of gold across shield-bosses and braided hair. Lyan stood at the hall’s edge, breath steady, heart pounding a rhythm that finally matched the music’s calm lilt.

(Feel that,) Sylphia whispered, shy wonder in every syllable.

He did. He felt the pulse of Grafen alive under his boots—the promise of harvest wagons yet to arrive, of new watchtowers yet to rise, of children who would grow thinking wolf banners had always fluttered overhead. He felt gratitude anchoring itself in his ribs. He felt Mira’s absence like a healed scar—ache dulled but remembered. He felt his spirits hovering, silent now, letting the hall’s roar fill the spaces words could not.

The hall glowed: firelight dancing on armor, laughter ricocheting off stone walls, trumpets marking each hour. Lyan felt it—this was home, this chaotic, warm, wondrous home.

_____

That night, the castle corridors nested in candle-shadow and hush, but every room glowed with its own ember of anticipation. Lyan padded barefoot along the gallery, still tasting honeyed wine at the back of his throat, heartbeat drumming a restless cadence neither battle nor revel could quiet. As he passed each arched window a slice of moonlight painted silver across his tunic—small, silent blessings guiding him from door to door.

Arielle’s study came first. The door stood ajar, the scent of beeswax polish and fresh ink drifting into the hallway. She hunched over her desk, quill scratching across parchment, lips pursed in fierce concentration. One candle guttered at her elbow, throwing gold flecks into her chestnut hair. He knocked softly; she startled, blotting ink across the margin.

"Lord— Lyan," she whispered, adjusting her spectacles. A shy smile unfurled.

He stepped in, hooking a finger under her chin. "Time to let the ledgers sleep." He kissed her. Ink, paper dust, and the faintest lavender of her pulse point kissed back. Her glasses slipped down, clinking on the oak. She squeaked,—then their mouths melted together, her tongue hesitant at first before fluttering curious, sweet against his. She tasted of chamomile tea gone lukewarm from neglect. When they parted, her pupils were wide, the candle’s flame doubled in them. "Margin error accepted," she breathed again, cheeks flushing a ledger-red. He set her glasses gently beside the scroll and pressed another quick kiss to her forehead before easing the door shut behind him.

The corridor’s tapestries rustled—a draft or Josephine? He found her leaning against a marble pillar, scarlet ribbon coiling between her fingers like a tame snake. "Thought you might stroll by," she drawled, looping the silk around his wrists before he could protest. She cinched a neat knot, tugged just enough to make him stumble closer. "Free yourself, Captain," she dared, voice smoky with laughter.

He twisted, flexing, dramatic for her amusement. When he pivoted fast the ribbon slackened; he freed one hand, seized her waist, spun her against the pillar in mock triumph. Her delighted gasp cracked into a laugh. She stole a quick kiss—tart cherry on her lips—then ducked away, re-knotting the ribbon round his bicep like a victory sash. "Keep it—souvenir," she winked, sauntering off with exaggerated sway.

Raine’s chamber lay two turns further, quiet save the low rustle of tapestry cloth. Inside, lamplight painted ripples across a scene of the Night Garden; she stood before it, fingers tracing the embroidered stars. She turned at the creak, eyes luminous in the dim. "I thought the banquet would never end," she murmured.

He crossed the rug and cupped her face. Their kiss began feather-soft, like brushing dew from petals; she sighed, and her lips parted timidly. She tasted of pear wine and distant thunderstorm. Each little pull of her mouth unwound a thread of tension inside him; each return pass of his tongue coaxed a new, braver response. At last she rested her forehead to his chin. "I’m not afraid anymore," she whispered. He kissed her once more, sealing the vow, and slipped out as she exhaled a sleepy hum.

Wilhelmina’s oak door groaned. She stood framed in candlelight, mail shirt hanging to mid-thigh, legs bare and strong. No words—just a sharp nod that said enter. The latch clicked behind him and she pressed him back against cold wood, mouth already claiming his, lips firm, disciplined. She tasted of crisp mint and steel. He let her lead—her hands charted his shoulders, precise like mapping terrain. But when their fingers entwined she softened, her kiss gentling until breath mingled ragged. She leaned her forehead to his. "Moment recorded," she murmured, the closest she came to an endearment.

Surena’s suite smelled of sandalwood. She sat cross-legged on a cushion, reading a weather-worn tactics manual. One brow rose. "Late."

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