Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 519: Refuge for the Dethroned, Glory for the Named (1)

Golden light spilled across the polished tiles of the Celestine Manor as Lyan stepped through its threshold, cloak trailing a comet-tail of ash that dissolved the instant it touched the entry wards. The late-evening hush inside the manor was the sort that cost a month’s wages for a single night—the cultivated silence of nobles who preferred their questions unanswered and their scandals unseen. Somewhere far down a corridor a harp plucked a single note, as if to remind the air it was expensive.

Behind him walked the dethroned Queen of Varzadia, chin lifted in habitual grace though her shoulders sagged beneath the plain gray cloak. Her tread on the marbled floor was steady but heavy, like a song once sung with pride now whispered to an empty room. To her left glided Ara, eyes darting from gilded sconces to vaulted murals; to her right, Kassia stalked forward with a predator’s wariness, cloak hem swishing like a drawn blade. All three wore travel dust and fatigue; none looked the part of pampered guests. Yet the innkeeper bowed so deeply at Lyan’s silver seal that the tassel of his cap brushed the floor tiles.

"Lord Evocatore," the man murmured, straightening with oiled grace, "your party is expected. The private suite has been readied—magical dampeners in place, double wards on the balcony, and staff instructed to speak only when spoken to."

Lyan’s eyes flicked to the servant’s shoes—soft leather, no squeak—and the hall corners—shadowed but swept. Good. "If anyone asks after these ladies," he said, voice pitched low, "they are Dame Elenora and her daughters from Vasren, awaiting their coastal envoy. If anyone presses, you have never seen them." He pressed a coin pouch into the man’s waiting hands; gold clinked, the hush swallowed the sound.

"Understood, my lord. No names. No trouble." The innkeeper’s smile was as polished as the tile.

Lyan turned as the porter scurried ahead with their modest luggage—just two battered travel trunks and a plain leather case that concealed Kassia’s sword pieces. The hallway smelled of beeswax and orange blossom; frescoes of long-dead generals stared from the walls, each rendered in silks that hadn’t seen real dust in centuries.

The suite doors swung wide on silent hinges. Velvet curtains of deep cerulean framed a salon large enough to host a minor ball; ivory mosaics glimmered underfoot; crystal lamps floated along the ceiling like captive stars, glowing with fire-light enchantments that warmed without smoke. Too warm for mourning. Too pretty for hiding.

The Queen stopped just inside the threshold. Her gaze swept the chandeliers, the cushioned divans, the buffet of honey-roasted duck, almond bread, pears poached in saffron—it was as if the room itself refused to acknowledge that kingdoms burned only a week earlier. She touched a velvet drape, fingers trembling.

"You," she said softly, voice almost drowned by the low harp far away, "have put a corpse in a ballroom."

Lyan unclasped his cloak, revealing the travel-worn gambeson beneath, and passed a small ruby-seal token to the senior maid so she could dismiss the serving staff. When the last footsteps faded, he answered without meeting the Queen’s eye. "Then let the world dance around it."

Kassia snorted, dropping her pack with a thunk that made a porcelain tray rattle. She toed off her boots—scuffed leather, caked in road mud—onto a carpet so plush her heel left a crater. Crossing to the sideboard, she eyed the feast as though it might attack. "We eat like fat nobles while peasants out there believe we’re buried under marble." She sniffed the duck, then the sliced fruit glossed with mint syrup. Her stomach growled; her glare deepened.

Ara glided to the balcony doors. She drew one curtain aside an inch, enough to peer onto the cobbled avenue below. Lantern-light painted the street in gold; festival streamers still hung from the previous month’s harvest gala, fluttering in the night breeze like colorful ghosts. Somewhere a carriage rattled past, its passengers laughing. The sound made Ara flinch, but she didn’t let go of the curtain.

Lyan paced once around the room, admiring and cataloguing in the same breath. One crystal lamp flickered a half-beat slower than the others—a sign its rune-core was due for re-inking. The northern wall’s fresco showed a knight trimming a laurel tree; nice symbolism for civilian guests, but the laurel’s base concealed an air-vent, useful if smoke bombs ever needed venting. He stored that away: if extraction was necessary, smoke would rise quickly here.

(You’re mapping escape routes again,) Cynthia observed, her tone gentle.

(I like that fresher laurel. Hide a lover behind it,) Lilith teased.

(Please focus,) Arturia said, mortified already.

He ignored the chorus and returned to the entrance, catching the innkeeper just before he left. "No midnight wine deliveries," Lyan instructed. "No unannounced laundry service. And the maid who lights fire-crystals at dawn? She’s now on the late shift, understood?"

The innkeeper bowed so low his cap slipped. "But of course, my lord! The staff will remember only silence." He hurried away, footsteps ghost-quiet on the runner, the pouch of gold vanishing into a sleeve.

When Lyan turned back, he caught himself staring—a too-long moment at the Queen’s neckline where her cloak had fallen open, revealing the faint pulse in her collar. Heat flushed his ears. He looked away, pretending to examine curtain tassels.

(You do that badly,) Eira noted dryly.

(He thinks nobody notices when his eyes wander,) Griselda crackled.

(At least he’s trying,) Sylphia offered, timid.

He cleared his throat. "There are three bedrooms. Ara, take whichever one faces the sunrise. Kassia—" he pointed at a corridor lined with carved alcoves—"swordplay’s safer down that hall. The furniture’s heavier."

Kassia made a face but nodded, snatching two bread rolls on her way past. Ara lingered at the balcony a breath longer, then whispered something to the night air and followed her sister.

Left alone with the Queen, Lyan lifted the silver decanter lid on the central table. A curl of steam scented with bergamot rose. "Tea?"

She lowered herself onto a chaise, fingertips smoothing invisible wrinkles in her cloak. "Tea will not resurrect kingdoms."

"No." He poured anyway, the amber stream filling two porcelain cups. The saucers clinked. "But exhaustion will fell queens. Drink."

She accepted. For a moment they sat in silence, the only sound the distant harp and the faint hiss of fire-crystals adjusting to the room’s chill.

"You lost a crown," he said finally, staring into his tea, "but not the reasons you once wore it." He saw, in the reflection, her brows knit—grief mixed with something like anger. "Rest tonight. Tomorrow you can decide how to live without it."

She set the cup down untouched. "Have you decided how to live with yours?"

He blinked. His hand brushed the new signet ring Erich’s steward had pressed upon him that morning—the stylized wolf head of Grafen encircled by laurel. It felt heavier than iron.

"No," he admitted. "But I’ll keep walking. Eastward, mostly."

Her lips curved into the faintest echo of a smile. "Then let the world dance around you too, Lord Evocatore."

◈ ◈ ◈

Four days later Astellia woke to festival thunder. Trumpets burst at sunrise; bakeries sold sweet rolls shaped like banners; children chalked lightning bolts on alley stones. By mid-morning, the Royal Gardens were a sea of color—citizens in bright cloaks, soldiers in full armor, merchants hawking commemorative ribbons stamped with a silver glaive.

Lyan arrived with the high command, helmed but visor raised. The silver elms arched overhead, leaves shimmering like coin in the breeze. Bards tuned lutes at the fountain steps; one singer rehearsed a ballad about "the single-swing storm." Lyan winced—memory insisted the enemy line had broken after hours of grim slog, not one miraculous blow, but legends needed tidy shapes.

(They’re singing about you again,) Cynthia murmured, almost apologetic.

(Look! They even gave you wings this time,) Lilith laughed.

Petals snowed from balconies—roses, lilies, saffron marigolds. Children darted through the crowd tossing handfuls; one girl aimed squarely at Lyan’s helm. Petals stuck to his cheekplate; he flicked them off and managed a grin that felt brittle.

Ahead, polished glass globes were handed out by acolytes in blue robes. Inside each sphere glittered grey dust that sparked silver when touched by sunlight. "Ash-light memories," the acolytes announced. "So every home carries the dawn." Lyan accepted one out of politeness, thumb rubbing the cool surface. Whose residue was sealed inside? An enemy footman? A friend?

Wilhelmina marched up the stone dais. Her breastplate still bore the char at its rim where a sorcerous javelin had grazed her. She knelt, laying her old banner—a ragged strip of indigo cloth, edges scorched. Two standard-bearers in fresh livery unfurled a new one behind her: same wolf crest, now outlined in silver thread that caught the sun like lightning. The crowd cheered; Wilhelmina’s stern expression didn’t change, but her shoulders eased.

Prince Erich took the dais, gold scroll in hand. Sunlight hit his polished mail, turning him into a beacon. "By decree of the Crown," he proclaimed, voice ringing off marble plinths, "and in gratitude of the realm, I name Count Lyan Arcanium Evocatore Guardian of the Eastern Crest: Grafen, Norhallow, Dunbridge, Valmere, and all unified lands therein!"

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