Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 527: The Lord’s Return (3)

Lyan’s first thought—after the shock that he’d survived the night without suffocation—was that the girls smelled different now that dawn warmed their skin: Wilhelmina carried clean steel and wild mint; Arielle a faint inky lavender; Solia sunlight and soft linen; Alicia honey and fresh-baked crust; Alina a spark of citrus; Belle warm vanilla; Emilia the tang of sweat and rose oil; Josephine sweet wine; Raine rain-kissed moss; Ravia sugared berries; Surena sandalwood and parchment; Xena spiced rum; Clarisse a whisper of almond soap; Tara mountain thyme; Sigrid pine sap; Lara cool river stone. The perfume cocktail made his pulse skip—half desire, half disbelief.

He shifted, and Wilhelmina’s eyelids fluttered. Even half-asleep she glared, as though accusing him of mismanaging dawn itself. He bent and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. She sighed—actually sighed—and the line between her brows vanished. Her mouth twitched upward, then: "Distraction technique acknowledged," she muttered before sliding her fingers under his tunic to briefly—very briefly—pinch his side. He hissed; she smirked and drifted back to sleep, the taste she left on his lips crisp as mint leaves snapped in two.

Encouraged, he tilted toward Arielle. Her spectacles had left a red mark across her nose; a strand of chestnut hair clung to her cheek. He brushed it away, and she mumbled figures from yesterday’s ledgers. He stifled a chuckle, caught her chin, and kissed her gently. She tasted of ink and late-night tea—dry, floral, and oddly comforting. Her eyes opened halfway; she blinked owlishly. "Margin error... accepted," she whispered, cheeks turning rose as she realized what he’d done. Then she promptly rolled over, scroll still in hand, pretending the moment never happened—but he spotted the shy smile hiding behind her shoulder.

Solia was next: press of soft curves, easy warmth. He craned back to meet her half-awake grin. "Greedy morning lord," she teased, voice husky. He stole a languid kiss anyway, tasting peach and something buttery—last night’s pastry raid. She giggled into his mouth; the sound vibrated through both of them, and for a dizzy second he forgot about schedules. She nipped his lower lip—playful warning—then tucked her face into the crook of his neck, content.

Alicia murmured nonsense words, breath fluttering across his throat. He turned, pressing a quick kiss to her hairline. She shifted—eyes still closed—and ghosted her lips across his Adam’s apple in sleepy retaliation. The taste she left was caramel and yeast, a baker’s dawn promise. "Bread’s fresh," she repeated, half dream, half demand.

Alina and Belle lay like mirror images, his ragged cloak clenched in their fists. He tried to free the fabric; both growled—actual growls. He bent to Alina first, catching her pout with a swift kiss. She tasted lime and sugar rim: sharp followed by sweet. Her lashes fluttered, then she pulled the cloak tighter, satisfied. Belle cracked one amber eye, mischief already brewing. "Where’s my sample, Commander?" He obliged, brushing lips to hers. She tasted cinnamon and a hint of brandy filched from last night’s stores. She hummed approval, then loosened her grip so he could slide the cloak free. Victory—small but vital.

Emilia’s leg remained hooked around his thigh, iron-strong even in sleep. Carefully, he traced the line of muscle with fingertips. She woke with a warrior’s reflex—eyes sharp—but softened when he pressed a respectful kiss to the inside of her knee. A faint gasp escaped her; the salt of her skin lingered on his tongue, undercut by rose. She unhooked her leg, patting his thigh like a commander granting passage.

Josephine’s drool edged dangerously close to his sleeve. He tapped her nose. She snorted, eyes slitting open. "Morning, hero." He kissed her before she could tease further. She tasted of tart cherries and mischief. She bit his lip—not hard, just enough to remind him she’d win any banter later—then rolled away, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "Your fault if my ribbon’s soggy," she muttered, but her grin was bright.

Raine and Ravia stirred together, twin bundles beneath one blanket. He eased closer. Raine peeked up, cheeks flaming. "S-sorry, we stole your pillow." "Keep it," he whispered, kissing the tip of her nose first—she squeaked—then her lips, feather-light. She tasted morning dew, cool and fresh. Ravia arched an amused brow, claiming her own kiss before he retreated; her lips were berry-sweet, tongue daring a teasing flick that made him blink. "Fair is fair," she whispered, voice smoky.

Surena closed her ledger and regarded him. "You’re late," she said, but there was warmth beneath the edge. He kissed her knuckles first—soldier’s courtesy—then her mouth. She kissed back firmly, tasting of clove and disciplined hunger. When he withdrew she murmured, "Efficient," and opened the book again, though her fingers lingered against his shoulder, tracing invisible sigils of concern.

Xena’s snores vibrated through the mattress. He risked leaning in; at the first brush of lips she woke with a start, grabbed his hair, and deepened the kiss in one fierce surge. Whiskey—strong, sweet—exploded across his tongue. She released him with a smack, grin savage. "Needed that," she said, collapsing back into slumber before he caught his breath.

Clarisse lay at his knee, golden hair escaping its pins. He brushed a curl from her forehead; she opened her blue eyes, soft with gratitude. He lowered to meet her. Her kiss was slow, tasting of almond and quiet resolve. She sighed against his mouth, whispering, "Thank you for letting me stay," then rested her cheek on his shin, content as a cat.

At the foot of the bed, the mountain trio waited, half awake. Tara beckoned with playful fingers. He crawled down, greeted her first—a quick peck. She responded with a laugh, tasting wild thyme. Sigrid hauled him closer for a bruising kiss that tasted of pine and challenge, then slapped his rump. Lara cupped his face gently, pressing lips soft as river foam; she tasted pure spring water.

By the time he climbed free, he was dizzy from so many flavors: mint, ink, peach, caramel, lime, cinnamon, salt-rose, cherry, dew, berry, clove, whiskey, almond, thyme, pine, water. A banquet served on lips.

He tried to stand; a dozen arms lunged, yanking him back. Blankets snarled around his ankles, and he toppled, landing sprawled across Wilhelmina and Solia. Groans and laughter rose.

(Your harem is hungry,) Lilith giggled.

Cynthia sounded proud. (Their hearts beat in time with yours.)

Arturia spluttered. (This... display... is highly irregular for a knight of standing!)

"And highly impossible to repeat if I don’t reach the ledger room," he croaked. "Let go!"

Belle tugged at his cloak tip. "One more kiss, then we’ll release the hostage."

He obliged, kissing her upside-down—a silly, awkward press of lips that made them both snort. She tasted again of brandy and cinnamon, and mischief sparked behind her lashes. True to honor, she let his cloak slip from her fingers.

Surena cleared her throat. "Schedule, Lord."

"Right." He pushed upright once more. Alina patted his rear encouragingly. Josephine blew a wet raspberry at his retreating back. Xena resumed snoring.

He grabbed the bedpost for balance, bowed with theatrical flourish. "Ladies, my heart is yours, but the realm waits." A chorus of sleepy cheers and playful booing met him. Someone—Sigrid—lobbed a pillow; he ducked, laughing as it thumped the wall.

Heat still burned his cheeks. He snagged his boots, tugged them on, cloak swirling. Morning sun slanted across the wide window, gilding tangled hair, flushed cheeks, half-hidden smiles. For an instant he paused, imprinting the sight—the wild mosaic of love and chaos.

(You earned that,) Cynthia repeated, her voice soft. He nodded to himself.

He took a breath—steadying muscle and mind—and strode from the bedchamber.

____

Lyan adjusted the collar of his half-buttoned tunic as he stepped onto the eastern walk, the flagstones still slick with dawn’s first dew. Grafen’s courtyard unfurled beneath him like a living tapestry—every loop of color another thread he was supposed to hold together.

Nearest the barracks, Astellian spearmen drilled in perfect eight-count rhythm, spear hafts knocking the cobbles like metronomes. Their sergeant—red-sashed, voice hoarse—barked timing cues that echoed off the keep’s granite. Two paces away, a knot of mercenaries ignored the cadence entirely, testing knife grips and trading coin on which stance would drop an opponent fastest. They fought in bursts: sudden clatter, a grunt, then amicable ribbing as coins changed hands. Beyond them, half a dozen mountain tribesmen sprinted the length of the lawn. They vaulted low stone benches, laughing when a slower scout slipped and skidded on wet grass. Each time they landed, their bare feet slapped the ground with a rhythm more like dancing than training.

Bakers crossing the yard lifted proofing baskets overhead, waving airy loaves still leaking steam. One called, "Guardian! Extra crust for your spirit friends!" A child—freckles dusting his nose like flour—darted between the baker’s boots, waving a small wolf-pennant sketched in charcoal. The boy’s excitement sent him spinning into a mercenary who scooped him up, whirled him once, and set him down facing the right direction. The courtyard smelled of yeast, damp earth, and crushed berry. Lyan spotted two apprentices by the well staining their fingers purple as they popped gooseberries into their mouths—almost certainly the source of that tart perfume.

His boots clicked—a solid, steady heartbeat—as he headed for the guard headquarters. The building’s archway still bore scrapes from siege ladders months past, but new iron lanterns gleamed on either side, fresh glass sparkling. Arielle waited under the arch. Even from twenty strides away he could see her vibrating with purpose: quill behind ear, scroll tucked so firmly under her arm it formed a crease in the parchment.

He slowed just enough to let the breeze nudge his cloak—showmanship mattered to morale, he’d learned—and timed it so the edge brushed her sleeve when he drew abreast. Predictably, the color shot up her neck to her cheeks.

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

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