Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love
Chapter 531: From Pillow Forts to Patrol Routes

Chapter 531: From Pillow Forts to Patrol Routes

Warmth clung to the sheets and to the curve of soft limbs tangled around Lyan’s body. He blinked groggily, sunlight stabbing past the crimson curtains in narrow lances that painted molten stripes across bare shoulders, tousled hair, and the end-board strewn with last night’s discarded sashes. Somewhere close—far too close—Raine’s silver hair tickled his nose while Josephine’s unruly curls draped his collarbone like ivy. His chin rested on a decidedly soft pillow that turned out to be Belle’s thigh. A lazy breath escaped him, fogging over the mess of silky locks and perfumed skin.

For half a heartbeat he tried to remember where one woman ended and another began. Belle’s perfume—cinnamon and cream—blurred into Raine’s cool rain-moss, which bled into Josephine’s sweet wine and cherry blossom. Under all of that, the faint cedar scent of fresh-laundered sheets tried—and failed—to keep order.

A leg slid over his hip; fingers, warm and searching, traced the line of his spine. A hum of contentment throbbed through the pile. The hum became words.

" You’re late for work, my lord," Josephine crooned without opening her eyes, her voice husky from sleep yet already curling into mischief. Her lips brushed the side of his throat, each syllable punctuated by a lazy kiss. "I think it’s time we talk about your harem tax."

Somewhere beneath the mound of bedding, Alina giggled deliriously and muttered something about penalties accruing interest. Lyan didn’t dare look; he was wedged too perfectly between comfort and entrapment.

He groaned, shifting an inch, which only tightened Raine’s sleepy arm around his waist. "Let me guess," he rasped. "It’s backdated to include... all of last week?"

Josephine stretched an elegant arm across his chest, patting him with mock professionalism. "And interest. Compounded nightly," she declared. "According to the Law of Lustful Ledgers, clause three-point-two, paragraph four: you owe at least thirty kisses, six spine-tingling caresses, one shirtless apology, and a heartfelt confession by breakfast."

Cynthia’s voice fluttered through his thoughts, amused and musical. (Itemize each charge or they’ll tack on handling fees.)

Arturia harrumphed. (You are fortunate the kingdom does not list this as treason.)

Lilith purred, velvet and wicked. (But I approve of the way you embrace corruption.)

Alina popped her head up just long enough to add, "And a commemorative plaque!" then collapsed back onto the pillow fort.

A soft laugh vibrated against his ribs—Raine had risen onto one elbow, sunlight gilding her pale lashes. She wore one of his linen shirts, far too large, slipping off a freckled shoulder. "I’ve prepared your morning dues." She balanced a tray on his hip with precarious care: two boiled eggs cut into heart shapes, toasted bread dripping butter, and a folded parchment sealed with a lipstick kiss. Ink flowed across it in graceful loops: Domestic Lover Services Rendered—Awaiting Compensation in Kisses.

Lyan tilted his head to read, then gave up, sighing long and theatrical. The sigh stirred a stray silver strand across Raine’s lips; she wrinkled her nose, trying to puff it away. "I’m going to die in this bed," he muttered.

(At least it won’t be in battle this time,) Cynthia soothed.

Griselda crackled like far-off thunder. (We could engrave your tomb: Here lies Lyan, slain by devotion and gluttony.)

He managed to extricate one arm and patted the tray. "Eggs look delightful. The invoice less so." He kissed the tip of Raine’s nose in apology; she turned pink and pretended to inspect the toast.

With infinite caution he tested each blanket fold—if he moved wrong, at least three women would wake furious. Josephine’s nails drummed lazy circles on his chest; Belle mumbled half-formed dreams, her leg tightening possessively across his calf. His mind flashed battlefield diagrams: retreat paths, casualty projections, hazard zones. None applied here. He would need pure audacity.

He inhaled, counted to three, and rolled—an ungainly sweep that dislodged Belle’s thigh, ducked Josephine’s inquisitive hand, and slid Raine’s tray onto the mattress with merciful softness. He landed on the floor in a tumble of limbs and sheets, hair a silver-and-brown halo around him. A pillow thunked after, nearly braining him.

"Penalty!" Josephine called, voice muffled by the pillow she’d heaved. Raine’s soft laughter chimed in counterpoint.

"Add five more kisses to the total," Belle mumbled into the covers.

He scrambled upright, grabbing trousers off a chair. "Put it on my tab," he said, only half joking, fumbling into the fabric. His shirt followed, hair disheveled, dignity questionable.

Five minutes later he trudged into the study like a condemned man. Raine sat at the long oak table, back ruler-straight, silver hair coiled so tightly it looked carved from metal. A pyramid of paperwork loomed beside her—a siege tower of ink and wax seals. She turned a single cool glance his way and clicked her tongue.

"You’re late."

"I was ambushed," he said, settling into the chair opposite.

"By paperwork?" Her pen didn’t pause.

"By Josephine’s tongue and Raine’s pancakes," he sighed.

Arielle occupied the far corner, quill gliding in quick, bird-sharp strokes. She wore crisp navy, spectacles glimmering. The look she shot him over the frames was pure unimpressed librarian. "If you’re done being devoured by your women," she said flatly, "we have real problems."

"Such as?" He reached for a mug of lukewarm tea—instantly regretted it; the liquid tasted like punishment.

"Supply wagons from Norhallow are crawling," Arielle reported. "Road damage, bandit scares. We need extra escorts or we’ll miss harvest allotment." She flicked a parchment forward; the rolled edge bounced accusingly against his knuckles.

"Grafen’s southeast gate still lacks a finished barracks," Raine added without looking up. "Stone delivery behind schedule. If we don’t house the recruits by first frost, illness will riot through the camp."

Lyan rubbed his temples. Sleep-lust haze evaporated under the pin-prick of responsibility. He scanned the figures—troop strengths, ration counts, copper to silver exchange rates. "We’ll redirect the masons from the north tower; that wall’s secure enough for autumn. Double the lumber order, bill it to the Crown’s war-reconstruction fund."

Arielle nodded, scribbling. "Already drafted the reallocation. Sign when you’re done," she said, passing another sheet.

The door burst open like a trumpet fanfare. Belle strode in—hair glowing ember-red in the study’s sunlight—brandishing a scroll nearly as tall as she was. "Audit time!" she sang. "By decree of the illustrious Office of Harem Oversight, you are hereby summoned to account for the number of nightly rounds performed since the fall of Hektor."

Arielle actually choked on her tea. Raine’s quill froze mid-stroke; a single droplet of ink splattered like a tiny explosion.

Lyan pinched the bridge of his nose. "Kill me. Someone. Please."

Belle unfurled the scroll. It spilled across the table, knocking inkpots. Rows of tally marks marched like drunken soldiers. "We interviewed every participant," she said with theatrical gravity. "Some testified twice, depending on clarity of memory." She tapped a blank column labeled Projected Growth Curve. "We forecast exponential increase by winter solstice."

(Your death shall be recorded under glorious dishonor,) Griselda droned.

Lilith practically purred mental applause. (Oh, I adore her initiative.)

Arielle wiped her lips, eyes watering. "Belle, that seal looks suspiciously like a carrot with wings."

"And yet it still outranks you," Belle shot back, waggling the parchment.

Before Lyan could restore dignity, a hush fell. The doorway darkened—Wilhelmina strode in, dark coat sweeping the floor, her blue-steel eyes taking in the scroll, the tipped inkpot, Belle’s smug grin, and Lyan’s despair in one calculated sweep.

She laid a slim file atop the chaos. "We have movement in the north forests—bandit groups testing our patrol pattern. They watched the last caravan but did not strike. Next time they will."

The room’s frivolity cooled. Lyan straightened, shoulders rolling as if armor still lay there. "How many riders?"

"Unknown. Tracks suggest two advance scouts. Fresh prints. Possibly bowmen." She glanced at Belle’s parchment, lips twitching. "Audit later," she almost smiled, "ambush first."

"Agreed." He turned to Arielle. "Divert a squad of Rangers to shadow the next supply run. Tell Commander Holt he may borrow three of the mountain trackers—they move quieter."

Arielle jotted-jotted-jotted, quill feather quivering with speed.

He faced Raine. "Southeast barracks becomes priority after that. Use the Crown’s fund, but add incentive for night shifts—extra bread rations."

Raine penciled numbers, muttering formulas.

Belle rolled up her scroll with a snap. "So the audit’s postponed?"

"No," Josephine said from the doorway—she must have followed Belle—arms folded, hip cocked. "We just add hazardous-duty bonuses."

Raine peered in behind her, tray balanced anew. "Second breakfast?" she offered sheepishly, eggs replaced with fresh strawberries. Lyan’s stomach betrayed him with a loud growl; everyone laughed, tension letting go just a fraction.

He exhaled, finally feeling the gears mesh rather than grind. Order from chaos—his favorite illusion. "I thought I could have one quiet morning," he muttered.

Arielle didn’t glance up from her ledger. Her voice, though soft, carried finality like a healed scar. "You’re not allowed those anymore," Arielle muttered.

_____

The streets of Grafen bustled like never before, alive with a kind of layered music only a reborn city could play. Wagon wheels rumbled like distant drums, blacksmith hammers clanged sharp counter-rhythms, and over it all rose a chorus of children’s laughter so bright it made even quarrelling merchants pause to smile. Two dozen youngsters dashed past Lyan in mismatched boots, brandishing stick-swords. They’d painted crude wolf sigils on their tunics with berry juice; it bled pink in uneven blotches.

"Long live the pervert lord!"