Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 530: The Lord’s Return (End)

"Late."

"Worth the wait?" he countered, kneeling behind her. He traced a glowing fingertip—pure mana—along the ice-blue runes tattooed at her nape. She shivered, surprised laughter bubbling out. He bent, kissing each rune in turn. She tasted of wintergreen and distant campfires. When she turned, the stern line of her mouth curved; she tugged him down, their kiss deliberate and deep, like two swords crossing then sliding home to rest.

Alina and Belle shared a guestroom stuffed with fur throws pilfered from the mountain hunters. They lounged like mirrored cats, crooking fingers in unison. He crawled onto the furs, Alina catching him first—lime-bright kiss, giggle fizzing between them. Belle swooped next—cinnamon-brandied lips, playful growl. They traded him back and forth, tongues dueling over him like a game of keep-away, until all three collapsed laughing in a tangle of limbs. Belle flicked his nose. "Champion loses again." He conceded with mock groan, stealing a last double kiss before escaping their giggling grip.

Down the portrait-lined gallery, Solia reclined on a chaise draped in midnight-blue silk, jasmine garlands coiling her wrists. She rose fluid as moonlit water. "All this noise and you still find me," she whispered. Their embrace unfurled slow, molten—her lips peach-soft, tongue languid, tasting of sweet cream. He stroked fingers through her hair, breathing in jasmine until time blurred, clocks forgot. When they finally parted she pressed her forehead to his. "Carry peace with you," she said, tying a single jasmine bloom into the Josephine ribbon at his arm.

Xena lounged on an armory bench, polishing a dagger by torchlight. She tossed it aside the instant she saw him and yanked him by the collar. Her kiss hit like flint sparking steel—sharp, fierce, clove-rum igniting his senses. She bit his bottom lip, not enough to break skin, enough to taste iron. He answered with equal fire; laughter escaped her between breaths. She smacked his rear as he staggered away, cheeks burning. "Fight me tomorrow, lover," she called, already twirling her dagger again.

Steam veiled the baths. Marble pillars shimmered with condensation; braziers hissed. Ravia stood waist-deep, water lapping at smooth shoulders, hair pinned high. "Join me?" Her voice dripped honey. He slid into the pool; warmth swallowed him. She glided close, pressing fruit-sweet lips to his. Water carried them, kisses slow as tidewaves. She tasted like pomegranate and secret spices. Oil scent of bergamot wrapped them. Her laughter echoed in the domes when he splashed her nose; she retaliated, and soon the bath rippled with playful waves.

Clarisse’s chamber glowed only by moon. She lay awake, doll clutched to her chest, worry creasing her brow until she saw him. He knelt, brushing knuckles along her cheek. Their kiss was hush-quiet, almond and soft bread. Gratitude trembled in her sigh. "You gave me tomorrows," she whispered. He tucked the doll under her arm and kissed her once more, letting reassurance linger long after he stood.

He climbed spiral steps to the guard-tower loft. Wind whistled through arrow slits, rattling hay bales. Tara, Sigrid, and Lara awaited: Tara sprawled on blankets, grin mischievous; Lara seated cross-legged, calm as mossy stone; Sigrid leaning against a support beam like a living bulwark. Tara tugged him down first, thyme-fresh kiss punctuated by her laugh. Sigrid claimed the next—pine-smoke taste, kiss like a winter bonfire. Lara followed with river-cool lips, sip of mountain spring. They wove him between them, touches overlapping in rhythm older than any court dance: three hearts thudding, one harmony. Laughter, shared breath, whispered endearments in two languages twined beneath the rafters until the moon dipped west.

Hours later, he crept back toward his chambers, ribbon looped with jasmine, lashes damp from bath steam, hair musk-tousled by the tower breeze. Doors cracked open in silent farewell; slippers shuffled back to beds. He slipped inside his own room—only to find every blanket stolen to the floor where half his lovers now curled in sleepy heap. Sigrid snored beneath a tapestry, Arielle’s spectacles perched on her eyebrow. Josephine had ribbon-tied Wilhelmina’s braid to the bedpost as a prank; Wilhelmina slept on, unaware, mouth faintly smiling. Raine mumbled constellations in her dreams while Ravia hogged the only pillow. Alina and Belle lay like cats on the windowsill, tails of the cloak tucked under for warmth. Clarisse dozed with her child’s doll between Emilia and Surena, the three an unlikely tableau of comfort.

He exhaled fond exasperation, stepping over a tangle of limbs to reclaim a scrap of blanket for himself. Too late. Tara cracked an eye, grabbed his wrist, and hauled him into the nest. Groggy protests rose as bodies shifted to make space. Someone’s foot planted on his thigh; another draped an arm across his chest.

He surrendered with a grin, nestling into the chaos. (Your harem is a siege engine,) Lilith chuckled.

Cynthia’s warmth fluttered. (And you are happily captured.)

Arturia harrumphed but her mental tone softened. (Steward or no, treasure these dawns.)

Moonlight slid across Wilhelmina’s cheek; candle stub guttered out, plunging the chamber into hushed blue.

Mornings always arrived too soon—he’d wake to tangled limbs and sleepy smiles, dragged back into gentle quarrels over who stole more blankets.

____

A peal of gull-cries drifted in from the river cliffs as Lyan cracked the red wax. Early sun painted the solar’s mullioned windows honey-amber, gilding dust motes that swirled in lazy coronation around his chair. He unfolded the parchment, the heavy linen stock rasping between calloused fingers. Erich’s handwriting—broad strokes, occasionally blotched where the prince’s laughter must have jogged the quill—sprawled across the page like a friend kicking his boots onto the desk.

"Well done, Guardian of the East... " he read aloud, voice low. Every line unfurled new weight: exclusive tariff lanes with the southern ports, a guarantee of grain reserves earmarked for Grafen’s granaries, the formal parchment naming him provisional steward of Norhallow’s forests, Dunbridge’s bridge-town labyrinths, Valmere’s eerie salt flats. Each word felt like a buckle tightening across his shoulders—responsibility, yes, but also a warm cloak of trust.

But then the final flourish: "Don’t collect more wives until you report back." A miniature stick figure—round head, bewildered expression—bristled with tiny hearts and wore what Erich apparently believed was Lyan’s wolf cloak. It wielded a frantic quill like a spear. Beneath it, the prince had scrawled, "Harem tax pending."

Lyan snorted so sharply it startled a parchment stack. (He draws worse than Sigrid drunk,) Griselda crackled.

(But the sentiment is sweet,) Cynthia chimed, golden.

Door hinges squeaked. Tara poked her head in first—loose auburn braids feathering her cheeks—then Sigrid’s towering frame squeezed behind, the doorframe groaning in protest. "Important?" Tara asked, eyes bright as spring thyme. Before he could tuck the letter away, Sigrid plucked it with two thick fingers and squinted at Erich’s doodle.

"Harem tax," Sigrid read, lips shaping foreign syllables with amusement. "Does that come in barrels or babies?"

Tara burst into giggles that bounced off the vaulted ceiling. "Imagine the audit: ’How many kisses declared this quarter, my lord?’"

Lyan rubbed his temples, though a smile tugged. "I’ll petition for deductions: blanket theft, pillow casualties, nightly bruises."

Sigrid elbowed him—not gently. "Add threat of suffocation under mountain breasts. Hazard pay."

Tara’s laugh hiccupped; she slipped around the desk, leaned over his shoulder, and traced Erich’s crooked stick figure. "He got the cloak wrong. Needs more flair." She snagged a quill from the inkwell and, tongue between teeth, embellished the tiny drawing with exaggerated wolf ears and a heart-speckled scabbard.

(Official correspondence vandalized before breakfast,) Arturia sighed, but amusement laced the reprimand.

The solar door thumped again—Surena, stride crisp as a snapping standard. She took in the scene: Tara hunched over the prince’s letter adding sparkles, Sigrid holding her sides from silent laughter, Lyan half-smiling in surrender. One dark brow tilted. "Border probes," she reported, ever practical. "Two rider sightings along the Dunbridge marsh road. Likely noble scouts testing patrol gaps."

"Mark the ridge posts," Lyan answered, brain already plotting ranger rotations even as Tara doodled tiny fangs on the stick figure. He tapped Erich’s line about supply privileges. "We’ll have grain convoys soon—tempting target. Double scouts at dusk, stagger lantern codes."

Surena nodded once, but her eyes lingered on the parchment. "More wives?" she quoted, voice deadpan. Yet a rare softness curved at one corner of her mouth. She reached—a light, almost ceremonious gesture—and patted Lyan’s shoulder. Solid, reassuring. "Try not to bankrupt Grafen in dowries."

Lyan felt heat rise to his ears. "Erich exaggerates."

(Do you intend to stop at two dozen?) Lilith teased, velvet laughter.

Azelia piped up, innocence masking sly wit. (More hearts mean more gardeners for our spirit grove!)

Eira’s chill voice drifted like snowmelt. (Just ensure the ledger balances, steward.)

He tucked the letter against his chest, smoothing the wax seal as though sealing the promise into his ribs. Through the window, sunlight flooded over Grafen’s rooftops, setting every slate tile ablaze. Chimney smoke curled lazily; distant hammer clangs rang from the smithy—proof that the fortress breathed, thrived.

"Peace is mine for now," he murmured, the words half vow, half prayer. Tara slung an arm around his neck, Sigrid ruffled his hair like a mischievous sparrow pecking a bear, and Surena folded the map she’d brought, eyes scanning horizons only she seemed to see.

Tara and Sigrid peeked over his shoulder, giggling about Harem Tax. Surena patted his shoulder, whispering of border probes. He folded the letter, tucking it close. "Peace is mine for now," he murmured.

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