Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 578: The Cure of Saintess (1)

The birds woke before he did.

They made small, busy sounds in the underbrush, hopping through last night’s ashes and damp leaves. The fire was only a circle of grey, with one stubborn coal pretending it was still important.

Lyan woke all at once, the way soldiers did when the world nudged them.

He didn’t move at first. He listened.

Wind in the branches. A soft hiss of distant water. No footsteps close. No metal clink that didn’t belong to them.

Good.

He let out a slow breath and pushed himself up, muscles complaining about it.

Pain walked up his spine like it was climbing stairs. His ribs ached when he twisted. His shoulder twinged from where a wolf had almost made a snack of it.

"Still alive," he muttered.

(You say that like it’s a bad result.)

Cynthia’s voice brushed through his mind, warm and amused.

He rolled his shoulders and opened himself a little to the air, the way he did when he wanted to taste mana instead of wind.

The mountain felt... old.

Not heavy like a curse, not sharp like battle magic. Just deep. The mana here was clean, slow, patient.

(It’s very still,) Eira said

(Like a lake that hasn’t been touched for a long time.)

Azelia bubbled at the edge of his thoughts.

(It smells nice. Wet roots, moss, sleepy trees. I like it.)

Hestia sniffed.

(The air is thin and self-righteous. Even the wind feels like it’s judging me.)

"Of course you’d say that," Lyan muttered.

He stood carefully, checked the sword by his side, then walked the small circle around their camp.

Tracks from last night were still there. His own boots, Erich’s, the horses. Old deer prints overlaid by newer ones. Faint wolf prints leading away, not toward.

Nothing new with two legs and bad intentions.

He went back to the fire pit and nudged the ash with a stick, coaxing the last coal to life with dry twigs until a little flame caught. It felt good to do something simple.

On the other side of the fire, Erich made a noise that sounded like a dying animal.

"Don’t move too fast," Lyan said. "You might fall completely apart and I don’t want to carry you uphill."

Erich groaned into his cloak.

"My everything still has an everything," he mumbled.

"Good," Lyan said. "I’d worry if you were comfortable."

Erich rolled onto his back and stared up at the pale strip of sky between the branches.

"It’s rude," he said. "The earth is rude. Rocks are rude. My bed back home would never do this to me."

"Your bed back home has twenty pillows and probably its own staff," Lyan said. "The ground has opinions."

Erich squinted at him.

"You’re in a good mood," he said suspiciously.

"I woke up and no one was trying to stab us yet," Lyan said. "I’ll take the win."

He tossed a small packet toward Erich. It thumped off the prince’s chest.

"Eat," Lyan said. "Then we climb before you remember you like comfort."

Erich fumbled the packet open. Dried fruit and nuts tumbled into his palm. He popped a piece into his mouth and made a face.

"This is not food," he said. "This is penance."

"It’s energy," Lyan said. "You can complain when we’re at the top."

Erich chewed anyway.

For a while, the only sounds were birds, the small crackle of the new fire, and Erich’s occasional pained grunt when he moved.

Then, with his mouth full, Erich said, "We should practice what I’m going to say to her."

Lyan sighed.

"Here we go," he said.

Erich swallowed, sat up very slowly, and drew his cloak tighter around his shoulders like it could protect him from embarrassment.

"All right," he said. He cleared his throat and tried a formal tone. "Honored Saintess, I have come to you regarding a subtle misalignment of confidence—"

"No," Lyan said.

Erich scowled. "You didn’t even let me finish."

"I don’t need to," Lyan said. "That sounds like you’re asking her to adjust your furniture."

Erich ran a hand through his hair, which did nothing but make it stick up more.

"Fine," he said. "What about... ’a complex mind–body negotiation issue’?"

"No," Lyan said again.

"Why not?"

"Because that sounds like you want her to mediate a business contract between your brain and your dick," Lyan said. "Just say you panic in bed."

Erich made a strangled noise and grabbed the closest item, which was his own boot, and threw it at him.

Lyan caught it easily.

"I am not saying that," Erich hissed.

(You should be honest with a healer,) Cynthia said 𝗳𝚛𝗲𝕖𝚠𝚎𝚋𝗻𝗼𝕧𝗲𝐥.𝚌𝚘𝐦

(They cannot mend what you hide.)

Griselda crackled.

(If he can’t even name the wound, he’s not ready to fix it.)

Arturia sounded horrified.

(Must we truly discuss such things with a holy woman? There should be... forms. Protocols. Modesty.)

Lilith’s laughter curled through his mind like smoke.

(A saintess who hears such confessions all day will be very interesting.)

Sylphia squeaked.

P-please... d-don’t think about it that way...

Lyan scrubbed a hand over his face.

"Spirits are in favor of honesty," he said. "Mostly. And Lilith is in favor of making everything worse, as usual."

Erich was still glaring. His bare foot dug into the dirt.

"She’s a saintess," he said. "There must be some kind of polite phrasing."

"You can say it politely," Lyan said. "You just have to actually say it."

Erich sighed and flopped back onto his bedroll for a second.

"What if I just say there was... an incident," he tried, "and since then, when I attempt intimacy, I experience a sudden loss of—"

"No," Lyan cut in. "You’re doing it again. That’s not a confession, that’s a court speech."

Erich covered his face with both hands.

"I hate this," he murmured.

"I know," Lyan said. "That’s why we’re here."

They packed up slowly. Lyan kicked dirt over the fire until only a faint trail of smoke curled up and vanished. He checked their packs, tightened straps, made sure no buckle would fail them halfway up.

By the time they were ready, the light between the trees had turned clearer, less grey.

They walked in silence for a while. The forest here was thick but not choking, trunks spaced wide enough for old paths, ferns brushing their boots. The air smelled of damp soil and old leaves.

After a small rise, the trees broke.

The mountain trail waited for them.

It wasn’t grand. No carved arch, no huge stone stairs. Just a narrow path worn into the slope by countless feet. It climbed in thin sweeps and switchbacks, angling up between rocks and scrub.

At its base stood a single stone marker, half-swallowed by moss.

Lyan brushed the green away with his glove.

The carving underneath was simple and shallow, like it had been done by hand and never touched again.

Those who climb in truth,

Descend lighter.

He traced the letters with his thumb.

"Old," he said quietly.

Around the marker, the ground told other stories.

Bootprints, layered so often they were just a slightly deeper channel. Staff marks, round holes where wooden tips had bitten the earth. The broader dents where litters had passed, people carried until the path grew too narrow. Wagon ruts that started strong near the treeline and then faded, abandoning the climb halfway.

"Lots of traffic," Erich said softly, coming up beside him.

"Lots of reasons," Lyan said.

He looked up the trail.

It snaked out of sight behind a rock outcrop, then appeared again higher up as a pale line against darker stone.

He felt the weight of it in his legs already.

"Well," Erich said. "Too late to pretend we took a wrong turn."

"Not yet," Lyan said. "We still have to visit the foothill village. You’re not climbing this on dried fruit alone."

Erich made a face.

"Can we have food that tastes like food?" he asked.

"If the saints are kind," Lyan said.

(They usually are,) Cynthia said

(But mountains are not. Be careful on the way.)

The village sat like someone had dropped a handful of houses at the mountain’s feet and forgotten to pick them up.

Low wooden buildings with stone foundations huddled together, roofs heavy with old shingles. Prayer flags hung from lines between eaves, faded cloth in many colors, flapping softly in the mountain breeze.

Half a dozen small shrines stood at corners and crossroads. Some held simple bowls of water and a few coins. Others had candles burned down to stubs, leaving melted wax like strange flowers.

People moved slowly.

Some were clearly locals: sturdy, weathered faces, clothes patched but clean. Others were pilgrims. You could tell by the way they walked—as if every step was a question.

Lyan saw a man with his arm bound up in a sling, fingers stiff and curled. A woman with a scar that crawled up her neck to her jaw, eyes distant but clearer than they probably used to be. A little boy clutching a carved wooden toy, his father’s hand firm on his shoulder.

Some faces looked lighter. Others looked... too empty, like they had poured everything out at the mountain and weren’t sure what to do with the space.

"Cheery place,"