Chapter 12: Ogre Issues

The ancient plains stretch endlessly before them, a tapestry of windswept grass and weathered stone. The ruined Castle Ironseam looms in the distance, its broken towers reaching like skeletal fingers into the clouded sky.

Giroud and Aya make camp in a sheltered hollow, the evening wind carrying the distant grunts of ogres. While Aya tends to their small fire, Giroud pulls out the dusty tome they recovered from Shadowvale, its leather binding worn and cracked with age.

“What does it say about warlocks?” Aya asks, her big brown eyes reflecting the firelight as she settles beside him.

Giroud’s fingers trace the faded text. “Not a lot that is helpful to me fighting a warlock. It seems to mostly contains incantations and rituals. Instructions for a warlock.”

“Isn’t that helpful if you know what they can do?”

Giroud flicks to the index of the tome once more.Barrier shields: make them and break themVoid projectiles: harnessing bolts of powerMind melding: powerful tools of persuasionDemonic pets: summoning and controlling themVitality stones: creation and usesWaves of torment: crafting it and directing it

...

[the index continued]

“Perhaps.” Giroud closes the book, his expression grim. “I don’t have any magical power though, so it’s still not much use to me.”

The wind picks up, sending sparks dancing from their campfire. Giroud watches Aya’s face in the flickering light, noting how her features have sharpened over their months together. The softness of childhood giving way to something else, something that makes his chest tighten.

“El-Raffar wanted me to have this book.” Giroud runs his hand over the tome’s cover. “Is this the only assistance he can provide me to fight the warlock?”

Aya pokes at the fire with a stick. “Maybe?”

“We need to know exactly what El-Raffar is planning.” Giroud’s jaw tight. “But first, we need sleep. I’ll take first watch.”

“I can take first watch.” Aya straightens her spine, chin lifting in that stubborn way he’s come to know well.

“Not tonight.” Giroud keeps his tone gentle but firm. His mind is too busy piecing together this puzzle to rest anyway.

Aya huffs but doesn’t argue further. She rolls out her bedroll and curls up facing the fire. Within minutes, her breathing evens out into the rhythm of sleep.

Giroud studies the tome again, its importance still a mystery.

The ruins loom ahead as dawn breaks, spectral silhouettes against the brightening sky. Giroud and Aya weave through the underbrush, their steps muffled by a carpet of moss and fallen leaves. Shadows cling to them like cloaks as they edge nearer to the perimeter, where ogre sentries lumber in lazy arcs.

A glance passes between the pair – a silent exchange honed by too many shared dangers. Giroud’s hand hovers near his sword’s hilt, a subtle signal to Aya. She nods, her warm brown eyes fierce beneath the morning light. Each breath they take is measured, every heartbeat a drum in tune with the pulse of the approaching day.

They pause, crouched behind an ancient, ivy-clad wall. An ogre’s guttural laugh ricochets through the air, its owner oblivious to the two shadows plotting death just yards away. Giroud points to a gap in the patrol’s route, his eyes tracing the unseen path they will take.

In a burst of synchronized motion, they dart forward, phantoms flitting from stone to stone. The first ogre, massive and unsuspecting, barely registers the blur before Aya’s dagger finds the gap beneath its arm. It gurgles, a sound swallowed by the keep’s oppressive silence, and collapses.

Giroud is there beside her, his sword whispering free of its scabbard to silence the second ogre before it can raise an alarm. The creatures crumple, twin behemoths felled by precision over brute force.

“Good,” he murmurs, the word scarce louder than the rustle of dead leaves. Approval warms his voice, a rare thing that makes Aya’s chest swell.

She meets his gaze, the raw satisfaction in her eyes tempered by an echo of innocence lost. They share no smiles; theirs is a grim business, but the trust between them is a living thing, vibrant even in the heart of darkness.

Together, they press on, slipping through the gate like specters beckoning to the secrets held within the Ruins of Ironseam.

Giroud’s hand signals flash in the dim light, halting Aya mid-step. Dust motes dance in the stale air as silence cloaks the decrepit corridor. He tilts his head subtly towards the faint echoes of harsh whispers spilling from a fissure in the ancient stonework. Mercenaries. Their presence here isn’t surprising; the keep’s rumored treasures and strategic position lure many. The bounty on Grimfist’s head a carrot to many more.

“Claws or shadows?” Aya’s whisper is barely audible, her eyes locked on his.

“Shadows,” he replies without hesitation. His instincts weigh the risks - the mercenaries’ numbers are unknown - deciding evasion trumps confrontation. For now...

They back away, their retreat as silent as their advance. The rival searchers behind the wall remain none the wiser.

But fate has other plans. As they navigate the labyrinthine passages, a sudden crumbling of stone betrays them. From a side chamber, a group of mercenaries emerge, rough and seasoned killers, their faces twisting into snarls at the sight of competition.

“Looks like we’ve got rats,” one mercenary sneers, brandishing a jagged blade.

Giroud steps forward, his body shielding Aya. “Walk away,” he advises, voice low and steady.

The mercenaries laugh, a guttural, ugly sound that bounces off the walls. They inch closer, but Giroud and Aya stand like cornered wolves, ready to defend their ground.

“Seems the rats have teeth,” another mercenary chuckles darkly.

The first mercenary lunges, and the keep erupts into chaos.

Giroud’s sword arcs, a gleaming crescent aimed at vital points. Aya darts beneath outstretched arms, her small frame deceptive in its lethal grace. Together, they weave through their assailants, an intricate ballet of death. Each parry and thrust, each anticipated move and countermove, speaks of countless hours spent in training.

Giroud parries a mercenary’s wild swing. The man’s technique is sloppy - all power, no finesse. Giroud steps inside his guard and drives his blade through the gap between leather plates. Another one down.