Chapter 15: Time for a dance?

Morning light casts long shadows across the training yard. Scattered weapons catch the golden rays - wooden daggers, ropes, mats, and leather straps form a chaotic tapestry across the floor. The familiar scent of oil and steel hangs in the air, grounding him in routine despite the weight of what lies ahead.

Giroud draws his sword across a whetstone, each stroke precise and measured. The blade sings beneath his touch, a metallic whisper that echoes his racing thoughts. His muscles remember countless battles, the dance of steel and blood that has kept him alive all these years. But this time feels different. This time, he isn’t fighting alone.

The scrape of stone against metal fills the silence as his hands work automatically, muscle memory taking over while his mind drifts. He pictures the different ways the fight might pan out - what the warlock is likely to do and how he will respond. Yet between tactical considerations, Aya’s face keeps appearing - her determined expression during training, her rare moments of unguarded laughter.

The responsibility sits heavy in his chest. Every decision, every moment of training has led to this confrontation. One mistake could cost them everything. He’s faced death before, but never with someone else’s life so intimately entwined with his own.

Giroud pauses, suddenly aware of the empty space beside him where Aya usually sits. The space too quiet without her presence. He checks the sun’s position - still early. She deserves these moments of peace, these small pockets of childhood snatched between the harsh realities of their life. Still, he can’t help the twinge of worry that creeps in whenever she is out of sight.

He shakes his head, forcing his attention back to the blade. She’s proven herself capable time and again. His concern stems from something deeper than doubt in her abilities - something he isn’t ready to examine too closely.

The bell above the door chimes as Giroud steps into the dimly lit shop. Shelves of dried herbs and bottled remedies line the walls, their musty scent mixing with incense. The attendant’s eyes meet his, and without a word, the man slips through a curtained doorway to the back room.

El-Raffar emerges from the shadows, and Giroud’s eyes widen in surprise. The man carries the same imposing presence as their last meeting - tall and lean, with dark skin and deliberate movements that give an aura of authority and power.

His silk robes whisper across the wooden floor, golden threads glinting in the light that filters through dusty windows. A massive bodyguard looms behind him, muscles bulging against well-worn leather armor.

El-Raffar’s thin lips curl into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Giroud. It’s been too long.”

Giroud keeps his expression neutral, though his pulse quickens. In all their years, they’ve met face-to-face only once before. El-Raffar’s presence here sets off warning bells in his mind.

“I wasn’t expecting you to be here,” says Giroud.

“I was in town. What can I say? I thought it worth popping in for a catch up. How are your preparations going for the warlock?” El-Raffar’s fingers trace the edge of a shelf. “Can I ... help in any way?”

“We leave in two days.”

El-Raffar’s eyebrows rise. “So soon? That’s ... not going to be possible. I have another task that requires your immediate attention.” He pulls a sealed letter from his robes. “There’s a man in Yurigo holding some rather sensitive documents. I need you to retrieve them.”

Giroud’s jaw tightens. Yurigo is nearly one week’s travel in each direction to and from Whitespire. The timing is too convenient, too calculated. “No. The warlock takes priority.”

“Priority?” El-Raffar’s silky voice carries an edge. “I don’t recall offering you a say in priorities.”

“I am a Wanderer, not a puppet.” Giroud shifts his weight, positioning himself for quick movement if needed.

El-Raffar’s facade cracks, revealing a flash of anger before he composes his features. “The documents in Yurigo-”

“Can wait.” Giroud meets El-Raffar’s gaze. “My plans are set. The warlock dies in two days.”

“There will be no payment for the warlock’s bounty if you do not first go to Yurigo.”

Heat rises in Giroud’s chest, but he keeps his voice level. “I must deal with the warlock whether you intend to pay me or not.”

El-Raffar steps closer, his perfume cloying in the confined space. “It is in your best interests to go to Yurigo first.”

Giroud’s hand rests on his sword pommel and he shakes his head ‘no’. “The warlock is a threat that needs ending. With or without your blessing.”

The air grows thick with tension. El-Raffar’s bodyguard shifts forward, but El-Raffar raises a hand, stopping him.

“So be it.” El-Raffar tucks the letter back into his robes. “But remember this moment, Giroud.”

“Don’t worry. My memory is just fine,” says Giroud as he turns to leave.

The evening air helps cool his temper as he weaves through the market district’s winding streets. He needs to focus, to plan. The warlock is the immediate threat, but El-Raffar’s warning can’t be ignored. One problem at a time, he reminds himself, though his instincts scream that the two are connected.

Merchants call final sales of the day as he approaches the square, their voices mixing with the general bustle of city life. The familiar sounds help ground him, pulling him back from darker thoughts. He needs to find Aya, get back to their preparations—

His thoughts scatter like startled birds when he spots her in the square. The sight of her dancing with other children strikes him with unexpected force, washing away the lingering tension from El-Raffar’s threats.

Aya pirouettes, her dark ponytail flying as she spins with three other children. Their dance seems to involve flowing hand movements and quick steps, punctuated by lyrical movements and finished with bursts of laughter. Her face glows with joy, all trace of the hardened warrior-in-training gone. For this brief moment, she is simply a young girl, caught up in the pure delight of dance.

Giroud’s chest tightens. The sight of her - so free, so unburdened - makes his throat constrict. Here in the fading daylight, far from training and battle plans, she moves with the grace of innocence rather than the precision of combat. Her brown eyes sparkle with mirth instead of determination. Her hands, which just hours ago had gripped daggers, now paint the air in rhythm with her peers.

He remains rooted to his spot, unwilling to shatter this precious moment. The weight of their upcoming confrontation with the warlock presses against his shoulders, but here, watching Aya dance in the square, time seems to pause. The simple beauty of her happiness pierces through his carefully maintained defenses, touching something raw and vulnerable within him.