Chapter 17: Last Training

The first rays of sunlight creep over Whitespire’s eastern walls, painting the training yard in soft amber hues. Giroud circles Aya, watching her movements with a critical eye as their wooden practice swords meet in a steady rhythm.

Sweat beads on his forehead despite the morning chill. Aya’s ponytail clings damply to her neck, her face flushed with exertion. They’ve been at it since before dawn, falling into their familiar pattern of strike and counter-strike.

“Elbow higher,” Giroud calls out as Aya executes a defensive sweep. “Keep that guard tight.”

She adjusts without breaking rhythm, her movements fluid and precise. The hollow clack of wood striking wood echoes off the courtyard walls.

“Better.” Giroud steps back, allowing her to press forward. “Now show me that combination we worked on yesterday.”

Aya’s feet shift in the packed dirt, her weight balanced exactly as he’s taught her. The practice sword whistles through the air in three quick strikes - high, low, then thrust. Giroud parries each blow, pride swelling in his chest at her improved form.

“Good control.” He taps her blade aside. “But remember-”

“Keep my shoulders square,” Aya finishes with him, a small smile playing at her lips.

The morning light strengthens around them as they continue their dance, their shadows stretching across the yard. Giroud notices how naturally they anticipate each other’s movements now, months of training creating an easy synchronicity between them.

“Again,” he says, settling into a ready stance. “This time, focus on your footwork.”

Giroud increases his speed, his practice sword becoming a blur as he presses Aya’s defenses. Her blade meets his with sharp cracks, keeping pace with his accelerated attacks. Where months ago she would have stumbled, now she flows like water around his strikes.

His chest tightens with pride as she ducks under a horizontal sweep, her small frame allowing her to slip past his guard. Her counter-attack comes fast - faster than he expects - and he barely manages to deflect the blow aimed at his ribs.

“Getting quick,” Giroud grunts, shifting his stance to block her follow-up strike.

Aya darts in and out of his reach, using her size to create awkward angles. Her brown eyes focus intently on his movements, reading his body language just as he’s taught her. The morning sun catches the sheen of sweat on her face as she spins away from his thrust.

Their wooden blades clash in a rapid series of exchanges. Giroud presses harder, testing the limits of her defense. But where once she would have faltered under the assault, now she holds firm. Her feet move in perfect rhythm, maintaining her balance as she parries and counters.

The corner of Giroud’s mouth twitches up as she executes a particularly clever combination. She’s taken his teachings and made them her own, adapting the moves to suit her smaller frame. No longer does she try to match his power - instead, she turns his strength against him, deflecting rather than blocking.

“Good,” he says softly, more to himself than to her, as she smoothly evades another attack.

Giroud lowers his practice sword and motions towards the obstacle course they’ve constructed along the eastern wall. Wooden barriers, suspended ropes, and staggered posts create a challenging path through the yard.

“Time to work on your speed,” he says, watching Aya’s face light up. She loves this part of training more than the sword work.

Aya takes her position at the starting line, bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet. Her ponytail sways with each movement, her eyes already mapping the course ahead.

Giroud pulls out his timepiece. “Remember - smooth is fast. Don’t sacrifice form for speed.”

She bursts into motion at his signal, clearing the first low barrier with practiced ease. Her small frame twists through the air, landing with cat-like grace on the other side. Giroud tracks her movement, noting how she’s learned to absorb the impact through bent knees.

The suspended ropes come next. Aya drops into a tight roll, passing beneath them without breaking stride. Her recovery is fluid, years of dance giving her a natural grace that complements her warrior’s training.

She weaves between the posts, changing direction with sharp, controlled movements. Each pivot is precise, her feet finding purchase in the packed earth exactly where they need to be. No wasted motion, no loss of balance - just as he’s drilled into her over countless sessions.

Giroud feels his chest swell with pride as she clears the final barrier. Where months ago she’d struggled with the complex sequence of movements, now she flows through them effortlessly. Her breathing remains controlled, her movements efficient and purposeful.

“Again,” he calls out as she completes the circuit. “This time, focus on your transitions between obstacles.”

She nods, already moving back to the starting position. Sweat darkens her tunic, but her eyes remain bright and focused. Giroud resets his timepiece, watching as she gathers herself for another run.

Giroud watches carefully as he directs Aya through her morning stretches, fighting to keep his eyes averted when her lithe form bends and twists with natural grace.

Aya drops into a deep lunge, her bronze arms extended overhead. The position highlights her developing muscle tone - a warrior’s strength beginning to show beneath her young frame.

“How many more?” Aya’s voice carries a hint of complaint.

“This is your first stretch!? You don’t want your muscles to seize up.” Giroud demonstrates the next stretch, reaching his arms overhead. “Remember what happened last time you skipped these?”

“That wasn’t from skipping stretches.” Aya switches legs, wobbling slightly. “That ogre caught me with his club.”

Giroud snorts a laugh. “And if you’d been properly limber, you would’ve dodged it.”

“At least I got him back.”

“That you did.” Giroud can’t help but smile at the memory of her swift retaliation. “Now, shoulders.”

She rolls her shoulders in wide circles, then crosses one arm across her chest, holding it with the opposite hand. “You’re extra picky about stretching today.”

“Because someone was complaining about sore muscles yesterday.” Giroud adjusts her elbow slightly. “Other arm.”

“I wasn’t complaining.” Aya switches arms. “I was making an observation.”

Giroud guides her through a series of neck stretches. “Is that what you call whining about your stiff neck all through dinner?”

“I do not whine!” Aya’s indignant tone makes him chuckle. She drops into a forward fold, touching her toes. “Besides, you’re the one who had us practicing those new sword forms for hours.”

“Downward dog,” Giroud instructs, deliberately ignoring her accusation. “Hold it for thirty counts.”

Aya presses her palms into the dirt, lifting her hips to form an inverted V with her body. “I know the stretches.”

“Let’s see then. I won’t tell you what to do. Don’t skip any,” Giroud says as he taps her ankle with his boot. “Press them down.”

Giroud moves around behind Aya, careful not to step on her. The morning sun strikes his eyes at an odd angle, making him blink rapidly. His vision blurs, then sharpens with unsettling clarity. The world seems to slow, sounds becoming muffled as if underwater.

When his vision clears, his throat goes dry. Where Aya’s clothes should be, there is only bare skin. No, not again, he thinks, his heart hammering against his ribs. But the hallucination has already taken hold, as vivid and unwanted as ever.

Her teenage derriere raised into the air towards him makes his stomach twist with self-loathing. Giroud tries to look away, to break free of the vision, but his eyes remain fixed as if held by some twisted force— locked in a perverse stare at the girl’s most intimate area, hating himself more with each passing moment.

What is wrong with me? The thought echoes through his mind, desperate and pleading.

He blinks hard once, twice, three times, but the hallucination only grows more detailed, more insistent. The air feels thick and heavy in his lungs as he struggles against the depraved images his mind forces upon him. Even as his conscience screams in protest, his eyes drink in every detail of the forbidden sight before him.

Aya stands up, having completed the stretch, as Giroud’s eyes pour over her young body. His hands clench into fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms as he tries to ground himself in physical pain. But the vision persists - her developing form rendered with cruel clarity in the bright light.

Giroud’s gaze drifts down Aya’s body, lingering for a moment on her tiny breasts, then following the line of her flat stomach to the soft mound between her legs where dark hairs have begun to sprout, hinting at her blossoming womanhood. He can’t help but notice the alluring smoothness of her bronze skin, which seems to call out to him as it stretches flawlessly from her pretty face down to her dainty toes.

Silently, she repositions to sink into the splits.

Giroud’s heart pounds in his chest as he tries to avert his eyes from the sight before him. Aya, unaware of his turmoil, sinks down into a wide split, her slender legs drifting further apart. As she lowers herself, her nether regions become exposed, losing the fight against revealing a glimpse of the soft, hidden pink folds of her inner lips.