Chapter 18: The Night Before

Before retiring to bed, Giroud pauses to check on Aya. Her chest rises and falls in peaceful rhythm, dark hair spilling across her pillow. One small hand rests curled near her cheek, her face serene in sleep. The sight of her safe and at peace settles his mind.

Sleep claims him quickly once he reaches his own bed.

A dense mist coils around ancient trees as Giroud finds himself in a forest clearing. Aya’s laughter echoes between the trunks with an unnatural hollow quality that sends chills down his spine.

The air turns bitter cold, his breath forming clouds in the darkness. The mist shifts and pulses with a sickly purple glow, radiating malevolent energy.

A figure emerges from the otherworldly fog, and Giroud’s heart freezes. The warlock stands behind Aya, pale hands gripping her shoulders, his lips curving into a triumphant smirk as he meets Giroud’s gaze.

Giroud’s feet refuse to move, trapped as if in thick mud. The warlock bends down, whispering into Aya’s ear, his words too low to hear but dripping with poison.

Hatred twists Aya’s features as she draws her dagger, levelling it at Giroud instead of the warlock. The warlock’s whispers continue, his smile growing wider.

“You never really cared about me.” The words cut like knives, Aya’s voice distorted and cruel. “You just wanted me.”

Dark tendrils emerge from the warlock’s hands, wrapping around Giroud as the warlock drags him along two paces behind them.

Giroud fights against his invisible bonds, muscles straining. “Aya!” His scream echoes through the purple mist.

Aya turns to look back at Giroud, laughing. Her eyes unflinchingly locked on Giroud’s, she unbuttons her tunic and lets it fall to the ground. Then she reaches down to the ties at her waist before shimmying her pants down her slender legs. Now naked, her ponytail falling to between her bare shoulder blades, she stands up, still staring and smirking at Giroud.

Aya extends a small hand towards the warlock, his pale hand taking hers, their fingers entwining. Together, they drag Giroud by his mystical bonds into a vast cavern, its dimensions seeming impossible outside of dreams.

The warlock settles onto an ornate chair that materializes from the shadows. Aya approaches him with deliberate steps, her back still turned to Giroud as she positions herself before the warlock.

“This is what YOU wanted, isn’t it?” The warlock’s voice drips with mockery, his handsome features twisted by his pale complexion and the hellish red glow of his eyes.

Aya lowers herself into the warlock’s lap, her small frame dwarfed by his presence. His deep laughter resonates through the chamber as purple mists rise around them.

Giroud’s heart thunders in his chest, the sound deafening in his ears. He struggles violently against his bonds, desperate to reach Aya, to tear her away from this nightmare. The warlock’s cruel laughter fills the cavern, taunting his futile efforts.

The purple mist thickens and swirls, enveloping the pair like a lovers’ shroud. Giroud squints through the haze, but their forms grow increasingly indistinct.

“No!” His cry echoes uselessly as the malevolent energy consumes his voice.

The last thing he sees is Aya’s knowing smile before the purple mists devour them completely. Their mingled laughter haunts the darkness, though he can no longer see them.

Giroud jolts awake, his chest heaving and shirt drenched in cold sweat. His wild eyes scan the area around the dying fire.

Stumbling to his feet, he rushes to check on Aya. She lies exactly as before, her face serene and untouched by the horrors that plagued his dreams.