Chapter 20: The Warlock

The warlock’s smile never reaches his cold eyes. “Tell me, Wanderer, does she know of the blood that stains your hands?”

Aya’s breath catches as she looks to Giroud, seeking reassurance against the warlock’s mocking words.

“Or perhaps,” the warlock leans forward, smile widening, “she’s merely another in a long line of pawns. Loyalty is such a fragile thing, isn’t it, child?”

Doubt flickers across Aya’s face. Her fingers tighten around her dagger’s hilt as uncertainty takes root. The familiar weapon offers little comfort against the warlock’s poisonous insinuations.

Giroud steps closer to Aya, his voice steady and sure. “Aya, look at me.” She meets his gaze. “Trust in us, in all we’ve endured together. Our bond is forged in battle, in the choices we make side by side. Do not let his lies sway you.”

Despite the chamber’s oppressive atmosphere, Giroud’s words reach her. Aya’s resolve returns, hardening like tempered steel. They stand together, master and apprentice, united against the darkness before them.

The warlock’s laughter, a sinister echo in the cavernous chamber, abruptly cuts off as his hands weave an intricate pattern in the air. Shadows coalesce into tendrils of darkness that surge toward Giroud and Aya with ravenous hunger. The air crackles with malevolent energy; every bolt thrown distorts reality where it strikes, charring stone and leaving behind the stench of ozone and decay.

“Move!” Giroud’s command slices through the din as he shoves Aya aside. They dive in opposite directions, barely evading the warlock’s vicious assault. Dust and debris cloud the air, choking them, obscuring their vision. Giroud’s breath comes in measured bursts, his mind racing to find a counter to the onslaught. He glances at Aya, her small body silhouetted against the chaos.

A sudden surge of dark magic swells, a wall of force that slams into the space between them. A barrier rises, translucent yet impenetrable, separating Aya from Giroud. She lashes out, her dagger skimming the surface, leaving not even a mark.

“Giroud!” Her voice is tinged with panic, but she forces calm upon herself. Alone, she scans the chamber for cover, for any advantage. Memories flash before her–lessons of resilience, of finding strength in vulnerability. Giroud’s words resonate in her mind, steadying her trembling hands.

“Remember what I’ve taught you,” she whispers to herself, channeling her mentor’s unyielding spirit. “Face your fears. Stand your ground.”

She leans against the barrier, feeling its unnatural chill seep into her bones. But her resolve burns hotter, a fiery defiance to match the warlock’s cold malice. With each breath, she gathers the courage that has carried her through her darkest days–from the ashes of her village to the heart of this cursed lair.

“Think, Aya,” she mutters, recalling Giroud’s tactical insights. She can’t see a way around, a way back to Giroud. Her gaze darts across the room, plotting her next move, ready to reclaim control from the warlock’s twisted game.

Aya’s chest heaves, her eyes narrow on the shimmering barrier. Fingers trembling with purpose, she traces an unseen sigil in the air, her breath a silent incantation. The barrier flickers. Once. Twice. Then shatters like glass in a storm.

“Giroud!” she exclaims as she darts through the fractured magic, her small figure rejoining his shadow within steps.

Giroud freezes in shock. Had Aya just broken the warlock’s barrier with magic. Magic!! How did she do that? Where had she learnt that!?

The warlock snarls, his mocking smile now twisted into a grimace of fury. Giroud’s attention snaps back to the warlock, he didn’t have time to worry about Aya’s use of magic now.

The warlock’s hands weave frenzied patterns, and the chamber thrums with gathering power. The air thickens, charged with malice, and Giroud feels the weight of impending doom.

“Careful,” warns Giroud, voice low but clear over the building maelstrom.

Aya nods, her eyes focused as they lock onto their foe. They move in unison, dodging blasts of dark energy that scorch the stone where they stood mere seconds ago. Each explosion is a deafening chorus, a cacophony meant to disorient and terrify.

“Stay close,” Giroud commands, sensing the warlock’s desperation growing with every failed strike. Sweat beads on his brow, his body is tiring. He sees the same fatigue mirrored in Aya’s strained muscles, the slight tremble in her arms. Yet she stands unwavering, her resolve as firm as the day he found her–alone, yet unbroken.

“Wait until he has to cast a new spell,” Giroud says to Aya.

They fight side-by-side now, the air around them alive with the stench of ozone and fear. The warlock’s magic is relentless, a deluge designed to crush their spirits and bodies alike.

“Keep moving,” Giroud pants, and Aya nods, her determination a silent echo of his own.

Giroud’s sword flashes, a silver arc in the murky gloom of the warlock’s lair deflecting a crude earthen projectile warped by shadow and hurtling towards him. Aya flanks him, her dagger a viper’s strike, each parry an extension of Giroud’s own movements.

Shadows writhe across the floor like living ink, coalescing into thick, rope-like tendrils that snake toward their feet. Giroud notices the attack a heartbeat too late. The tentacles lash around his ankles, their grip cold and unnaturally strong. His muscles strain against the binding force as more shadows wind up his calves.

“Aya!” He twists to see her struggling against similar bonds, her body nearly lifted off the ground by the dark appendages.

The warlock’s laughter echoes through the chamber. “How touching. The mighty Wanderer, brought low by mere shadows.”

Giroud’s sword arm remains free, but his strikes at the tentacles pass through them like smoke, reforming instantly. Each movement drains more of his strength as the shadows creep higher, past his knees. The chill seeps through his leather armor, numbing his flesh.

His heart pounds against his ribs as he watches Aya thrash in the warlock’s grasp. Her face contorts with effort, but she can’t break free. The sight of her bound and helpless ignites a fury in his chest that burns hotter than any battle rage he’s known before.

“Let her go!” The words tear from his throat, raw and primal.

The warlock’s red eyes gleam with malicious delight. “Or what, Wanderer? You’re in no position to make demands.” More tentacles spring from the darkness, wrapping around their waists.

The cold spreads through Giroud’s body, each heartbeat slower than the last. He fights against the creeping numbness, desperate to maintain his grip on his sword as the tentacles snake up to his arms. His muscles scream in protest as the shadows constrict tighter, threatening to crush the air from his lungs.

“Can’t you see it, little one?” the warlock sneers at Aya, voice laced with venomous charm. “The way he looks at you? It’s not the gaze of a protector, but of a predator.”

The warlock continues, “I can see what has crossed your mind, Wanderer. The things you’ve dreamed of this child. She should know. She should know how you truly feel. Why you really want her around!”

“Focus. He’s trying to turn us against each other,” stammers Giroud, beaten and frightened of what Aya will think if she learns what the warlock is trying to tell her. But something clicks in his mind. “Wait, you have been in my mind?”

“You. You did this. These are not my thoughts at all,” says Giroud, a combination of realization and pleading. He recalls the tome of dark magics: “mind melding”...

The warlock cackles. “I didn’t plant that seed. But I certainly used it and provided some fertilizer. I had to break your partnership. I saw this future. I’ve seen what she can be. A Wanderer is a problem. A Wanderer with her by his side ... I had to try to change it. There’s a reason those hallucinations felt so real. Your mind is not that creative.”