Chapter 22: Clean Up

Morning light bathes the courtyard in golden hues as Giroud surveys the chaos before him. His wounds throb beneath his bandages, a constant reminder of their recent battle. Twenty armed men and their lieutenant funnel out of the courtyard, their weapons half-lowered, faces pale with terror at the sight of Aya’s summoned beasts.

“Aya,” Giroud calls, his voice cutting through the tension-filled air. “Can you raise barrier shields to block the streets? We can’t let them escape.”

She nods, her eyes glowing with an otherworldly crimson light. The air shimmers as invisible walls materialize outside, sealing off every exit. Distant shouts and the sounds of weapons against stone confirm her success.

“Why?” she asks, turning to him with confusion written across her young features.

Giroud meets her gaze steadily. “Think about what happens if twenty-one men run through Whitespire speaking of a young warlock commanding beasts from the void?”

Understanding dawns in Aya’s eyes, followed quickly by alarm. Her felwolves prowl the courtyard’s perimeter, their massive forms radiating darkness and cold. Each beast desperate to chase but holding on Aya’s command, muscles rippling beneath midnight-black fur that seems to absorb the morning light.

“I’d also rather not have a pile of corpses decorating our doorstep,” Giroud adds grimly.

“What do we do then?” Panic edges into Aya’s voice as she realizes the complexity of their situation.

Giroud pauses, his tactical mind working through their options. The soldiers remain frozen, their fear palpable in the morning air. Finally, he turns to Aya.

“Get the tome of dark magics. And bring rope - it’s in the chest beneath the window in the study.”

Aya nods and hurries toward their home, the massive felwolves surging after her like a tide of living shadows. The sound of splintering wood and crumbling stone fills the air as the beasts force their way through the doorway, far too large for the human-sized opening.

“Aya!” Giroud calls out in exasperation. “Leave the pets outside!”

“Sorry!” Her voice carries back through the ruined entrance. The felwolves reluctantly return to the courtyard, taking positions around Giroud like an honor guard of nightmares.

With the soldiers bound and seated against the courtyard wall, Giroud leads Aya away from their captive audience. The felwolves maintain their vigil, menacing eyes fixed on the prisoners, massive teeth gleaming in the morning light.

Giroud thumbs through the tome until he finds what he needs - the chapter on mind melding. His eyes scan the text quickly, focusing on the section about memory manipulation.

“Here,” he says, pointing to the relevant passage. “We’ll take them into the street one at a time. You’ll erase their memory of this morning, then we’ll send them on their way.”

He continues reading, his finger tracing the lines. “You’ll need to speak an incantation while drawing a specific sigil on their back. Maintain contact until it’s complete, then plant the seed of a new memory to replace what you’ve taken.”

He looks up at her with forced optimism. “Simple enough?”

Aya returns his smile weakly, clearly uncertain but willing to try. They return to the prisoners, and Giroud points to the lieutenant.

“You. Up. With us.” His command brooks no argument, especially when punctuated by a warning growl from the nearest felwolf, massive yellow canines bared in snarl.

They escort the man outside the courtyard, beyond sight of his companions. Giroud holds the tome steady for Aya to see as she stands behind the kneeled lieutenant.

“Remember - incantation, sigil, then plant the new memory. Make him think he’s drunk and heading home to sleep it off.”

Aya starts to breath the incantation when the man struggles to his feet, hands still bound, in an effort to flee. Giroud delivers a brutal kick to his shins, sending him back to his knees.

“Don’t move,” barks Giroud. “You probably don’t want her to mess this up.”

Giroud watches carefully as Aya works, noting the lieutenant’s eyes growing unfocused, pupils dilating as the magic takes hold.

“Done ... I think,” Aya says hesitantly.

The man blinks rapidly, confusion replacing fear on his face. “Where ... where am I?”

Giroud cuts his bonds. “Had too much to drink. Time to head home.”

They watch with growing concern as the man begins skipping down the street.

“Why is he skipping?” asks Giroud.

“I don’t know. What does it feel like to be drunk?” she answers, with a question that makes Giroud smile.

At that moment he collides with the translucent barrier still in place. The magical wall pulses with faint purple light from the point of impact.

“You can lower the shields now,” Giroud says, trying not to smile.

“Oops,” Aya responds sheepishly.

An hour later, with all twenty-one men sent on their confused ways, Giroud and Aya return to survey the damage to their home. The entrance is a disaster of broken timber and crumbled stone, their front door reduced to splinters by the passage of Aya’s summoned guardians from the void.

“I need a nap,” Aya announces, exhaustion clear in her voice. The morning’s magical exertions have clearly taken their toll.

“Rest,” Giroud agrees, wincing as his wounds protest. “I’ll go visit Leith - he’s a carpenter down the street. Hopefully we can salvage something from this mess.”

He watches as Aya trudges zombie-like to her room, then turns back to contemplate the ruins of their doorway. It’s going to be a long day, but at least they’ve avoided one crisis. Now they just need to rebuild their defenses before El-Raffar can try again.

The thought sits heavy in his mind as he steps out to find Leith. Whatever comes next, they’ll need a proper door to face it behind.

Evening settles over Whitespire, painting the sky in deep purples and golds. Giroud and Leith step back to admire their day’s work, the new door standing proud in its freshly repaired frame. Sweat darkens their shirts despite the cooling air - a testament to hours spent bricking, rendering, measuring, cutting, and fitting the replacement entrance.

Aya emerges from the house, rubbing sleep from her eyes. Her hair is tousled from her long nap, and she blinks at the fading daylight in confusion.

“How long was I asleep?” she asks, voice still thick with drowsiness.

She moves to stand behind the two men, studying their handiwork with a mix of appreciation and guilt. The new door is solid oak, its surface unmarred by the morning’s chaos.

“I think it looks better than the old door,” she offers hopefully.