Chapter 23: Lovely Day For A Hike

Giroud wakes with the sun, his body aching from the previous day’s exertions.

Giroud plans to canvas further for sightings of Jarek, but he allows Aya more rest before rousing her.

“Time to get up, Miss. We have work to do,” he says softly, head in the door to her bedroom.

Aya blinks sleepily, then nods, her expression hardening as she remembers the events of the previous day. “Where do we start?”

They head out into the bustling streets of Whitespire after a hasty breakfast. Three taverns and four hours later, they’ve heard the same story: no one has seen Jarek in days. Each bartender’s shake of the head leaves Aya’s shoulders more tense, her boots scuffing harder against the cobblestones.

“He’s gone to ground, or worse,” Giroud mutters, running a hand through his hair.

“You think El-Raffar got to him?” Aya’s fingers drum restlessly against the hilt of her dagger.

“It’s a distinct possibility.” Giroud sighs, watching Aya kick a stray pebble in frustration. He places a hand on her shoulder, drawing her gaze. “Let’s do something different tomorrow. How about a hike through the woods? Change of pace?”

“Yes!” Aya’s face lights up with enthusiasm. “I could use a break from the city.”

Giroud rolls his shoulder experimentally as they start up the trail, the tender flesh beneath his shirt pulling only slightly. Days ago, that simple movement would have left him wincing, but today the pain has faded to a dull awareness. He breathes in the crisp, earthy scent of the King’s Woods, the fresh air and verdant greenery provide a welcome respite after their recent battles.

Aya walks beside him, her steps light and energetic. Giroud watches her closely, noting how the sunlight dances across her features, softening the hardened edges that have crept in over the past months. She looks so young, so unburdened in this moment, and he can’t help but feel a pang of guilt for dragging her into his violent world.

“Race you to the top of that hill?” Aya challenges, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

Before Giroud can respond, she takes off, her laughter echoing through the trees. With a resigned sigh, he breaks into a jog, his long strides struggling to keep pace with her as he’s still recovering.

As they climb, the path grows steeper, winding through a dense copse of oak and elm. Aya pulls further ahead, her nimble form darting between the obstacles with ease. Giroud follows at a steadier pace, taking care not to aggravate his healing wounds.

At the crest of the hill, Aya stands waiting, her ponytail swinging gently in the breeze. Giroud joins her, pausing to catch his breath and take in the view. The forest stretches out before them, a patchwork of greens and browns, dotted with the occasional glint of a distant stream.

“It’s beautiful up here,” Aya murmurs, her eyes roaming the landscape.

Giroud nods in agreement, though his gaze is drawn to her. In this moment, she looks so carefree, so unburdened by the weight of their recent battles. He wonders if she’s found the same solace in the tranquility of the woods.

“Come on, I bet I can find us a good spot to rest,” Aya says, already bounding down the other side of the hill.

Giroud follows at a more leisurely pace, allowing Aya the chance to explore. The sound of her laughter and the crunch of leaves underfoot fills the air, and for a brief moment, Giroud feels a sense of peace settle over him.

They find a peaceful clearing to rest, settling down on a fallen log worn smooth by time. The sun filters through the canopy, creating dancing patterns on the forest floor. Aya watches a squirrel scampering between the branches above, her expression thoughtful as she catches her breath. After a few moments of comfortable silence, she turns to Giroud with an unexpected gleam in her eyes.

“Can we have a puppy for the rest of the hike?” Aya asks suddenly.

Giroud raises an eyebrow. “A puppy?”

Before he can protest further, Aya summons a dark, menacing-looking puppy from the void. Its midnight-black coat and glowing purple eyes contrast sharply with its playful demeanor as it bounds toward them, tail wagging.

“It’s terrifying,” notes Giroud, but can’t help smiling as the creature nuzzles against Aya’s leg.

While Aya plays fetch with her shadowy companion, Giroud shifts to more pressing matters. “Word came from the palace this morning. The King has agreed to see us about the warlock’s foiled attack.”

Aya’s eyes widen, and she sits up straighter, the puppy squirming in her arms. “We’re going to meet the King?” she breathes, her voice tinged with awe. “You mean we’re to stand before the King Winfield himself?”

Giroud nods solemnly. “Yes. The attempt on the city, the warlock’s powers, El-Raffar’s involvement - these are grave matters that require the King’s attention.” He pauses, studying her face. “We present ourselves at court tomorrow, Aya. I need you to understand the gravity of this. Standing before the King isn’t like telling tales at the tavern.”

Aya’s initial bounce at the mention of the King fades gradually, her spine straightening and her chin lifting as she meets Giroud’s gaze. She smooths her vest with deliberate care, fingers lingering over the worn fabric as if already imagining standing before the throne. “I understand, Giroud,” she says, the puppy sitting beside her politely. “I’ll be on my best behavior. I promise.”

“I know you will,” he says, his voice softening. “But this is not a time for childish wonder. The King will need to know the full extent of the threat we’ve faced.”

Aya nods, her fingers reaching down to stroke the puppy’s soft fur, a gesture that seems more for her own comfort than the creature’s. “Okay.” The single word carries the weight of understanding beyond her years.

The solemnity of the moment hangs between them, broken only by the gentle rustle of leaves overhead.

With a deep breath, Giroud rises to his feet, offering Aya a hand. “Come,” Giroud says, his voice low and steady. “It’s time for a spot of training while we’re in the middle of nowhere.”

Giroud pulls his dagger from its sheath on his boot, the polished steel catching the dappled sunlight filtering through the canopy above. He turns toward the nearby empty space in the forest, measuring the distance with practiced eyes. The blade whistles through the air as he throws it, spinning end over end for sixty yards before embedding itself into the trunk of a large elm tree with a satisfying thunk. A few leaves flutter down from the impact.

Aya looks up at him, her brown eyes wide. “I can’t throw my dagger that far.”

“I don’t want you to.” Giroud’s lips curl into a slight smile. “Can you summon shadow projectiles like the warlock did and send them at the tree I’ve just marked?”

“Oh,” says Aya, understanding dawning on her face. Her fingers unconsciously trace the shard of the Eye of Dusk embedded in her dagger’s hilt. “I haven’t ever cast this spell.”

Giroud takes several deliberate steps back, boots crunching on fallen leaves. The movement draws a scowl from Aya.