Chapter 24: Audience with the King

Meeting with the King sets Giroud’s nerves on edge, despite his years of facing far deadlier situations. Though many know of the Wanderer who resides in Whitespire, few know his true identity, even as the city’s remarkably low crime rate has been attributed to his presence within its walls. Yet in all his time here, he has never met with the King or the Head of the Crown Guard, with whom they now have an audience.

“Wow—” The word escapes Giroud’s lips as Aya emerges from her bedroom. She looks breathtaking in a slim black dress, its thin straps displaying her toned shoulders and delicate collarbone. The fabric clings to her small chest and flat stomach, highlighting the gentle curve of her waist before falling gracefully from her hips to mid-calf. His heart skips a beat as he takes in the sight, imagining slipping the straps off her shoulders and helping the dress down her slender body, immediately followed by a wave of shame at his inappropriate response. He forces his eyes away, focusing on a spot on the wall as he wrestles his thoughts back under control, his hands flexing involuntarily at his sides.

“Where did you get that?” he manages to ask, his voice rougher than intended.

“It’s Monique’s,” Aya answers, her cheeks flushing red under Giroud’s approving scrutiny.

“She didn’t have any shoes?” Giroud smirks, nodding at her favorite pair of leather combat boots.

“Stop,” Aya drawls, scowling at his friendly taunt.

“At least they’re black,” he adds, chuckling as she closes the distance between them to swat him with her bag.

For his part, Giroud has retrieved his old family tabard to fix to his finest set of armor. He had spent the previous evening polishing the mail until it gleamed, having rarely worn it in recent years.

“Wait here, please,” a well-dressed man in an impeccably tailored suit instructs before disappearing behind a pair of armed guards.

Giroud settles onto one of the fine upholstered seats in the vast, mostly empty waiting room. Save for the paintings of noblemen past adorning the walls, the chamber is austere - polished white stone with painted glass windows set high above, casting colored shadows across every surface.

Aya wanders the space, studying each painting up close and turning occasionally to admire how the colored light plays across the room.

“Follow me, please,” their guide beckons upon his return.

They follow him past the guards and down a long hallway before reaching enormous, polished oak double doors adorned with the King’s seal. Two more guards stand sentinel, permitting entry as their guide knocks twice. The doors swing open with well-oiled precision.

The throne room stretches before them, long and rectangular, framed by brilliant circular stone pillars along each side. Bookcases reach impossibly high, filled with tomes no amount of coin could purchase. Above, more stained glass windows cast their multicolored glow across the vast space.

At the far end, atop a small series of steps, stands the throne of Whitespire, awe-inspiring in its size and grandeur.

Near the entrance, several chairs have been arranged in a semi-circle around an opulent wooden table. Two golden carts stand nearby, laden with pastries and pitchers of tea.

King Charlin Winfield, a stoic man in his fifties with thick gray hair and earnest brown eyes, sits waiting alongside Bracken, the Head of the Crown Guard. Bracken cuts an imposing figure - an attentive beast of a man in his early forties with sharp features and close-cropped dark brown hair.

“His royal highness, King Winfield of Whitespire,” their guide announces, stepping aside and motioning them forward.

Suddenly, Aya begins tugging urgently at Giroud’s undershirt.

“Giroud, Giroud,” she whispers frantically.

“Not now,” he dismisses her, mindful of their company.

“Giroud,” she persists, her voice tight with urgency. “It’s here. The relic is here!”

“What do you mean it’s here?” Giroud whispers forcefully, finally giving her his full attention.

“I can feel it. It’s somewhere in this room.”

They both scan the chamber thoroughly, their trained instincts searching every shadow and corner from where they stand.

As they approach the King, their hushed conversation continues.

“Nowhere I can see,” Giroud murmurs.

“I can’t see it either, but I know it’s here somewhere. I can feel it.”

“Wanderer, I’m so pleased to finally meet you,” the King’s voice carries across the space. “For one of our most infamous residents, I’m disappointed this is our first encounter.”

“The pleasure is all mine, your highness,” Giroud replies with a measured bow.

“And your apprentice, Aya. An honor to meet you, young lady.”