Chapter 25: In Dreams

Giroud’s chest tightens with each hurried step, his palm slick with sweat against Aya’s shoulder as he guides her through the crowded streets. Merchants’ calls and the smell of fresh bread fade into background noise as his focus narrows to Aya’s distress. Her face has gone pale, her steps unsteady beneath his guiding hand.

“Faster,” he urges, quickening their pace to the limit of what his healing wounds will allow them. “We’re almost home.”

Aya clutches her bag closer, her knuckles white. The sight of her distress sends cold fear through his veins. After everything they’ve faced, seeing her rattled like this sets off every protective instinct he possesses.

“Is it getting worse?” He asks, wincing each footfall’s reverberation through his chest.

Aya shakes her head. “No ... the whispers are the same. But they’re hungry, Giroud. They want out.”

They burst through their front door, and Giroud rushes to his study where he fumbles through storage chests with determined purpose. He pulls out a heavy-looking wooden box, ornately crafted with sigils etched deep into its wood. The ancient runes seem to shimmer faintly in the afternoon light filtering through the study’s window.

Giroud takes a pair of leather bracers out of the box and turns to Aya. “Put the disc in here.”

Aya takes the bronze disc from her bag and puts it into the box as Giroud closes the lid and seals the two latches on the front.

“It’s quiet,” says Aya. “What does the box do?”

“A handy acquisition I have had for an age. It does not permit magic in or out. No magic can reach the disc now and it cannot reach outside the box.”

“Where did you get something like this?” Aya asks, studying the intricate sigils.

“From a job deep in the forests far north of the Ancient Plains years ago. A mage’s tower had been overrun by dark forces. This was payment for clearing it out.” Giroud runs his fingers over the worn wood. “Never had a use for it until now.”

Aya nods impressed. “What about these?” She is holding the pair of bracers Giroud had removed from the box.

“They work similar to the box. Anyone wearing them cannot use any magic,” he explains.

“Ugh. Get them away from me then,” she says pulling a face and tossing them on the ground.

Giroud can only laugh.

“Why didn’t we use these on the warlock?” Aya asks.

Giroud rolls his eyes. “If we entered his lair and I tossed him these, asking him nicely to put them on, do you think he would’ve done so?”

Giroud chuckles at the thought.

A smile touches Aya’s lips. “No, probably not.”

With the disc safely contained, Aya and Giroud lean over the tome of dark magics spread open on the dining table. The leather-bound volume emanates an almost palpable coldness, its pages yellowed and brittle with age but the ink still sharp and clear. The musty scent of ancient parchment fills his nostrils as he skims through the pages until he reaches the section on summoning. The illustrations of void creatures make his skin crawl as he recognizes characteristics similar to Aya’s summoned beasts, but he forces himself to scan each page carefully.

Then his eyes catch it - a diagram showing a golden vase covered in markings eerily similar to those on the bronze disc. His blood runs cold as he reads the passage: metallic objects inscribed with specific sigils by a wielder of sufficient magical energy can create something that serves as a distant anchor point for void portals. Once marked, these objects become doorways through which demons can be summoned from the void at a caster’s request.

The implications hit him like a physical blow. If that relic had remained in the throne room...

“They could have opened a portal right there,” Aya whispers, her voice shaking. “Right next to the King.”

Aya’s fingers trace the diagram in the tome, her hand trembling slightly. “All those people...” she whispers. “The guards, the servants, the children who play in the courtyard.” Her voice hardens with resolve. “We stopped it though. We stopped him.” She looks up at Giroud, her eyes fierce despite their exhaustion.

“We did,” says Giroud.

“But how did El-Raffar manage to get the relic into the throne room?” Aya asks, frowning at the tome.

“He has connections everywhere,” Giroud replies grimly. “Guards, servants, nobles - anyone could be in his pocket. That’s what makes him so dangerous.”

Giroud stares blankly at the tome open before him, understanding now why El-Raffar had been so interested in acquiring the relic for the warlock. The throne room of Stormwind would have become a gateway for demons, with the King himself likely their first victim.

The day’s revelations weigh on Giroud like a physical burden as he collapses onto his bed. His muscles ache with fatigue, but his mind races with images of void portals and demon armies. The familiar scent of his wool blanket and the distant sound of crickets gradually pull him under, reality blurring at the edges as sleep claims him.

First comes the sound - waves lapping at a distant shore, their rhythm steady as a heartbeat. Then the sensation of warmth on his skin, like morning sun after a cold night. The scent of salt air and something sweeter - jasmine perhaps - drifts past him on a gentle breeze.

Warm sand shifts beneath his feet. Towering dunes rise to his left, dotted with swaying beach grass. To his right, crystal-clear waters lap at the shore, leaving lace-like patterns of foam.

The sun hangs low on the horizon, painting everything in soft golden light. Movement catches his eye - a flash of black silk against bronze skin. He recognizes Aya’s slender form near the water’s edge, moving with the unconscious grace of youth, testing the cool water with her toes, her dress dancing around her legs in the sea breeze.

The sight of her sends a familiar ache through his chest - pride and protection mingled with something deeper he dares not name. Lost in her own world, she traces patterns in the wet sand with bare feet.

The setting sun bathes her in amber light, softening her edges until she seems almost to glow. Her hair, usually bound in a ponytail, flows free in the wind, dark strands catching the light like threads of silk. The sight stirs something in him - a longing that makes his hands tremble at his sides.

She turns then, and the smile that lights her face sends warmth flooding through him. As she twirls along the water’s edge, the black silk catches sunlight. Each movement draws his gaze - the arch of her neck, the delicate line of her collarbone, the way the fabric clings to her lithe frame before billowing out with each spin. Her bare feet leave fleeting impressions in the wet sand, like secrets whispered and forgotten.

She dances closer, and his breath catches at the gleam of perspiration on her skin. The sea breeze carries her scent to him - jasmine mixed with something uniquely her. His hands itch to steady her as she sways, but he keeps them firmly at his sides. The space between them crackles with unspoken tension.

Her eyes meet his, large brown orbs holding both ancient wisdom and innocent sparkle. She closes the distance with deliberate steps, and his heart thunders as she draws near enough that he feels the warmth radiating from her skin.

The dress shifts with her movement, revealing glimpses of thigh that send guilt-laden heat through his core. She’s close enough now that he can see the pulse flutter at her throat, count each dark eyelash as they sweep down when she glances away shyly. His fingers flex unconsciously, remembering the softness of her skin from innocent touches during training.