Chapter 2: Journey to Whitespire

Giroud leads them through the King’s Woods, keeping to the shadows of the trees. Aya follows close behind, matching his careful footsteps with surprising stealth. The afternoon sun filters through the canopy, casting dappled patterns on the forest floor.

“How long did they keep you traveling?” He glances back at her. “Before the cellar?”

Aya’s face scrunches in concentration. “Lost count after the third night. Felt like a week, maybe more.” She kicks a loose stone from her path. “They kept me blindfolded most of the time.”

The information doesn’t help much with tracking their route.

A brook cuts across their path. The water runs clear and shallow - safe enough to ford.

“What about your village?” He steps into the cool stream, testing each stone before committing his weight. “Did you have proper schooling?”

“Schooling?” she asks.

“Children go to a school to learn. Learn to read books, for example.”

Aya rolls her eyes. “I’m not dumb. I just haven’t heard anyone say ‘schooling’ before. We had no school building.”

Aya hops from stone to stone behind him, her balance perfect. “We learned what kept us alive. Hunting, farming, fighting for the boys.” Her voice carries a hint of pride. “Father said books wouldn’t feed our people. Mother taught me anyway.”

Giroud nods. Practical knowledge over formal education - common enough in the outer regions. Yet something about her phrasing catches his attention. When she speaks of her village in past tense, the shadow that crosses her face when mentioning her father.

They reach the other bank, boots squelching in the soft mud. Aya wrings water from the hem of her dress, then falls back into step behind him as they continue through the woods.

The sprawl of northwestern King’s Woods gives way to the cobbled streets of Whitespire, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows between the towering buildings. Giroud’s residence stands modest but sturdy among the other dwellings, its weathered stone facade bearing silent witness to countless seasons of rain and shine.

“Wow, look at those towers!” Aya exclaims, her eyes wide with wonder as she takes in the city’s grandeur. “They’re so tall! Is that gold on the spires?”

“Just gilded copper,” Giroud replies, a hint of amusement in his voice at her enthusiasm. “Though they say the Cathedral’s highest point is real gold.”

“Really?” Aya spins around, trying to take in every detail at once. “And those flags! I’ve never seen so many colors!”

“Each represents a different noble house,” Giroud explains, guiding her through the bustling streets. “The blue and silver is House Wintervale, and the crimson with the golden lion belongs to...”

“The Bravemoores.” Aya finishes his sentence. “My father told me stories about them.”

Inside Giroud’s residence, the small wooden table bears the weight of two steaming bowls of stew, the aromatic blend of herbs and meat filling the cozy space. Aya sits across from Giroud, her eyes darting between the steaming bowl before her and the Wanderer’s stoic face. The fabric of her newly acquired clothes still stiff, a stark contrast to the worn and bloodied garments she’d arrived in.

“Eat,” Giroud says, his voice gentler than it had been in the cellar. Steam rises from his spoon as he gestures toward her untouched meal. “You need your strength.”

Aya’s chin juts out stubbornly, a flash of defiance lighting her big brown eyes. Her dark ponytail sways slightly as she shakes her head. “Not until you agree to teach me.”

Giroud sighs, setting down his spoon with a soft clink against the wooden bowl. The firelight from the hearth casts dancing shadows across his weathered features. “Aya, I told you–”

“I won’t go to the orphanage,” she interrupts, her voice trembling slightly but carrying an undercurrent of steel. “I won’t. They can’t protect me there. But you can. You can teach me to protect myself.”

“Who do you think you need protecting from?”

Aya pauses in contemplation. “I won’t let what happened to my village happen to anyone ever again.”

Giroud studies her, noting the determined set of her jaw, the fire in her eyes that belies her young age. Something in her unwavering gaze speaks of a spirit that refuses to be broken, even after witnessing horrors no child should endure.

After a long moment, he nods once in agreement, the gesture slight but carrying the weight of a solemn oath.

“I can’t make you a superhero though. You are but one person,” notes Giroud.

An enamored smile stretches across Aya’s pretty face, transforming her features from determined to radiant. Finally, she begins to eat her meal, the spoon moving with purpose as if each bite seals their newfound pact.

The next morning dawns crisp and clear, sunlight filtering through the bedroom’s window to find Aya still nestled in the bed’s warmth. Her eyes flutter open to find Giroud’s gaze watching her from a chair in the corner of the room, his expression unreadable in the morning light.

“Hello,” she says groggily, adjusting to the nearness of his presence.

“Good morning sleepyhead,” he says back, standing up from the chair. The floorboards creak softly under his weight as he rises.

“After we eat, I need to travel into northern Emberstone. There is an orc problem to deal with.”

“Why do you need to deal with it?”

“Because someone will pay me handsomely to do it.”