Chapter 26: A New Threat or A Different Old Threat?

Giroud rolls onto his side, sheets twisted around his legs like serpents. The dream refuses to fade, each detail etched in his mind with cruel precision. He squeezes his eyes shut but finds only more vivid images waiting in the darkness. The memory of dream-Aya’s touch burns on his skin like a brand.

Dawn’s first light creeps through his window, painting shadows across the floor. He surrenders the fight for sleep and rises, his movements stiff and mechanical. The familiar routine of preparing the training yard offers no comfort today as he checks practice weapons, adjusts striking posts, and arranges targets with desperate precision. His hands move through the motions while his mind wages war with itself.

Movement catches his eye. Through the living room window, he spots Aya practicing her morning forms, still wearing her light cotton sleepwear. Her ponytail swings with each fluid motion, her small frame moving with growing confidence and grace. Pride and something darker twist in his chest. His fingers grip the windowsill tightly, the rough wood biting into his palms.

Three deep breaths. He schools his features into what he hopes is a neutral expression, straightens his tunic, squares his shoulders. Each step toward the house feels heavier than the last, weighted by guilt and desire in equal measure.

“Morning,” Aya calls out, lowering her fists. A slight flush colors her cheeks from exertion.

“Didn’t hear you wake. It’s still early,” he manages, his voice rougher than intended. Their eyes meet briefly before he looks away.

“Couldn’t sleep well.”

“Me neither,” Giroud says, then immediately regrets the admission as the reason for his troubled sleep flashes through his mind once more.

In the training yard after breakfast, Giroud steps back, raising his practice sword in a formal salute - a gesture he hasn’t used with Aya in months. “Take your stance.”

Her eyebrows lift at the unexpected formality, but she mirrors his movement. They circle each other on the packed dirt of the training yard, morning shadows stretching long across the ground.

Aya strikes first, her sword arcing through the air. Giroud parries, noting the improved angle of her attack, the perfect balance of her footwork. She’s incorporated every lesson he’s taught her, moving with a fluid grace that makes his chest tighten.

“Elbow higher on the block,” he calls out, keeping three paces between them. When she doesn’t adjust quickly enough, he points with his sword rather than stepping in to correct her form manually as he usually would.

“Like this?” Aya shifts her position, then launches into a complex series of strikes that would have seemed impossible for her just weeks ago.

“Better.” He retreats another step, maintaining the distance.

Aya drops her guard, head tilting. “Are you okay? You’re acting weird.” A playful smile crosses her face. “Did you eat something bad for dinner?”

Before Giroud can respond, footsteps crunch on gravel. A young boy appears at the courtyard entrance, stopping and waiting for Giroud’s acknowledgement.

“Mister Giroud?” The boy bows slightly. “I think I seen the people you wanted me to watch out for.”

Relief floods through Giroud at the interruption - until he recognizes the boy. Tommy, one of many street urchins he employs as eyes and ears throughout Whitespire. This one he’d tasked specifically with watching for El-Raffar’s men.

“Never seen ‘em before. They took crates into the old tannery,” Tommy pants, hands on his knees. “Four men I think, armed. Heard one say it needa be done before midday.”

Giroud tosses him another silver coin. “Good work.”

The moment Tommy disappears, Giroud strides toward the weapon rack.

Aya’s footsteps follow close behind. “What’s the plan?”

“I’ll scout the tannery. You stay here and keep pack—”

“No.” Aya’s voice carries steel. “I’m coming with you.”

Giroud turns, meeting her determined gaze. “I’m looking for information, not a fight.”

He heads inside, Aya hot on his heels.

“You still need backup.” She buckles on her leather armor with practiced efficiency. “They’ll probably tell you more if we can back them into a corner.”

Giroud grips the pommel of his sword, jaw clenched. She’s right - her plan makes sense. “Fine.” He forces the word out. “But I want you to stay in the shadows until I need you. No engagement. Clear?”

“Crystal.” Aya slides her dagger into its sheath, a hint of satisfaction in her smile. “And when you need my help?”

“Three sharp whistles.” Giroud adjusts his sword belt. “But that won’t happen.”

“Of course not.” Aya rolls her eyes. “Because you’re a Wanderer.”

“Precisely,” says Giroud sternly, not matching Aya’s mocking tone.

Giroud hugs the shadows of Whitespire’s narrow alleys, keeping his footsteps silent on the worn cobblestones. Above, Aya’s silhouette flits between rooftops like a sparrow, barely visible against the morning sky. His chest tightens each time she makes a leap between buildings.

The stench of old leather and rotting flesh grows stronger as they near the abandoned tannery. Giroud presses against a weathered wall, spotting two armed men loading crates onto a cart. Their movements are too practiced, too efficient to be common thugs.

A flash of metal catches his eye - Aya’s dagger reflecting sunlight as she crouches on the edge of the tannery roof. Before he can signal her to stay back, three more men emerge from the building below her.

One glances up.

Aya drops. But instead of retreating as ordered, she lands between the men in a crouch.

“Oh—” Giroud admires the way her battle leathers wear her form like a second skin. The crouch displaying the gentle curve of her waist, her hips and her toned, little rear end admirably.

Dark energy crawls quickly up from the ground as she mutters quiet incantations, forming shadowy tendrils that wrap around both thugs’ throats. The men drop without a sound.

Aya is already moving, her dagger tracing a silver line of death as she weaves between the remaining attackers. Her movements flow like water, each strike precise and deadly.

Pride wars with terror in Giroud’s chest as he watches her take down two men at once with a combination of moves he never taught her, weaving effortlessly around their swings.

Giroud surges forward, sword clearing its sheath— the last thug falling just as Giroud reaches them. Aya stands in the center of the carnage, breathing hard but unhurt. Her eyes still shimmer with a trace of red glow.

Had she just dispensed with all the thugs while I’d been distracted by her figure in her leather armor?

“Almost too easy,” she says, wiping her blade clean on the thug’s clothes.

“And how do you propose interrogating them now?”

Giroud wants to scold her further for disobeying orders, but his attention catches on one of the fallen crates. Spilled across the cobblestones are dozens of small crystal vials filled with moving black liquid.