Chapter 29: The Price to be Paid

El-Raffar’s angular features cast sharp shadows in the overhead sun. Blood from earlier fights darkens the ground around them, the metallic scent hanging thick in the air. Giroud’s muscles already burn from exertion, but he forces his voice steady.

“You’ve got nowhere to hide El-Raffar. This is the end.” The words taste like copper in Giroud’s mouth.

El-Raffar’s lips curl into an amused sneer as he withdraws two gleaming daggers from beneath his well-tailored coat, his movements carrying the casual grace of a predator confident in its position. The blades catch the afternoon light, their edges wickedly sharp.

“Perhaps it might be.” El-Raffar’s cultured voice carries across the space between them. “But it won’t be the end of the plans I’ve already set in motion. You may have uncovered my soul essence operation, but this has been going for months. Quite simply, you’re too late.”

Giroud’s hand tightens on his sword hilt. “Without your twisted presence pulling the strings, I can defuse whatever it is you’ve stirred up with the Sintarians.”

Laughter erupts from El-Raffar’s throat, rich and mocking. The sound echoes off the outside of the barn’s weathered walls. “Their army is ready. They have more soul essence than they can safely consume, and they have a pair of warlocks. If you think Whitespire isn’t going to fall, your tactical acumen is far worse than I’ve given you credit for.”

The afternoon sun beats down on them as Giroud weighs his options. Each moment El-Raffar speaks is another piece of intelligence gathered, but the man’s relaxed posture speaks of deadly confidence.

“Why would Sintar want to invade? What motive could you have persuaded them with?”

“It’s always the same isn’t it?” El-Raffar’s eyes gleam with dark amusement. “Power. Complete control over one’s own future. We all crave it. Only some of us are brave enough to take it!”

El-Raffar’s tall form blurs as he surges forward, his long legs eating up the distance between them in heartbeats. His twin daggers flash in the sunlight as they meet Giroud’s blade with a ring of steel that echoes across the farmyard. The man moves like smoke in the wind, each motion flowing into the next with unnatural grace. His gangly limbs coil and strike with viper-like precision.

A flash of movement draws Giroud’s attention. Aya’s mouth moves breathing incantations into the air, summoning dark tendrils that materialize like living shadows, wrapping around the farmer’s thick, weathered neck. The burly man, more beast than soldier, tears at the ethereal bonds with calloused hands, his rusted blade hacking through them in blind panic. With a triumphant grunt, he charges at Aya. Panic floods Giroud’s chest as he watches his young companion scramble backward, her eyes locked on her dagger. The blade remains buried to its hilt in the dead henchman’s back, thirty yards away across blood-stained earth. Without it, her magic lacks the deadly edge she needs.

“The child is in trouble,” El-Raffar’s taunting voice draws Giroud’s attention back to their deadly dance.

The thunder of boots draws Giroud’s attention to where the farmer bears down on Aya. Giroud’s head follows instinctively, tracking the threat. It’s only a moment’s distraction, but that’s all El-Raffar needs.

The man’s daggers hook Giroud’s sword with impossible speed, wrenching it free. The blade hits the dirt with a dull thud that seems to echo in Giroud’s bones.

Now unarmed, Giroud weaves and dodges as El-Raffar’s daggers slice through the air where his head had been heartbeats before. Each attack comes from an unexpected angle, El-Raffar’s lanky frame bending and flowing like a deadly dancer. Giroud’s muscles burn as he twists away from each thrust and slash, knowing a single mistake likely means death.

“You truly are an excellent fighter,” El-Raffar’s voice remains steady, not even breathing hard as his blades trace silver arcs through the air. “But you’re predictable. Always putting others before yourself.”

A sickening thud draws Giroud’s attention. Aya’s small form crumples to the ground, the farmer’s meaty fist hanging in the air where her head had been moments before. The sight sends ice through Giroud’s veins.

El-Raffar’s daggers whistle through the air in a majestic two-handed lunge. Giroud drops into a precise roll, feeling the wind of the blades passing overhead. His fingers find the familiar grip of his sword as he tumbles over it, snatching it up in one fluid motion.

The farmer charges with a bestial roar. Giroud pivots, channeling his momentum into a single devastating arc the farmer fails to defend. His blade cleaves through flesh and bone with practiced efficiency. The farmer’s head separates from his shoulders, surprise forever frozen on his face as both parts hit the ground with wet thuds.

Pain explodes in Giroud’s left side as El-Raffar’s dagger finds its mark while he faced the farmer. Hot blood begins to soak his undershirt, the shallow wound, blunted by his armor, forcing him back several steps. His breath comes in ragged gasps as El-Raffar presses forward, twin daggers blurring with lethal intent.

Adrenaline crystallizes Giroud’s thoughts into pure survival instinct. His arms vibrate with each desperate parry of El-Raffar’s blades, muscles burning in protest, his wound a constant inferno. Yet he cannot falter - Aya’s defenseless form behind him demands nothing less than his absolute resolve.

“Tiring already?” El-Raffar’s voice drips with mockery. “What happened to the legendary Wanderer?”

“It’s been a long day,” Giroud snaps, the words escaping before wisdom can catch them.