Chapter 31: Storm Clouds Gathering

The evening air is crisp and clear as Giroud and Aya make their way back to their home in the heart of Whitespire with Monique in tow. The streets are bustling with activity, the city’s residents seemingly unaware of the looming threat that hangs over them like a dark cloud.

Giroud guides his horse through Whitespire’s cobbled streets, listening to the chatter behind him. Monique’s delicate steps match the horse’s slow pace as she walks alongside, her blonde hair catching the late afternoon sun.

“Robbie was teasing Sarah and then she tried to climb the tree in her new dress,” Monique’s voice rings with laughter. “Her mother was so angry!”

Aya’s giggle follows. “I wish I’d seen that. Did she tear it?”

“Right down the middle! She had to wear her brother’s old clothes for the rest of the day.”

The familiar sight of home comes into view. Giroud dismounts, his muscles still aching from the hard ride. He leads the horse to the stable while the girls continue their animated discussion about their friends’ misadventures.

Inside, Monique takes charge of the kitchen with surprising authority for someone her age accustomed to a fulltime staff in her home.

“I’ll start chopping the vegetables,” she announces, pulling ingredients from their bags. “My cook taught me the proper way to prepare a stew.”

“Yay,” Aya beams. “We need to wash up. Haven’t had a proper bath in days.”

Giroud nods in agreement. The grime of travel and battle still clings to his skin, and the thought of warm water beckons. They quickly gather their things to visit the bathhouse.

“Don’t burn the house down while we’re gone,” he says, earning an indignant huff from Monique.

“I’ll have you know I’m quite capable in a kitchen, sir,” she replies with mock offense, her blue eyes twinkling.

Giroud stacks the empty bowls, savoring the lingering taste of Monique’s surprisingly delicious stew. The girls chatter as they clear the table, their voices a pleasant backdrop to the mundane task.

A sharp knock cuts through the evening calm. Giroud crosses to the door in quick strides, body tensed, not expecting visitors.

The door swings open to reveal King Winfield himself, flanked by Bracken and a guard. The torchlight casts long shadows across their faces.

Giroud drops into a bow. “Your Highness.”

“Can we speak?” Bracken’s voice is low, urgent.

Before Giroud can respond, a small gasp comes from behind him. He turns to see Monique dropping into a perfect curtsy, her practiced grace a stark contrast to Aya’s wide-eyed stare.

“Lady Monique.” The King acknowledges her with a slight nod.

“You have a title?” Aya’s voice rings with disbelief.

Giroud gestures toward his study, mind racing through possibilities that would bring the King to his door at this hour. “This way, Your Highness.”

The study door clicks shut behind them. Bracken wastes no time, his face grim in the lamplight.

“We received word this evening. The Sintar army has made landfall far south of the Wildheart Jungle.”

Giroud’s stomach tightens. “Numbers?”

“Much larger than our standing force,” Bracken says, shaking his head. “I’ve already dispatched messages to recall all men from outposts across the kingdom.”

Giroud runs a hand through his hair, mind racing through the geography. “The Wildheart Jungle will slow them considerably. An army that size? They’ll need at least two weeks to reach Whitespire, even if they push hard.”

He moves to the map spread across his desk, fingers tracing potential routes. The pieces fall into place in his mind - terrain, tactical advantages, choke points.

“The swamp east of Shadowvale,” Giroud taps the location. “We can force them to funnel through there. They’ll have no choice but to attempt the ascent into Shadowvale proper. If we position our forces on those hills...” He looks up at Bracken. “We’d have the high ground. It’s a natural bottleneck.”

Bracken nods, studying the map. “Agreed. The terrain would help negate their numerical advantage.”

Giroud traces the path through the swamp with his finger. “Their warlocks will be at a great disadvantage down there as well. Their soul essence fueled infantry will likely run over the top of your men, but we will have the magical advantage.”

The King’s brow furrows. “We will have the magical advantage? How?”

“You will have Aya.” Giroud can’t help but smile.

The King and Bracken exchange skeptical glances. Bracken’s mouth twists into a frown. “Your apprentice?” He gestures toward the door where Aya’s clear voice rings out in a children’s melody with Monique. “I can hear her singing children’s songs with Lady Monique in the other room.”

Giroud shakes his head, still smiling. “Her power is like nothing I have ever seen before. She is diligent in her practice and pushes her limits every day. I will prepare her as best I can over the next weeks, but she will more than match Sintar’s warlocks.”

Giroud is also confident the Sintar warlocks won’t have the benefit of additional power, such as part of the Eye of Dusk, as Aya does.

Bracken strokes his chin thoughtfully. “I don’t like this. That is a lot of responsibility for her. And what about the soul essence fueled infantry? I assume you’ll lead the line, as Wanderers typically do in combat?”

“I will regrettably have to stay back to protect Aya. She must be allowed to focus if we’re to have any chance.” Giroud’s expression turns serious. “She is how we win. We know they have two warlocks, they don’t think we have any - that sways things in our favor.”

Through the door, Aya’s laughter mingles with Monique’s, the sound of two carefree girls sharing stories. Only Giroud knows the true power that lies within Aya.

Giroud watches the King’s face carefully, noting the deep lines of worry etched around his eyes.

“I’d be lying if I said this plan filled me with confidence,” King Winfield says, his voice heavy. “Betting the kingdom’s survival on a child’s magical abilities...”

Giroud rises from his chair, meeting the King’s gaze directly. “Your Highness, why is Sintar really coming? El-Raffar may be cunning, but he’s not persuasive enough to convince a foreign kingdom to launch an invasion.”

The King swallows hard, his throat working visibly before he speaks. “Relations with Sintar have been ... strained for some time now. Their mineral resources - their primary trade goods - have been depleted. Their harsh terrain makes growing food nearly impossible. They’ve always relied on trading their resources to feed their people.”

Giroud’s jaw tightens as the pieces fall into place. “And now?”

“They’ve grown desperate,” the King continues. “Made attempts to negotiate new deals, but no kingdoms showed interest. We...” He pauses, looking down at his hands. “We may have terminated our remaining trade agreements for their salts and cobalt.”

“So they’re going to take Whitespire for all your lands? Resources and farms?” Giroud asks, his voice sharp.

The King nods slowly. “That would be my best guess. Our lands are fertile and rich in many raw materials.” He wipes a hand across his brow. “Plus whatever El-Raffar may have convinced them of...”

Giroud lets the heavy silence hang in the study, his eyes fixed on the map. The weight of their situation presses down on his shoulders like a physical burden. “We’re in agreement then? You position your forces to intercept them before they climb from the swamp into Shadowvale?”

Bracken’s nod is firm, decisive.

“The child will be ready?” The King’s voice carries a heavy note of doubt that makes Giroud’s jaw clench.

Instead of answering, Giroud strides to the study door and pulls it open. “Aya, come with us please.” He leads everyone outside to the spacious, walled training yard beside the house, the cool night air carrying the scent of leaves and neighboring chimney smoke.

His heart pounds as he turns to face his apprentice. This moment will change everything - how they see her, how they treat her. But they need to understand. “Aya, could you please place Monique in a barrier shield for her safety and then summon an army of your fel beasts, tie down the king, Bracken, the guard and then hit each corner of the yard with a shadow bolt?”

Aya’s eyes dart between him and the others, uncertainty written across her young features. Her gaze lingers on Monique, who stands wide-eyed and confused at the edge of the yard.

Giroud sees the question in her expression - the fear of revealing her true nature to her friend, of shattering the normal life she sometimes gets to pretend she has. “They need to see this,” he says softly. “And she will find out soon enough.”

Aya’s shoulders straighten as she nods. Her lips begin moving in whispered incantations, her fingers tracing invisible sigils in the air before her.