Chapter 37: Memories and Maps

Giroud watches as Aya excitedly brushes her hair, her fingers deftly working through the dark strands. In her normal clothes—girls’ clothes—without the battle leathers or durable traveling attire, she looks so young. It’s a poignant reminder that beneath her burgeoning strength and maturity, there still exists a child longing for moments of innocence.

He almost opens his mouth, ready to caution her, to remind Aya of the dangers that lurk in the city streets. But the words catch in his throat as he sees the joyful anticipation on her face. Today, she will spend the day with Monique, away from the looming battle, away from the weight of their responsibilities.

Giroud swallows back the protective instinct, allowing Aya this small reprieve. She has earned the right to be a child, if only for a little while longer. With a gentle smile, he nods in approval as she finishes brushing her hair, the strands falling in a soft wave around her face before she pulls it all back in a neat ponytail.

Something about her appearance catches his attention—her eyes seem different today. Her lashes appear thicker, darker, framing those warm brown irises in a way that makes them even more captivating than usual.

Has she acquired makeup? Perhaps Monique gave it to her? Giroud wonders. The subtle enhancement makes her gaze even more arresting, drawing attention to the expressive depth of her eyes.

Aya stands, smoothing down her dress, and looks up at him expectantly. “Ready!”

Giroud nods, momentarily lost in admiration. Despite everything they’ve faced together—the blood, the violence, the magic—she still radiates a youthful innocence. The contrast between the deadly warrior he’s trained and this pretty, young girl preparing for a day with her friend leaves him speechless.

“Be careful,” he says, the words laced with warmth and an unspoken plea for her safety he can’t hide, even knowing it would take far more than one misguided assailant to subdue her.

Aya’s face lights up with a bright smile. “I will!” She waves and grabs a small bag before darting toward the door. It probably contains her dagger. The thought makes him smile. “I’ll be back before dinner!” she calls as the door closes behind her.

Giroud watches her go, the sound of her humming fading as she disappears into the streets of Whitespire. Alone in the quiet of their home, he allows himself a moment to breathe, to savor the fleeting normalcy of her departure.

Giroud moves with methodical precision as he maintains his weapons, the familiar motions soothing his nerves. He takes his time sharpening each blade, the rhythmic scrape of steel against whetstone a grounding cadence in the quiet of their home.

His mind drifts as he works, picturing the terrain where the battle will unfold. He finds himself poring over the maps again, committing every detail to memory - the rises and falls of the land, the placement of cover, the potential chokepoints.

With a practiced hand, he lays out their provisions and medical supplies, adding extra bandages, herbs, and medicinal pastes to their usual travel kit. The weight of the looming battle settles heavily on his shoulders as he ensures they are as prepared as they can be.

Giroud pauses, running a finger along the edge of his sword. He can’t shake the feeling that something crucial has been overlooked, that some unseen threat lurks in the shadows. Aya’s safety is paramount, for both him personally and the kingdom at large, and he will do whatever it takes to keep her from harm.

Sheathing the blade, Giroud moves to the next task, his movements betraying the underlying anxiety that coils within him. He knows the coming battle will test them both, but he is determined to see them through it.

The warm afternoon sun greets Giroud as he heads down the streets of Whitespire, the air thick with anticipation. In the outskirts of the city, he sees signs of the kingdom’s forces mobilizing - more soldiers moving through the city than usual, carts laden with supplies rumbling through the gates, and the faint sound of muffled commands echoing from the edges of the city.

Closer to the city center the normal bustle continues, most citizens unaware of the preparations happening inside and beyond their walls. Giroud notes how the ignorance of the populace is both a blessing and a strategic choice - no panic to manage, no chaos to control.

Giroud catches snippets of hushed conversation as he passes a tavern. A group of men huddle close at an outdoor table, their voices dropping to whispers when a city guard walks by. One man gestures northward with unmistakable concern etched on his face.

“Heard they’re calling in soldiers from as far as the Ancient Plains,” a merchant mutters to his assistant as they hurriedly load crates into their storefront. “Better get these preserved goods in before prices soar.”

The subtle signs are there amongst those in the know.

Outside the smithy, a line of soldiers wait with dulled blades. The blacksmith and his apprentices work with grim determination, the rhythmic clanging of their hammers more urgent than usual.

In the market square, Giroud observes a wealthy merchant’s wife purchasing unusual quantities of salt and dried meat, her servants struggling under the weight of her purchases. Their hushed exchange with the butcher confirms his suspicions - those with connections know something is coming.

A stable master leads a string of fresh horses into a reinforced paddock, far more than the usual number kept ready. When their eyes meet, the man gives Giroud a knowing nod before returning to his preparations.

These small details paint a clear picture - a network of whispers spreads among those connected enough to hear them. The kingdom prepares quietly, hoping to maintain calm while readying for the storm. The undercurrent of tension flows just beneath the surface of Whitespire’s apparent normalcy.

As he makes his way towards the Royal Guard command post, Giroud can’t help but overhear the snippets of conversation around him. Soldiers discuss troop movements and defensive positions, their voices tinged with a mixture of determination and unease. The full extent of the army gathering becomes increasingly apparent, a stark reminder of the gravity of the situation they face.

Giroud finds Bracken in the command post, where maps cover every surface. The Head of the Crown Guard’s fingers trace the hillside where their forces will meet the Sintar army. “The high ground here,” he indicates, “and here. Artillery positioned to create a crossfire. Infantry formations split between hillside and valley.” His voice carries the weight of thousands of lives resting on these decisions.