Chapter 38: The Night Before. Again

Giroud keeps his horse at an easy trot as they navigate the gloomy paths of Shadowvale. Tall, eerie trees block much of the afternoon light, casting their path in shadows. Aya’s sits in front of him as usual. Her head hidden beneath the hood of her new cloak, but he knows her eyes will be scanning the surroundings with practiced vigilance.

The distant clamor of men and metal carries on the wind—hundreds of soldiers preparing for the coming battle. Giroud studies Aya’s profile, searching for signs of fear or hesitation.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, keeping his voice casual. “We’ll be there soon.”

Aya turns to him, her expression calm and collected. “I’m okay. Nervous, of course, but I think we’re ready.” She adjusts her grip on the saddle, a small tell of her anxiety that Giroud notices but doesn’t mention. “I know what I need to do. Stay hidden, keep the barrier shields up, focus on the biggest threats in the frontline first.”

Giroud nods, a sense of pride mingling with his concern. The steadiness in her voice reassures him. She doesn’t sound like a frightened child but like a soldier preparing for battle—his apprentice, his partner. He finds comfort in her composure, even as part of him wishes she could have remained innocent of such matters.

“I know you’re ready,” he says simply.

They follow the main road as it narrows, the forest giving way to steep, rocky terrain on either side of them. Massive peaks rise on all sides as they enter the mountain pass, the path winding between sheer cliff faces that seem to scrape the sky. Their horse’s hooves echo against stone, the sound bouncing back from the rock walls that enclose them.

Finally, they emerge from the narrow range into blinding sunlight. Giroud blinks, his eyes adjusting to reveal a vast encampment spread before them. Hundreds of tents fill every available space on the plateau, colored banners fluttering in the breeze. Beyond, the terrain slopes downward toward the swampy lowlands where the Sintar forces will have to cross. Soldiers work diligently to erect defensive barricades all the way down the hill and onto the flats below.

The King’s army has chosen their ground well. Giroud feels a surge of grim satisfaction as he surveys the tactical advantage they hold.

The swamp stretches before them, a vast expanse of dried mud, shallow murky water and sparse twisted trees. From their vantage point atop the hill, Giroud can see where the main path emerges from the wetlands below, winding its way up toward Shadowvale.

“The soul essence will make them fearless,” he says, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder as Aya busies herself setting up their small camp. “They’ll try to charge straight up this slope, no matter the cost.”

Aya nods, her movements practiced and efficient, each gesture a reflection of the discipline and focus she has honed through their journeys together. Her young body moves with a fluid grace, belying the strength that lies within.

Standing at the crest of the hill, Giroud and Aya review tactics again.

“I’ll position the barriers here,” she says, indicating spots along the slope with a sweep of her hand. Her brow furrows with concentration as she considers the terrain, her mind already strategizing the best way to fortify their position. “Our soldiers will be in those spaces and along there? When their warlocks start raining hellfire, our forces will have cover.”

Giroud nods, acknowledging her indications of positioning. Giroud studies her face, his storm-gray eyes taking in every detail. She has embraced her role in the coming battle, her skills and abilities a testament to the countless hours of training and the trials they have endured.

“If I can pull the tentacles up from the swamp itself they will have no time to react.” Aya gestures to the boggy ground, her slender fingers tracing the path the dark appendages will take.

Giroud’s gaze sweeps across the terrain as he envisions the coming battle. He can already hear the clash of steel, the agonized cries of the fallen, and the thunderous roar of the Sintar forces as they charge up the slope. His hand tightens reflexively around the hilt of his sword, the familiar weight a comforting presence.

“How does it look?” Bracken’s voice surprises Giroud from his side.

“Defensive battlements seem to be in the ideal locations. The terrain is just as planned on the maps?”

“Yes. No surprises.” Bracken sounds confident.

“We are still expecting the Sintar forces to reach us tomorrow?” Giroud turns his body now to face Bracken.

“Yes, the scouts returned not long ago. We expect them to reach us tomorrow afternoon. No reports of anything new.”

Giroud considers Bracken’s update, nodding slowly as he processes the information. The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across the encampment, highlighting the busy preparations of soldiers reinforcing barricades and sharpening weapons. He can feel the weight of responsibility settling on his shoulders—not just for himself, but for Aya, and for all these men who have no idea what they’re truly facing.

“Soul essence changes everything,” he says, a repeated warning, keeping his voice low enough that only Bracken can hear. “Remind the men their priority is just slowing them down, keep them at bay. Don’t try and press forward. The risk to formation will be too great. The enemy forces will fight like men possessed because they literally will be. No fear, no hesitation, just pure aggression.”

“They’ll be ready,” Bracken says, his earlier confidence slightly diminished.

Giroud watches as Bracken strides away, barking orders at a nearby lieutenant. The camp still buzzes with activity—men checking armor, testing bowstrings, sharpening blades—yet beneath it all lies an undercurrent of tension. These are good soldiers, well-trained and disciplined, but they’ve never faced what’s coming.

He turns back to find Aya looking at him, her eyes searching his face.

“We should eat. Then rest,” he says, more gently than he intended. “Tomorrow will be long.”