Chapter 5: Wildheart Jungle

The morning mist clings to the overgrown jetty in Northern Westhaven like a shroud, dampening their boots as Giroud and Aya clamber onto the docked boat. The weathered vessel creaks beneath their weight, its timbers dark with moisture. The journey to Wildheart Jungle’s coast will take the better part of the morning, the coastline gradually transforming from Westhaven’s golden cliffs to the gorgeous beaches reaching to the edge of the dense, emerald jungle of their destination.

The sea is quiet, unusually so for these parts. Only the gentle lapping of waves against the hull and occasional cry of a seabird breaks the comfortable silence between them. Aya sits at the bow, her eyes scanning the shoreline with keen interest, her small frame alert for any sign of danger. Giroud notices how she seems to absorb every detail of their surroundings, cataloging it away for future reference.

“What are we looking for exactly?” Aya asks, her voice carrying a mix of excitement and apprehension across the salt-laden air.

Giroud’s lips tighten into a thin line as he adjusts their course. “There’s been reports of increased troll activity in the jungles. We’ve been engaged to ensure any camps nearby the Blueseam Mine are sent a strong message.”

Aya’s eyes widen. “Trolls? Like in the stories?”

“These aren’t storybook trolls, Aya,” Giroud warns, his tone serious. “They’re lean, crazed fighters that will defend their territory violently. We will need to stay alert.”

Aya moves through the dense undergrowth with the grace and purpose of a panther, her footsteps nearly silent on the damp earth. Giroud watches her movements with a mixture of pride and unease - her stealth speaking to how far she’s come from the girl he rescued.

Covering the ground by foot to the South of the mine, the first engagement comes without warning. The troll bursts from the undergrowth, its tusked mouth open in a war cry. Giroud’s sword meets the creature’s small axe with a resounding clash of metal. Sparks fly as the weapons scrape against each other, the troll’s superior height giving it leverage. But Giroud is faster, more skilled. He pivots, letting the troll’s momentum carry it forward while his blade finds the gap beneath its arm. Blood sprays in an arterial arc, staining the jungle foliage crimson.

Aya moves like a shadow, her dagger finding vital points with deadly precision. Her small size becomes an advantage as she darts beneath the trolls’ wild swings, striking at knees and hamstrings. The training sessions have paid off - each movement is economical, purposeful, leaving no opening for counterattack.

Later, as they make their way back to their boat, Giroud’s thoughts turn dark. He watches Aya clean her blade with practiced efficiency, her young hands steady despite the violence they’ve just enacted. The sight sends a chill through him that has nothing to do with the cool air.

What have I done to her? he thinks, watching her movements - too precise, too controlled for someone her age. She should be spending time with friends her own age, learning to dance, enjoying the blissful innocence of youth. Instead, I’ve taught her to kill with the efficiency of a seasoned warrior.

The weight of his choices presses down on him as they board their vessel. Aya’s face is flushed with the pride of victory, but all Giroud can see is how far she’s strayed from the path of normal childhood already. He remembers her in that bamboo cage - frightened but still innocent. Now she moves with the calculated grace of a predator, her warm brown eyes scanning constantly for threats.

Aya climbs aboard as Giroud pushes off from the riverbank on their journey back to the sea, jumping on as it moves clear of the sand. He adjusts course and ties the sail to hold their line.

“We should have got you different color clothes,” says Giroud, eyeing the beige fabric of Aya’s top and skirt which are now more red than beige, drenched in troll’s blood.

“Or you need to make sure you’re not underneath where you strike your blows,” he chuckles, though the sight of her covered in blood stirs something uncomfortable in his chest: no child should ever be splattered in blood like this.

“I didn’t really have a choice in that,” she says, attempting to wring blood from the fabric.

“Shame we can’t wash them in the water now before it dries. If the blood isn’t all dry, we may get most of it out,” says Giroud.

splash

“What was that?” cries Aya.

“Jumping fish.”

Aya gets up and crawls to the front of the boat. On all fours, she leans over the front of the boat looking into the water for more jumping fish.

“Oh–” mumbles Giroud, his gaze catching Aya’s unwitting flashing of her underwear as she leers over the front of the boat. The underwear slips up between her bum cheeks, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of her smooth, unblemished skin.

“Aya,” he calls, trying to shake away the distraction of his thoughts.

BANG

The couple’s boat rear ends Giroud and Aya’s boat with enough force to send ripples across the water’s surface.

“What the...”

Giroud is stunned. He realizes now he has been paying Aya too much attention to notice the other boat. A couple of old thieves looking for a quick prize.

Giroud turns around, cursing his lapse in focus. The steering pole has been caught in the collision, bobbing uselessly in the churning water between the boats.

“Aya, I have to grab the steering pole. Can you take care of those two?” asks Giroud, his voice tight with concern and self-recrimination.

Without hesitation, Aya dives into the water, her slender form cutting through the surface like a knife. She comes up beside the other boat, water streaming from her clothes as she grabs the side of it. In one fluid motion, she pulls herself over the small edge of the boat’s hull and stands in a prowling stance before the man and woman.

The sunlight glistens off her wet skin, the water making her clothes cling to her form. From their boat, Giroud watches, entranced by the way the light plays across her figure, before forcing his attention back to securing the vessels.

The man holds a fishing knife loosely in his hand, his guard lowered at the sight of what he perceives as just a girl. The woman’s laugh carries across the water. “Oh sweetie,” she says, her voice dripping with condescension.

“Sorry,” says Aya, making her voice deceptively soft. Then she explodes into motion. She feints right and dodges left, her wet boots finding purchase on the deck as she moves with practiced precision. In one smooth movement, she slips behind the man and wrenches the knife from his unsuspecting grip.