Chapter 6: The Turning Point

Their boots echo in a steady rhythm on Whitespire’s cobblestone pavement, as they leave the house behind, punctuated by the cacophony of the city’s heartbeat. Merchants hawk their wares with boisterous charm, and children dart between legs like minnows in a stream. Aya’s gaze flits from one spectacle to another, her curiosity ignited by the city’s vibrant chaos.

“Keep close,” Giroud murmurs, his voice barely a ripple in the roaring tide of urban life around them.

“Always do,” Aya replies with a slight smile, her ponytail bobbing with each brisk step she takes to keep up with his longer strides.

“We need to get fish for dinner,” Giroud says, changing direction toward the docks. “The market should still have fresh catch.”

As they navigate the winding streets leading to the harbor, the salt air grows stronger. The docks bustle with activity - sailors unloading cargo, fishmongers calling out their prices, and seabirds wheel overhead.

A flash of blonde hair catches Aya’s attention. A girl her age skips along the wooden planks, a rope swishing through the air in practiced, complicated arcs.

The girl calls out, her blue eyes sparkling. “Want to give it a go?”

Aya looks up at Giroud hopefully, her competitive instincts incapable of refusing a challenge. “Can I? While you choose the fish?”

Giroud hesitates for a moment, then nods. “Stay where I can see you. Don’t go near the edge.”

Aya bounds over to the girl, her face lighting up.

He watches Aya introduce herself with a small bow - a habit from her village that brings an unexpected warmth to his chest.

The blonde girl curtsies in return, her expensive dress marking her as someone from an affluent family. “I’m Monique,” her clear voice rings out.

The rope whistles through the air as Monique demonstrates a complex pattern. Aya studies it with the same intensity she brings to combat training, then copies the movement perfectly. Her natural grace shows even in this simple game.

“Your turn!” Aya’s voice carries the excitement he rarely hears during their days.

The girls trade places, the rope creating rhythmic arcs between them. Their laughter and chatter blend with the cries of the gulls overhead. Monique’s long blonde hair catches the sunlight as she jumps, while Aya’s ponytail bounces with each leap.

Giroud finds himself lingering over his purchase, watching their play. It strikes him how seldom he sees Aya act her age. The merchant beside him clears his throat, snapping Giroud’s attention back to the haggling at hand.

“Two silvers for the sea bass,” the merchant says.

But Giroud’s focus drifts back to the girls. Aya’s face glows with simple joy as she masters another skipping pattern. For a moment, she’s just a girl at play - not a ruthless killer, not a survivor of massacre. Just a girl with a new friend, performing rope jumps in the afternoon sun.

“Okay, no way you can do this one!” Monique demonstrates a complex pattern, her feet dancing between the rope’s turns.

Aya copies her movements, adding her own flourish at the end. Their game attracts smiles from passing dock workers, a moment of innocence amid the day’s labor.

“Giroud! Look at this footwork!” Aya calls out as she masters a particularly difficult skip pattern. Her face beams with pride.

“Well done,” he calls back, a rare smile crossing his features.

Monique and Aya begin chanting a skipping rhyme, their voices carrying over the dock’s bustle:

“Wanderer, Wanderer, where do you roam? Through forest and mountain, so far from home! One, two, three and four, Dragons and trolls and so much more!”

The irony of the chosen song made Giroud smile. He doubted Aya had told Monique he was a Wanderer so soon after meeting.

The rope whips faster as they skip, their feet moving in perfect synchronization. Giroud notices how even in play, Aya’s movements hold the grace of her combat training.

“Your daughter?” the fishmonger asks, wrapping fresh cod in paper.

“My apprentice,” Giroud corrects, though the word feels inadequate for their bond.

After securing their dinner, Giroud approaches the girls. “Time to go, Aya.”

“Just one more round?” Aya pleads, her big brown eyes hopeful.

“One more,” he concedes, watching as the girls launch into another verse of their skipping song.

Monique’s fair complexion contrasts sharply with Aya’s mellow bronze skin as they twirl together, their differences forgotten in the joy of play. Finally, breathless and laughing, Aya hugs her friend goodbye.

“Will you be down here tomorrow?” Monique asks.

“I have training,” Aya replies, her voice carrying a hint of regret. “But maybe the day after?”

As they walk away from the docks, Aya’s steps are lighter, her face still flushed with excitement.

“You deserve moments like these,” Giroud responds, his voice gruff with emotion he won’t name.

Aya skips alongside him, her steps still buoyant from playing with her new friend. The wrapped fish swings in its paper package at Giroud’s side as they navigate through the crowded market square.

“I heard what you told the fishmonger.” Aya’s face tilts up toward him, her brown eyes sparkling. “You called me your apprentice.”

Giroud’s stomach tightens. He’d spoken without thinking - a dangerous habit for a man in his profession. The word had slipped past his guard, past the careful walls he maintains.

“That smile won’t change anything,” he mutters, quickening his pace. But Aya matches his stride, undeterred.

“But you said it.” Her voice carries a note of triumph. “I’m really your apprentice?”

He grimaces, caught between truth and caution. The pride in her voice makes his chest ache. He hadn’t meant for her to hear that casual comment - hadn’t meant to say it at all. Such declarations create expectations, forge bonds that could prove dangerous for them both.

“Words spoken to strangers don’t always reflect reality,” he says, his tone sharper than intended.

But Aya’s smile doesn’t fade. She practically glows with satisfaction, as if his reluctant admission matters more than any formal declaration would have.

They walk through Whitespire’s bustling streets, the wrapped fish tucked securely under Giroud’s arm. The afternoon sun casts long shadows between the buildings as they make their way home.

“Your footwork during that skipping game was impressive,” Giroud comments, breaking their comfortable silence.

“Really?” Aya smiles at the unexpected praise. “I was able to use those side-steps you taught me.”

“I noticed. Though I doubt our enemies will be wielding skipping ropes.”

“Maybe they should,” Aya laughs. “It would make fighting more fun.”

Giroud’s expression darkens slightly at her words. “Fighting isn’t supposed to be fun, Aya.”

They reach their residence, the modest one-story structure that serves as both home and training ground. As Giroud prepares the fish, Aya sets the table, moving with the same efficient grace she shows in combat.

“Can we train after dinner?” Aya asks, arranging plates with careful precision.

“Not tonight,” Giroud replies, his voice heavy with unspoken concerns. “We need to talk about your future.”

Aya’s hands still on the tablecloth. “What do you mean?”

“This life ... it’s dangerous, Aya. Today I watched you with Monique, and it reminded me of what your life should be. Perhaps we should consider-”

“No,” Aya interrupts, her voice firm. “Don’t say it. I don’t want a normal life. I want to be a Wanderer.”