Spansol squatted at the foot of Mahakam. Two hundred households give or take. Most of the able-bodied did not farm. They worked the dwarf-run mines up in the hills. That custom had lasted generations, fifty years and more.

The village buildings were not the usual timber-and-wattle of other hamlets. They were hewn and stacked from the mountain’s stone and ore, solid and neat where a peasant house elsewhere would have been rickety and crude.

Roy sat on the village elder’s carpet and drank a thin stew of boiled greens. He rubbed his smooth chin and let the place sink in.

“Witcher work must be good,” he said. “We left Aldersberg not long ago and already folk are hunting us down.”

“Casili, you claim four murders in three months in this village?” Letho asked.

The ruddy-nosed man who had escorted them nodded, his smile gone serious. “Three lads not yet wed have been dead for some time. The most recent, Brady, was found a few days back. He left two children and a widow. They’ll have to rely on the village now.”

He shook his head. “There hasn’t been an atrocity like this since Spansol was founded. People are frightened. They blame mountain ghosts, witches and things of that sort. They live in terror. Will you two find the killer? We’ll discuss reward later.”

Letho waved a hand. “Payment can wait. First I need facts. Why are the fields full of women and children at this hour? Where have the men gone?”

Casili pointed out the window toward the sun. “They are in the mines. Four or five hours left on the shift.”

“The village has been butchered and they still go to work? They do not watch their families?”

The elder rubbed his wide nose and forced a bitter smile. “The bosses in the mountains agreed to shorten the men’s shifts. Everyone can be home before dark. They promised to catch the culprit. But they are not professionals. Three months passed with no progress. It seems when monsters vex the mountains, only Witchers can sort them out.”

He looked at Letho with a mixture of hope and deference.

“Bosses in the mountain?” Roy chewed the phrase over. He knew in the wider world dwarves and elves were weaker before men; here in Mahakam it felt inverted. Men worked in Dwarf mines and called the Dwarves their masters. The word came from a strange, almost worshipful place in Casili’s voice.

“Is Brovar Hogg, the High Elder of Mahakam, a tyrant or something?” Roy asked half to himself.

Letho cut to the chase, blunt as ever. “Tell us about these four deaths. The causes, the scenes, what was found.”

Casili’s face darkened with grief and anger. “I went to each scene as soon as I heard. The sight will never leave me. The devilry was brutal.” He spoke with the bluntness of a man who had stared at disaster.

He laid out what he had seen. Letho and Roy listened, thoughtful.

“Found in the woods, bellies ripped open, bodies propped face-down on high branches, scavenged by birds, chewed by beasts.”

Letho flicked a look at his partner. Roy read the glance and guessed what the Witcher suspected. He said it out loud.

“By that description they are not the work of some wandering forest fiend.”

“Listen,” Letho said. “Monsters do not go rooting about the open hills at random. They hate light. They prefer tombs, narrow places, dark hollows. What you describe looks like some old rite. We need to examine the corpses ourselves.”

Casili froze. “You say it is not ghosts? Then what? I cannot let you inspect the bodies.” Shame crept into his tone. “We burned them. We feared contagion. The men might turn into things, dirty things. It is an awful desecration, but we did it to save the living.”

Roy was speechless. The notion rang wrong in him. After a moment he leaned forward, voice edged with frustration.

“Who told you monsters can infect people? This is not plague; creatures do not spread like a fever. Burning the bodies destroys evidence. How are we supposed to investigate now?”

Casili’s face fell.

“And who first said it was ghosts?” Letho asked.

“The bosses in the mountain,” the villager said.

Roy thought for a beat.

Letho rose and clapped his hands once. “Ordinary folk do not know monsters. Kid, do not be harsh. Casili, show us the village. We will gather what clues remain.”

“And the job?” Casili asked.

“We will decide whether to take it after we have more facts.”

They stepped outside the chief’s hut. Women and children who had been watching like startled rabbits suddenly averted their eyes and pretended busy work. They shuffled about, awkward and afraid.

“This one sounds messy,” Roy said under his breath. He noticed for the first time the Witcher’s gravity, how even Letho’s posture tightened. The job smelled of trouble.

“Kid, I told you,” Letho said quietly, “do not meddle outside your ability. Especially not on a case you barely understand. First you must know the level of your adversary. Otherwise you may die without even knowing how.”

They went to Brady’s house, the scene of the latest death. A plain-faced woman waited at the door, face flushed with grief.

Letho introduced himself and asked simply, “Has your husband acted strange lately? Any odd orders or behaviors?”

The woman rocked, eyes wet, and shook her head dumbly.

“How was he with the village?” Letho pressed.

“Brady was well liked. If anyone was in trouble he would be first to help. He worked the mine, and he hunted. He always shared game when he had it.”

Casili added, “I can vouch for that. The other three lads had some squabbles with folk; Brady was calm, never one for fights.”

At the mention, the woman broke down. Two small children came tumbling out of the house and clung to her skirts. Their faces were smudged with dirt. A boy wiped at a tear and stared at Roy.

“You… will you catch the murderer?” he asked, voice half sob.

Roy met Letho’s unreadable face and forced a steadying breath. He would not look at that small, catlike face again.

“Let us visit the other houses,” Letho said.

“Do the miners often stay away ten days at a stretch?” Roy asked.

“Only Brady worked so hard. He saved to send Jim to school in Aldersberg.”

The rest of the interviews brought nothing new. The other three victims were uncomplicated men with few enemies. Small quarrels, yes, but nothing violent enough to end in murder.

Letho did not use Axii. He did not need it. Roy had the uneasy certainty the killer was not human.

“Take us to the latest site,” Letho said. “We will see for ourselves.”

Brady’s death site lay just two miles from Spansol. The three of them walked along the village’s narrow path for half an hour before a dense thicket of pine trees came into view.

The trees were ancient, most over a hundred years old, towering above forty feet. Looking up, the thick canopy of branches formed a dense, umbrella-like shield that blocked out the sun, casting a shadowed gloom over the forest floor.

The ground was covered in a thick layer of fallen twigs and leaves, the earthy scent of decaying plant matter mingling with the sharp tang of pine. From time to time, a small animal would peek from the underbrush, startled by their presence, before quickly darting back into the deeper woods.

“Up ahead, you’ll find the crime scene. The bloodstains have dried, but I’m sure you’ll recognize it,” Casili said, his voice flat with resignation. “I’ll wait here. I’m not going any closer.”

According to Casili, places where blood had been spilled were unlucky; they carried a curse. He had already visited the scene once but had no intention of returning.

The two men made no protest.

At a distance, they could see the sharp outlines of tall pine trees near the edge of the woods. Some branches had curved inward, forming a jagged, towering spire more than a man’s height. Beneath them, the ground was stained a deep reddish-brown, littered with scraps of meat and bone, flies buzzing in thick swarms above the mess.

It had been a lucky break—no rain in the past three days had allowed the marks at the scene to remain undisturbed.

The two men approached cautiously, stepping carefully around the scattered human footprints left by the villagers. The smell of decay hung faintly in the air.

As they neared the scene, a low hum filled the quiet woods, the sound of buzzing insects. Roy flinched, instinctively stepping back, his spine arching like a cat’s in surprise. He moved a few steps behind Letho.

It wasn’t cowardice, just a tactical retreat—there was a big man ahead of him, so why take unnecessary risks with his small frame?

“Relax, Kid.”

Letho’s right hand brushed over the serpent-shaped pendant on his chest, quelling the faint vibration of magic. “The magical fluctuations are slight. This isn’t the arrival of a monster; it’s merely a resonance from lingering energy at the scene.”

He closed his eyes, feeling the air around him.

“Even after three days, I can still sense the faintest elemental ripple.”

“Then the killer really isn’t a normal human?” Roy crouched down and touched the base of the sharp spire of branches, brushing off the dirt from his fingertips.

“These branches weren’t naturally formed, nor were they piled by human hands. This was caused by supernatural forces.” Letho’s voice held the weight of certainty. “I can almost picture it—Brady, caught unawares, his body lifted by branches from the ground, then gutted in mid-air.”

“So this is where Brady died?”

Roy’s brow furrowed as he scanned the area.

Letho shook his head. “I can’t imagine anyone would go through such effort to use destructive magic on a corpse.”

Roy nodded, his eyes shifting to the pine tree near the scene. “There are strange scratches on this tree.”

Letho looked at the marks and pondered for a moment before giving him an approving glance. “Those are signs of vine drag. The killer used vines to restrain Brady, lifted him off the ground, and then used magic to deliver the fatal blow.”

In the underbrush nearby, they found a severed vine.

“Controlling vines… using earth-spike magic…”

Roy’s mind flashed with the image of some kind of monster. A theory began to form, but it was still vague.

Letho squatted down, unaffected by the filth, and picked up a piece of something foul-smelling. Roy’s nose wrinkled as the stench hit him.

“Rotting flesh… and the waste of birds and beasts…”

“More precisely, this includes bird and wolf droppings, dried urine. The quantity is… abnormal.”

The ground around them was littered with sticky, dried clumps of excrement, besides the bloodstains.

Letho continued, his expression grim. “A single corpse couldn’t attract this many animals. The body was found on the edge of the forest. Wolf territory lies deeper in the woods, further inside. This place isn’t part of their hunting grounds.”

Roy considered this. “So the beasts were deliberately left to soil the scene?”

Letho nodded. “Most likely, the animals were used to obscure and destroy evidence. The killer’s footprints and scent were completely muddled.” He rubbed his nose and looked around. “I can’t track here. The trail is lost.”

Roy’s eyes widened in realization. “It means the killer can control wild animals.”

He quickly summarized the information in his head: the killer could control vines, use earth-spike magic, command animals, and was likely living in the mountains.

A tall monster began to form clearly in his mind. If the killer was that kind of creature, Spansol’s case had just gotten a lot more dangerous.

Despite the terror of the situation, Roy felt a strange excitement. Hunting a monster in its own lair would be a massive challenge, one he couldn’t resist.

But if he were alone, weak as he was, he would flee. With Letho at his side, though, there was a chance.

Letho, of course, was oblivious to Roy’s thoughts, his attention still focused on the task at hand. “Kid, don’t you find it strange? If the killer was just after normal people, there would be no need for all these clean-up measures. A regular human or dwarf wouldn’t have left behind these clues.”

Roy stared at him, surprised. “So all of this was set up specifically for Witchers?”

Letho’s face darkened as he nodded. “This thing only recently moved into these mountains. It’s committed four murders so far, and it clearly realized it was drawing the attention of professionals. This is a clever, experienced, and powerful ‘old monster’.” The last words were heavy with a clear sense of caution.

Roy’s breath quickened.

So far, the strongest creature he’d faced had been a Grave Hag, a monster that had fallen easily when Letho and the Witcher team fought it. But that Hag had still earned him 100 experience points. If this monster was strong enough to make Letho wary, its XP reward would likely be much greater.

Currently at level 3 (5/1500), Roy knew he couldn’t let this chance slip by.

“Kid, why are you excited? Shouldn’t you be scared?” Letho’s voice was cold. “The target is a monster far beyond your capabilities.” He slapped the filth from his hands and stood up, his voice harsh. “Sorry, but you got excited for nothing. I’m not taking this job.”

Roy sighed inwardly, already suspecting that someone as cautious as Letho wouldn’t take the case.

“How do we explain this to Spansol?” He could already picture the disappointed faces of the women and children. He felt a pang of guilt.

“Explain what? We didn’t take the payment, we made no promises. We owe them nothing. Are you really going to risk your life because you pity them?” Letho’s words cut like ice. “When you’re this weak, you’re not in a position to feel sorry for anyone.”

Roy’s lips moved, but no words came out. He hadn’t expected Letho’s words to be so sharp, but he didn’t argue.

When you’re weak, the only thing you can do is grow stronger—speaking empty words won’t help.

Letho’s sharp eyes turned toward the branches. Without warning, a black raven appeared, perched on one of the twisted limbs. It opened its wings, its beak curved like a hook, its eyes gleaming with cruel intelligence.

“Caw—”

The raven’s gaze flicked toward them, its eyes flashing red before it flapped its wings and soared into the trees.

Letho muttered under his breath. “Loyal servant going to warn its master…”

A crossbow bolt whistled through the air, striking the raven dead mid-flight. It tumbled from the sky, lifeless.

“…”

“Kid, why did you shoot it?”

“Sorry… I guess I misunderstood your intention?” Roy shrugged helplessly. “I’ll correct myself next time.”

They finished at the scene and took their leave from Casili. The village head’s face was flushed with panic.

He had waited and waited for Witchers to arrive, and now they were simply walking away. What would become of the village then?

“Master Letho, we had an understanding. If this is too much, I will raise the price.” Casili pleaded, voice high with desperation.

Letho crossed his arms and cut him off without politeness. “Think again. I said we would decide after seeing the scene. I decide now, we refuse the contract.”

“It is not only money. You can earn coin only while you draw breath. Witchering is business, it follows basic rules, you may refuse as you please.” Casili flinched, then tried another tack. “Do you not have any pity? Tina and Jim, the widow, the families of the young men, how miserable they are. Could you not help them, catch the killer?”

He searched Letho’s face for mercy and found none. The pleading fell away like a rotten leaf. Hurt turned into anger, then came a bitter contempt. The chief’s tone snapped sharp. “So it is as the rumors say, Witchers are cold-blooded things without human feeling. Get out. Do not come to Spansol again, you are not welcome.”

Letho did not flinch. He had heard worse.

Roy had heard worse too. He remembered Kagen village, when folk, freed from a Grave Hag, only traded gossip and spite. He had seen a man blow up in fury and hurl abuse because he could. If a Witcher of the Cat school with a thinner temper had answered that insult, blood might have flowed.

Roy’s last pity drained away. He understood why so many Witchers wore poker faces. Repetition deadened the heart. Better to feel nothing than to be broken a thousand times.

They ignored Casili’s glare and turned back toward the Mahakam path.

“Letho,” Roy asked as they walked, “if I were as strong as you, would you have taken the contract?”

“Do not waste thoughts, Kid. You will have your chance to fight it. For now, prepare for the Trial of the Grasses.” Letho’s voice was blunt. “Also, you shot its messenger earlier. Pray it does not come hunting for revenge.”

They left Spansol without attack. The mountain trail narrowed; sheer rock walls rose on either side, the path a ladder of stone slabs. They walked an hour. The valley opened and the smell of men and iron drifted down.

Up ahead two rows of pointed logs blocked the road. Behind them a pair of dwarves in silver mail, each carrying a black warhammer, stood chatting with two armed companions. A crossbowman kept watch from a tall wooden tower. His crossbow dwarfed Roy’s Gabriel, it was a beast made to launch quarrels that could crack bone like brittle wood.

Roy’s mouth went dry. He was about to speak when the watchman spotted them.

“Strangers, Mahakam is not for you, turn away.”

The crossbow in the tower shifted and took aim. The hammer-guard laid a heavy hand on his weapon.

“Ma… Mahakam does not… welcome strangers. You must go to Ellander, take the south route through Rivia and Upper Sodden.” The stuttering dwarf’s words tumbled over each other, his grip on the hammer betraying a twitch of fear. He looked absurd, hammer longer than his torso, head larger than his skull. But a swing of such a hammer would pulverize bone and grind flesh into paste.

If they truly detoured by Rivia and Upper Sodden, the journey would double. Roy’s stomach tightened. He looked back at Letho. The Witcher gave him a look that said, negotiate. Letho knew his face and the manner of diplomacy did not suit him. He left it to Roy.

Roy drew a breath and stepped forward, voice measured. “Brothers, we are friends of Severin Hogg.”

The stutterer spat and jumped in front of him, voice thick with contempt, “Who… who calls you brother? Back away.” He leaned forward and a wave of sweat and stale ale rolled off him. Roy moved back without thinking.

He started again, “We have a letter from Severin—”

A bright quarrel thudded into the stone beside his foot and ricocheted off the cliff wall, a crisp warning. Roy’s muscles tensed and he stepped back another pace.

Letho was faster. He sliced his fingers through the air, drawing an inverted triangle of motion. Light bloomed, pale and restless, and a shield flickered around him like a bubble of thin sunlight. He moved as if nothing at all mattered then, and drew his steel. He held the blade horizontally in front of his face with both hands, the tip pointed toward the dwarves’ throats. The stance made him look like a bull showing its horns.

The air went cold with the weight of it. Every breathing thing tightened. Then Letho drove the sword’s point down. The long steel sank, as if into butter, into the stone, splitting the slab with a soft, final sound. Four dwarves stared, their swagger dying away like a punctured skin.

“Back. Back,” the stuttering one croaked, dropping the hammer as if it burned him. He glanced at his fellow guards, faces paling. The bravado deflated and left them small.

Roy seized the pause. He plunged the envelope forward, voice proud. “We are friends of Severin Hogg. This letter is his handwriting, his seal. Read it.”

It was like a pardon. The dwarves exhaled as if freed. The man with the wooden face, the leader, barked a command, “Bring it.” Stutter reached out and took the envelope, eyes narrowing as he inspected it. He gave the paper a tap to his forehead in a clumsy salute, embarrassed.

The crossbowman climbed down from his tower and snatched the letter. He read, then nodded, the hardness in his face easing. “Yes, this is Severin’s hand and mark.” He handed the envelope back and bowed, a ridiculous, earnest thing. “A misunderstanding. Regan and the lads were reckless. Forgive our haste.”

They bowed and scrambled apologies, shuffling like men unseated. Pride sat heavy within them; it took a small thing to topple it.

Roy smiled and pulled from his coat a small corked bottle. He uncorked it with a flourish. A warm smell rolled out, rich and sharp. The dwarves’ noses twitched.

“You have small clothes,” the stuttering one asked, bewildered, eyes wide.

“No matter. This is a present from Severin Hogg. Fifty-year Mahakam spirit. It will do excellent service on the road.” Roy leaned on the bait. “Join us in a cup, as friends.”

Regan Dalberg, the crossbowman, refused politely, duty in his voice. He did not want to drink on the job. The others shifted, faces clouding with temptation. Roy praised them, praising the dwarf’s legendary thirst and skill with ale, and the two with axes visibly warmed to the idea. The stutterer thrummed with eager assent.

Regan hesitated. Roy pretended to relent, tucking the bottle away with mock regret. “If you truly refuse, I will keep it for myself.”

The temptation broke him. Regan’s great hairy hand closed and pulled the bottle back. “No, little brother Roy, your words are good. A sip will not stop watches.”

Half an hour later the guards paid for their earlier rudeness. Four bearded dwarves lay snoring behind the barricade, drunk and arranged in compromising, absurd ways, smacked together like lovers.

Roy could not hide his pleasure. He had filched from the crossbowman a small, ornate knuckle ring and a compact crossbow. The weapon was made from fine materials; it felt solid and heavy in his hands. On the stock he read a neat line.

To my dear brother, Regan Dalberg.

His face lit up. He had always wanted to replace Gabriel. At last he had. He slipped the crossbow over his shoulder.

“A fine piece needs a proper trigger finger,” Roy said, grinning. “Regan, keep this as the cost of the wine. When I cross Mahakam and survive the Trial, I will come find you and drink again.”

“Fair trade,” Letho observed, and they set off up the slope while the dwarves snored behind them.