The dense storm clouds, the lightning, the thunder, all vanished in an instant. The sky cleared again, and the doomsday vision dissolved like smoke.

Unfortunately, Azar Javed’s severed head had rolled right into the middle of the battlefield, to the feet of Rudolf, commander of the Order of the White Rose of Ellander.

The burly man stared at the familiar face on the ground, his expression blank. Not long ago, Azar had still been full of swagger, painting a splendid blueprint of capturing the Lady of the Lake, receiving a lavish reward from His Majesty, and becoming Ban Ard’s rising star.

Now his head and body lay apart.

“So Master Azar is gone just like that. Was this whole operation a mistake?”

Rudolf’s beard trembled faintly. His fingers clamped so hard around the hilt of his sword that the knuckles whitened. Even their greatest trump card had been destroyed, so what right did the Order have now to oppose the Lady of the Lake?

At the same moment, every Vodyanoi and Drowner on Black Gull Island came back to their senses. Baring teeth and claws, shrieking hideously, they pressed once more toward the White Rose Knights in the center.

After a brutal fight, the original thirty-odd Knights had been cut down by more than half. Only a little over ten remained, every one of them drenched in blood and worn to exhaustion. They still stubbornly drew together into a knot, longswords held before their chests. They had killed twice their own number of enemies, yet they could not change the outcome of the battle.

“Gods… Father of the Sky, Lebioda, Eternal Fire, Melitele, save us…”

The Knights kept praying, but the gods they longed for gave no answer.

Instead, a graceful figure appeared out of thin air. With one small, pale hand, she saved every life there. The Vodyanoi and Drowners froze at once, like soldiers who had heard a command.

“The Lady of the Lake?!”

The Knights cried out.

Floating in midair was a woman with long, lake-green hair, astonishing beauty, and an enormous tail of brilliant, iridescent scales. Her smile was gentle. Sunlight gilded her delicate features in radiant color, drawing every eye and holding it fast.

“Warriors of the White Rose, lay down your weapons. You have misunderstood me.”

Her voice was sweet and soft, like the greeting of a loved one, reaching straight into the soul, brushing away fatigue and tension, making people lower their guard before they even knew they had.

Several of the Knights looked dazed with enchantment. Not even their dimeritium necklaces could spare them from the Lady of the Lake’s Charisma.

The few who remained clear-headed looked to their leader.

Rudolf said nothing. His face twisted with conflict.

High Priest Adda strode quickly to the Lady of the Lake and bowed before her.

Their eyes met for an instant, and she understood the goddess’s will at once.

“Knights of the White Rose, Azar Javed’s death was entirely his own doing. He deserved it!”

“But you, from beginning to end, were kept in the dark. That is why the goddess grants you special mercy.” Adda’s narrow eyes swept over one weary face after another as she urged them softly on. “Lost lambs, all you need do is cast aside your weapons, repent sincerely, and drink the Holy Water. Then you shall be redeemed.”

“Those who accept redemption will return to Vizima alive,” Adda declared loudly. “I give you my word, I will persuade His Majesty to remit all punishment!”

Three of them wavered. Their taut bodies loosened. But the moment they lowered their eyes and saw the corpses of their comrades strewn all around, they tightened their grips on their swords again.

She pressed further.

“Think of your parents, your wives, your children. Is it worth throwing away your lives for a dead and evil Sorcerer?!”

Rudolf sighed at that and stepped straight out from among his men.

“The tide has turned. There is no point in useless sacrifice…” A flash of resolve passed through his eyes. “Drop your weapons. All of you.”

“Commander?!” Several Knights crowded around him, faces full of bitterness. “Are our brothers to have died for nothing?!”

“Are you deaf? Did you not hear what I said?”

“Knights of the White Rose, all of you, drop your weapons!”

“You mean to disobey orders?!” Rudolf glared at them one by one, his gaze severe.

With no choice left, the Knights removed their swords and hand crossbows and threw them to the ground at a distance. A few of them also let out quiet sighs of relief.

“Now step back. All of you, step back!” Rudolf drove his men away, then dropped to one knee, pleading written plain across his face. “Your Highness, you have won this time. But only I and Sorcerer Azar were at fault. The Knights of the White Rose were only following orders. They knew nothing of the truth.”

“Please, spare them.”

“Of course. I gave my word. So long as they repent, I will let bygones be bygones.”

“Good…”

Rudolf let out a breath and straightened. His gaze swept over the Lady of the Lake hovering in the air like a deity, a hidden trace of helplessness passing through his eyes. Then he turned and fixed on the young Witcher.

He had noticed this man kill several of his brothers. He was a formidable foe, and a rare opponent.

Rudolf’s fingers tightened once more around the hilt of his sword.

Anyone else could surrender, but not him.

He stood for the honor and backbone of the White Rose.

“Your Highness, I have one final request!”

“Speak!”

“Before I die, I want a fair duel!”

The moment the words left him, without waiting for the woman’s answer, he abandoned the other Knights and charged the young Witcher, sword in hand.

Several Knights, jolted by the sudden turn, instinctively rushed after him.

Then a sigh drifted into their ears. The Lady of the Lake, still hovering above them, blew softly toward the crowd.

Her breath fell to the ground.

The thing was uncanny. Several thick vines burst from the earth and wrapped around their ankles like starving pythons, spreading fast, binding them tight from head to foot until only their eyes remained exposed.

And so they were left to watch the battle in the middle of the field.

“Watch carefully. The Knight of King Foltest of Vizima, and my Knight, which of them is stronger? This is a fair Swordsmanship Duel, one that concerns honor and life. No one may interfere!”

Bald Letho stood with arms folded, watching beside the bound White Rose Knights. A grave look flashed in his amber eyes.

“Kid, don’t go dying too easily.”

……

Clang. The air screamed. Sparks flew.

The two swords smashed together. One of them was knocked off line by the sheer force of the impact and skidded wide at once.

Roy sprang back to bleed off the force. The instant he landed, he spread his arms and thrust Gwyhyr forward as far as he could, the point constantly wavering before the other man, pressing him, crowding his line.

Rudolf’s sword was much heavier than a standard steel blade, a good match for his superior strength.

And his reactions were no worse than those of a mutated body. His Swordsmanship was polished to the utmost.

The Knight’s longsword stood slanted before his chest, its point aimed up from below at the Witcher’s throat like a plow blade. His body was slightly bent, shoulders relaxed, footwork nimble and precise. Every movement of his Swordsmanship was flawless, as if hammered out over a thousand refinements.

Faced with such an enemy, the Witcher had no intention of using anything outside Swordsmanship.

This was a fair duel of the blade. Any trickery would leave an indelible stain on a man’s life.

The two circled each other, stepping wide, the distance between them drawing long and short by turns. Their longswords shifted angle and position with every step.

They held like that for a time.

Then the Witcher moved. His right foot stepped in. From Plow Guard, Gwyhyr slashed from upper right to lower left toward Rudolf’s chest and belly.

The longsword carved a silver arc.

Clang.

The Knight lifted his blade diagonally upward. The two swords struck.

Rudolf knocked Gwyhyr’s point aside. His own sword carried forward with the motion, its point driving straight for the Witcher’s unguarded throat.

But Roy retreated faster. The instant the blades met, he snapped diagonally backward into a T-stance and slipped clear of the edge.

At the same time, Gwyhyr flicked down in a light cut toward Rudolf’s outstretched elbow.

Clang.

The Knight’s sword swept sideways and knocked Gwyhyr away.

Both men’s faces darkened. They retreated in unison, widening the distance, and squared off once more.

The watching Knights did not dare blink. In less than a second of exchange, both men in the field had brushed past death.

Bald Letho’s face had grown grim beyond measure. His thick hand clenched into a fist, then loosened, then clenched again.

……

Roy exhaled. He opened into a lateral T-stance. As his steps shifted, the plow on his left became one on the right. His dark-gold pupils stayed locked on Rudolf’s body, not daring to drift for even an instant.

A bead of cold sweat slid down from his brow to the tip of his nose.

It was the first time he had ever met an opponent so evenly matched. In a normal fight, crossbow bolts, Signs, Intimidate, several methods together, would have been enough to kill a man.

But with Swordsmanship alone, he held no advantage.

Rudolf might be a shade slower to react, but his Swordsmanship was finer, his duel experience richer.

He knew how to find the shortest attacking line and the most efficient target in a rapid exchange.

And Roy, the only thing he had that could match him, was the instinct Orin had drilled into him.

Instinct told the Witcher how to attack and how to defend.

……

Clang, clang, clang.

The two figures crossed. Their blades collided several times in savage succession, sparks falling like a cascade.

Then they sprang apart. Rudolf withdrew one step, the Knight’s sword trailing behind him like the tail-club of a dracolid, every muscle in his body poised to strike with lethal force at any instant.

Roy raised Gwyhyr high above his head, as though he were shouldering a Knight’s lance, the center line of the shaft being his opponent himself. Compared with Rudolf, who remained unhurt, Roy had taken a wound to the shoulder. One thrust had pierced him, and blood had soaked through his leather armor.

Yet his expression did not change. He stayed calm.

A memory flashed through his mind, that first spar with Orin.

Out of the corner of his eye he tracked the changing angle of the sun. He kept moving back and forth, always measuring the distance between himself and his opponent.

Then came the moment.

As Rudolf paced to his left, two body lengths away, Roy suddenly twisted his wrist. Gwyhyr turned from vertical edge to horizontal, and at the same time he angled the blade.

The Knight’s eyes were struck by the reflected sunlight.

One tenth of a second.

Clang, clang. The descending Gwyhyr and the rising Knight’s blade collided with a sharp, brutal crash, but this time there was no deadlock.

Common iron could not stand against Goblin craft tempered a thousand times over, nor against a bound weapon enhanced again and again. Gwyhyr cleaved straight through the battered Knight’s sword and split it clean in two. The broken half spun far away.

And the Witcher’s blade did not stop. It passed beyond the shattered steel and came to rest against the burly man’s throat, drawing a thin line of blood.

“My apologies, Your Majesty… I have failed your trust.” Rudolf Valaris murmured. His eyes half closed, and he let out a breath. “You’ve won, Witcher…”

“You lost to the weapon, sir. Otherwise, the outcome was still uncertain.”

But in Rudolf Valaris’s bloodshot eyes, that wolfish hunger for battle had already gone out. He had abandoned all thought of resistance. “Defeat is defeat. In a just and noble Knight’s duel, I lost to you… Witcher.”

He suddenly turned and shouted to the Knights, “Brothers of the White Rose, I order you to cease resisting. From this moment on, you are entirely under the Princess’s command!”

The Knights bound like trussed fowl screamed and shouted with all their strength, but it came out only as a thick, muffled blur of sound, impossible to make out.

“Any man who defies orders will be cast out of the Order at once!”

After saying all that, Rudolf suddenly smiled at the Witcher, open and calm, gratitude in his eyes.

He seized the Witcher’s blade in one hand, without hesitation, without fear, and, gripping the point, drew it across his throat from left to right, opening a vast, ragged wound.

A fountain of steaming blood splashed Roy from head to face. The tall man opposite him still clung stubbornly to the sword and remained standing.

Even as the strength in him ebbed away.

For an instant, it seemed a thread of black smoke rose from his body and flew upward, toward the brilliant ruby in the Lady of the Lake’s hand, and vanished into it.

Rudolf Valaris lay quietly on the ground. Though he was covered in blood, beneath that thick beard, a trace of a smile had frozen upon his hard-featured face.

Only his eyes had dimmed, all light gone from them.

The Witcher closed them for him. He had been an opponent worth respecting, and his body ought to be laid to rest properly.

Nearby, the surviving Knights of the White Rose looked stricken. They stared at their commander’s still-warm corpse, tears in their eyes, reverence plain upon their faces.

But there was no hatred there, no regret.

To die in a one-on-one duel was no disgrace for a Knight.

“Your Highness, please allow us to collect our brothers’ bodies.”

“Go,” Adda said with a nod. Carrying a porcelain bowl filled with Holy Water, she went to the Knights still bound tight in vines and began persuading them one by one.

Roy walked over to the Lady of the Lake.

“My lady, now that all is settled, I have a question to ask you… What was that black smoke that appeared after Rudolf Valaris died?”

Letho, who had done little more than stand by through the whole affair, raised a brow. He had watched the entire battle, yet had noticed no black smoke at all. “Kid, have you overtaxed yourself so badly you’re seeing things?”

“I know what I saw…”

“The fact you can see it means there is something unusual about you.” Trailing her splendid tail, she seemed to descend step by step through invisible stairs in the air. Then her small nose wrinkled slightly. “A Knight returned in triumph ought to be granted decent treatment.” As she spoke, without any visible movement on the Lady of the Lake’s part, a fresh, damp vapor wrapped around the Witcher’s whole body. It swept lightly over him and carried away all the blood, grime, and filth clinging to his skin, hair, and clothes.

Roy was made new in an instant, once more the proud, straight-backed Witcher he had been.

The Lady of the Lake nodded in satisfaction. Her lakeweed-green hair danced in the wind, giving off a faint scent of wet plants. “Now I will answer your question… When any living thing dies, it leaves behind a trace. That radiance is what people commonly call the soul.”

Roy heard every word clearly. Letho, however, could only see the Lady of the Lake’s lips moving, without hearing a sound. He knew he had been excluded.

In the end, his decision to stand aside during the fight had displeased her. He did not regret it. He gave Roy a sign, then walked off toward Adda.

“Then by your meaning, that black smoke was Rudolf’s soul.” Roy’s dark-gold pupils shifted to the Ruby in the Lady of the Lake’s hand. Beneath the translucent, blood-red shell, he could just make out more than ten strands of black smoke drifting about like tailed meteors. That meant there was more than one soul within.

“As you can see, the Ruby is not only a vessel for faith, it can bear souls as well.”

So it truly was a vessel for all uses. Roy had the dim sense that the Ruby would prove important later.

The Lady of the Lake watched his expression. “This time, you ran yourself ragged to resolve my crisis, and our bond has grown closer. I can share with you some deeper secrets of this world.”

“Remember my words. The most precious thing in this world is not money, nor power, nor divine weapons, but the soul.”

“For many ancient beings from the Wilds, souls are a vital resource for increasing their strength. A Ruby infused with souls is the equivalent of a special currency.”

“In exchange for souls, you may borrow the power of certain ancient beings, or hire them to serve you. Of course, they are very cunning, so you must be careful, careful they do not take what is not freely given.”

A certain vagabond’s face flashed through Roy’s mind. So that was what Master Mirror was.

From the look of it, many ancient beings knew of one another’s existence.

“And for you as well?”

“I do not toy with souls. I desire only pure faith.”

“There is more than Rudolf alone in that gem?”

“My most devout Cultists, the Vodyanoi who fell in battle, and the valiant Knights of the White Rose are in there as well.”

“And what do you intend to do with them?”

The goddess bit her lip. Her willow-brow drew faintly together, and a touch of sorrow, lovely enough to stir pity, showed on her face. “Entering the Ruby is only the first step. In a moment, I will let you witness their fate.”

Roy fell silent for a while, then asked what had long been buried in his mind. “My lady, if you had not intervened, where would they have gone after death?”

In recent times, he had seen death countless times, yet he had never seriously thought about the question. Did the Witcher’s world have an afterlife?

And before him stood an ancient and powerful being who could answer it.

“There are three possibilities…” The Lady of the Lake was patient. “The first is that they mutate into foul ghostly things, what Witchers call wraiths, painting spirits. But that is a wretched fate. Ghosts remain in the mortal world only because of the obsessions in their hearts, and those obsessions are often memories of past suffering. To linger within them is a torment, and an endless one. Only when they are slain can they be freed.”

“The second possibility…” The Lady of the Lake suddenly looked into the distance. A clamor had risen there. Adda, together with several Knights of the White Rose who had sworn loyalty to her, was loudly berating the remaining nine Knights still bound like dumplings. She seemed to be bullying and coaxing them by turns, while Witcher Letho watched coldly from the side. “Within a very short time, minutes, perhaps hours, they vanish completely. The flesh dies, and the soul cannot exist on its own.”

A sudden fear rose in Roy’s heart. If the soul too was scattered, then where would it go? Endless darkness, some unknown void?

“The third possibility is to be devoured, or imprisoned, by certain beings.”

……

“Now, my Knight, come and bear witness to the final destination of my Cultists.” The Lady of the Lake noticed the abrupt change in his face. She raised a hand. At once, damp mist wrapped around the Witcher’s body, like a lotus skiff floating in the air, and carried him swaying away from the center of Black Gull Island to the edge of the lake.

Viviane slowly descended onto the surface of the water. Her long, splendid tail sank into the lake. With slender hands she scooped up a handful of clear water and let it stream through her fingers, then immersed the Ruby full of souls into the lake and crushed it lightly.

The Ruby shattered.

In an instant, more than ten strands of black smoke flowed into the lakewater. She blew gently over them, and from the smoke were born lovely little creatures, bright-scaled fish with short barbels at the jaw, each ringed in seven colors. They swam around her playfully, brushing her body with affection.

Bathed in lakewater, she turned in a slow circle. Her slim fingers touched the fish one by one, and silver-bell laughter spilled from her lips. Her pretty face was full of delight.

After a warm little game, the fish wagged their beautiful tails, bade her farewell, and dived into the water, vanishing into the depths of Lake Vizima.

Having watched the entire thing, the deeply shaken Witcher reached up and held still the medallion at his throat, which had begun to tremble violently.

“These fish… are your dead Cultists?”

In the world seen through Scry, these little colored creatures were not true fish at all. They were formed wholly from surging magic. One could call them Water Elves.

Viviane lifted her palm-sized face. Holy sunlight gilded her delicate features, and her voice rang with force. “As the daughter of Lake Vizima, as the faith of the Church of Virtue, the only thing I can do is shape a body of water for them, a vessel their souls may enter after death. Thereafter, they may begin another wonderful life in the kingdom beneath Lake Vizima.”

“At least that way, the poor souls of my Cultists need not be left exposed to the air, where they would dissolve into nothingness.”

So that was the benefit of believing in the Lady of the Lake. Her dead Cultists went on living, in another singular fashion.

At that moment, all the prayers he had heard so many times rang in the Witcher’s mind, may your souls be reunited in the realm of the goddess Melitele.

And the kingdom beneath Lake Vizima, in a certain sense, was not that the Lady of the Lake’s divine realm?

“And their memories? Do they remain?”

“This is a new life. They shall exist as reborn Water Elves. And if Lake Vizima is ever attacked, they will become its guardians.”

Roy said nothing. Better to lose one’s memories than to vanish entirely.

……

“And the stone I gave you last time?”

Roy opened his hand and revealed a Ruby. It was perfectly pure, bearing neither faith nor soul within it.

“I have a question… This Ruby remained in your care for over two months, yet it collected no souls at all, not human, not even beast. That is not natural. Unless in all that time, you have killed nothing.”

The Witcher rubbed at his temples as he searched his memory. “The wolves and wild dogs outside the city, the White Widow centipede in Brokilon, the wraith in the Verrieres family graveyard, my sword has scarcely rested this whole time…”

“And that is the crux of it. The Ruby did not collect their souls. They could not simply have vanished for no reason.”

“Then where did the souls of the lives I killed go?”

Roy pondered in silence for a moment, then reached a startling conclusion. “Just now, when Rudolf used Gwyhyr to cut his own throat, his soul was collected by the Ruby, and I gained no XP at all. Then is this the Template’s secret?”

Anything he killed with his own hand, its soul, and perhaps some part of its essence, was converted into the Template’s XP.

“Have you found the answer?” The Lady of the Lake stepped closer. Her lakeweed-green hair brushed the Witcher’s face on the wind sweeping in from the water. Her clear eyes gazed at him with eager expectation, like a bottomless whirlpool, drawing in a man’s spirit and soul alike. “I have told you every secret, Knight of Lake Vizima… I hope you will be equally candid with me.”

Roy shook his head. His lips moved, but in the end he said nothing. He could not invent a plausible lie in such haste, but neither would he ever tell anyone his greatest secret.

“You do not wish to share with me?” The Lady of the Lake suddenly lowered her eyes and lightly shook her head. Her petal-soft lips pushed forward in a faint pout. “I will not force you. One day, you will speak all your secrets willingly.”

“Now, another matter. Before you killed Azar Javed, how did you perform that Teleport?”

So the Lady of the Lake truly had seen everything.

“A gift born from bodily mutation after drinking the Decoctions of the Grasses,” Roy said, remembering Orin’s warning. “It only allows teleportation over very short distances, and it consumes a great deal of magic.”

Viviane let out a breath. Whether she believed him or not, there was no telling.

“This time, you acted on my behalf, so you must be rewarded. I will give you three choices. You may choose one of them as your recompense.”

“First, in the ruins of the Sunken Kingdom there lies a reserve of ancient gold. I can grant you a portion of it. By Adda’s reckoning, at current prices it would amount to roughly one thousand Crowns.”

“Second, give Aerondight to me, and I will further strengthen its power for you.”

“Third,” the Lady of the Lake’s gaze moved over the Witcher’s face, his eyes, and the slight sharpness of his ears, “I have noticed that the magic within you is far too weak. I can grant you a portion of Blood Essence to strengthen it.”

“And Letho…”

“You did notice, did you not? Your teacher never acted from beginning to end. Plainly, he does not approve of our actions or our creed. Naturally, he has no share in this reward.”

Whether he chose a great sum of money or further strengthening for Aerondight, both were tempting, but there would be other ways to obtain such things in time. As for increasing his magic, the Witcher could think of no other path.

After giving it due thought, he chose the third reward.

“I knew that would be your choice.”

The Lady of the Lake brushed a slender fingertip across her white teeth, then flicked lightly.

A single round drop of golden blood flew from her fingertip and hovered before Roy, spinning in place.

He twitched his nose. A rich scent of grass and living things drifted over, intoxicating enough to make one reel. He had only to breathe it once, and warmth flooded his whole body, light and soft, more alluring than the finest vintage.

Roy stared at the drop of blood. His throat bobbed on its own. He forced down the craving rising in him.

“I am the daughter of the lake. My blood is rich in magic. With a special blessing laid upon it, its effect is no less than an Elixir. Swallow it, and your magic will grow stronger.” Viviane gave him a mischievous little blink. “You need not feel guilty. As the Knight of Lake Vizima, the stronger you become, the safer I am as well.”

Roy stopped hesitating.

He opened his mouth and drew in a breath. The drop in the air flew into him.

The liquid was nothing like the cold of lake water. It was close to the warmth of the human body, gentle, yet carrying within it a taste that seemed buried in the deepest part of memory.

The Witcher lingered on it. His eyelids grew heavier, his body slackened further, and the thoughts in his mind dissolved into muddled haze. It was as though he had returned to the time before birth, drawing up his knees and curling inward by instinct.

There was only the constant flow of warm liquid, like amniotic water, exchanging things between inside and outside his body.

He sank into deep sleep.

Time fled within the Magical Transformation, like sand running through fingers, impossible to grasp.

When the Witcher woke again, he felt only chill all over his body. He lifted his head and saw a full moon high in the sky, pouring down clear light and revealing where he was.

Black Gull Island, lonely and silent. There was no one on it but him. Not even an insect stirred. The whole place was as dead as a graveyard.

He stretched lazily, and every bone in him cracked in a lively string of pops.

There was a draft between his legs too. Looking down, he found his skin covered in a sticky, clotted layer of fluid. When he peeled it away, the wound on his shoulder had healed into a line of pink scars.

He had kept up high-intensity training for a long time now. The Witcher’s body had been honed lean and even. His muscles were not overly bulky, but they were hard, cleanly shaped, full of explosive force.

He had six neat ridges of muscle across his belly as well.

That, however, led to one problem.

He was standing there stark naked, slick and bare as an eel.

On Black Gull Island in the dead of night, the Witcher stood in the cold wind with a blank look in his eyes. After a long moment, a laugh drifted across from the surface of the distant lake.

“So the Lady of the Lake is punishing me for hiding things from her earlier?” He shook his head and sighed. “And she thought this would trouble me?”

He focused his thoughts into the space. In an instant, a brand-new set of linen clothes appeared in his arms, with a broad hooded cloak besides.

He had always liked to keep stores on hand against the unexpected.

He washed himself clean in the lake, changed into the new clothes, then sat down on a charred tree stump to inspect his status.

Inside the Template, a striking line of text stood out.

“You have consumed the Blessed Blood Essence (Lady of the Lake Viviane). Some of your attributes have been permanently increased.”

Constitution: 11.8 → 12

HP: 158 → 160

Spirit: 12.5 → 14

Mana: 165 → 180

Charisma: 7 → 8

……

All told, that one transformation had raised his attributes by more than two full points, the equivalent of leveling up twice. The greatest gain was to Spirit, which did much to relieve the awkward weakness of his magic.

But Constitution had risen only a little, while Charisma had gone up by a full point. That, he had not expected.

By the lake’s reflection, the Witcher’s features had not changed much, but there were small adjustments here and there. The lines of his face had softened a little. His skin looked finer. His dark-gold pupils shone brighter and deeper, as though stars lay hidden in them.

“Viviane is generous as ever.”

Roy could not help thinking further. If the Lady of the Lake’s blood could raise attributes, then perhaps the blood of a legendary Dragon might have a similar effect.

Once he had the strength for it, he meant to find a Dragon and test that notion for himself.

……

By the time he had finished examining every change in his body, more than half the lights in Vizima across the lake had gone out. The night had quietly moved into its latter half.

Using the moonlight, he searched among the reeds at the island’s edge until he found a rotten little boat. After no small struggle, he rowed it to the lakeshore, stepped into the wet mud, slipped into the trees along the shore, and stood in the cool night wind, staring into the heavy dark.

Roy’s interest rose.

Now that the Lady of the Lake’s trouble had been settled, why not try Kalkstein’s Spell Crystal?

His mind sank into the Template.

Summon Mount!

His vision blurred for a heartbeat.

Amid several clumps of bushes, on an open patch thick with wet grass, the bright moonlight suddenly revealed a beast the size of a calf, eagle-headed and lion-bodied.

It lay curled on its side. Its two gray wings rested over its back like a feathered coverlet, rising and falling slowly with the deep rhythm of sleep.

Roy’s dark-gold pupils swept across it. A smile touched his lips. He lunged over and wrapped the sleeping Griffin in a tight embrace, burying his face in those warm wings and rubbing against them greedily. Then the smile on his face froze.

The Griffin had all the worst habits of wild animals. Its body smell was overpowering. It had spent a long time shut inside a cage, and most likely had not bathed once in all that time. The stench was enough to kill a man.