“More than a hundred years ago, around 1150, the Sorcerers coveted the precious Arcane Knowledge stored by the Griffin School. On a winter’s night, they launched a terrible attack.”

“Snow came thundering down from the Dragon Mountains and buried Kaer Seren. Only Grandmaster Erland survived, for he had been outside the keep observing the stars. Every other pioneer of the Griffin School was crushed beneath the snow. Not one survived.”

“After Lord Erland buried his comrades, he left for distant lands.”

“What about Keldar?”

“My teacher returned from the dead through a Soul Vessel, the Book of Shadows, and lived on for more than a century. Not long ago, he discovered that the Book of Shadows had imprisoned the Souls of all our predecessors who perished in the avalanche. He chose to destroy it, even though it meant his own end. Teacher Keldar and the others were finally released from this world.” The old grief tightened Koen’s face. His eyes reddened, and he blinked hard against the firelight.

“So when the avalanche happened, I was still imprisoned underground.” Jerome lowered his head, disbelief draining the color from his face. “That means when I escaped in 1155 and returned home, all I found was a ruin buried in snow. But I searched every corner of Kaer Seren. Keldar wasn’t there. I even remained there for two years. No one ever returned, and in the end I lost hope and left.”

“After my teacher was resurrected, he secluded himself at the school and studied the Book of Shadows for several years,” Koen said, wetting his dry lips. A bitter, rueful twist crossed his face. “Then, beginning in 1154, he spent several more years traveling abroad, searching the world for any trace of Lord Erland. He never returned home during that time.”

“So Keldar and I missed each other perfectly? I passed within a hair’s breadth of the last comrade I had left in this world?” Jerome raised his face to the sky. One corner of his mouth curled in a bitter sneer. “What did I do to deserve such punishment from the heavens?”

A chill passed through everyone beneath the bridge.

Blow after savage blow, with scarcely time to draw breath between them. Small wonder Jerome had broken.

A long, punishing silence settled beneath the bridge. No one spoke. They left Jerome to gather the scattered pieces of himself.

By the time anyone broke the silence, night had fallen in full. A campfire burned beneath the bridge, its warm glow passing over the faces gathered around it, brightening one side and leaving the other in shadow.

“And after that, Lord Jerome? Once you left Kaer Seren, how did you spend the next hundred years? Why was there never any word of you?”

“Mm…” Jérôme Moreau tore into a loaf of bread. His eyes were still red, and the desperate way he swallowed made him look like a starving refugee who had gone days without food. “Kaer Seren and Teacher Erland were always the pillars that held me upright.”

The Sorceress tightened her arms around the Witcher beside her.

“During the thirty-odd years I spent underground, they kept me alive. They were what let me endure a place so empty and monotonous it could drive a man mad. My greatest wish was to escape and hurry home. But then home was simply gone, and I…” Bread caught in his throat. He bent forward, coughing harshly.

The bald Letho passed him a bottle of Est Est. Jerome took a drink, wet his throat, then continued.

“It felt as though the whole world had collapsed. Only one thought remained in my head. The school was gone, but Teacher Erland was still alive, so I had to find him.”

…

“In truth, a few months before I escaped from the prison…” Jerome drew a deep breath. “I faintly sensed Teacher Erland’s presence.”

“What?” Koen shot to his feet with a roar, his voice rising sharply enough to startle everyone. “How did you do it? You were imprisoned underground. How could you communicate with him?”

“It was not communication. More precisely, he sent something to me, and only in one direction. I told you before, during those thirty-odd years without daylight, apart from finding food and exercising, I spent eighty percent of every day in Meditation.”

Roy nodded. No wonder Jerome’s Meditation had reached the astonishing level of lv8.

“One day, while I was in Meditation, I suddenly sensed something strange. I heard a distant yet familiar voice, one engraved in the depths of my Soul, a voice that had accompanied me as I grew. I focused on it, trying to distinguish the words, and realized it was Teacher Erland calling to me.” A trace of color rose through the grime on Jerome’s face. “He once told me that when Meditation reached its highest attainment, a person could shed the body of the mortal world. One had only to reach inward and open the self like a door, freeing the spirit and Soul to explore beyond the Meditation vision and search for familiar tracks.”

Those gathered around the fire leaned forward, listening more intently to the strange account.

“I was his student, and I had been missing for so many years. He must have been searching for me all that time. At last, he found me. I saw him during Meditation, though everything was shrouded in mist. I guided my spirit toward him, floating closer. Countless overlapping shadows surrounded his body. His voice was weak, his features blurred. He seemed dazed and vacant, like a puppet stumbling through a dream.” Jerome set the empty bottle down. Deep furrows appeared across his brow. “Teacher Erland did not seem to control his own actions. Something had taken hold of him, perhaps even washed his mind clean. It cost him dearly to win back his freedom, even for those few moments.”

Jerome’s voice gnawed at Koen like a hungry rat. The question escaped him before he could hold it back. “Who could possibly control Lord Erland?”

“I do not know. From beginning to end, Teacher Erland conveyed only one sentence to me.” Jérôme Moreau stopped, and every heart around the fire seemed to clench with the silence.

“Do not search!”

“Do not search!”

Jerome screamed the warning until his voice tore. It rang through the night sky, and the campfire leapt violently beneath the force of his breath.

Everyone flinched.

“Behind his spirit appeared a vast, black lake. The sight of it pressed down on me and filled me with dread. I believe it was part of his warning. But he gave me no clear explanation. He did not even learn of the misery I was trapped in, nor did he have time to say another word. He simply vanished. It felt as though some force had seized him and dragged him away.”

Jerome stared into the flames. “Afterward, I tried Meditation again and again, waiting for him to contact me. More than a hundred years passed, and it never happened.”

Roy rubbed his cheek.

The matter had suddenly become far more serious than he had expected.

The founder of the Griffin School, one of the mightiest Witchers in the world, had somehow fallen into a dreadful predicament in which even his own will was no longer his.

Who could control Erland?

Given what Roy knew of the world, one suspect immediately came to mind, yet something in his gut refused to accept the answer.

The bald Letho had also sunk into thought. He remembered the enemy that had plagued the Viper School for more than a century, those Wraith Knights who appeared on the eve of wars, soaring across the sky and sowing misfortune in their wake. More than once, they had abducted Viper School Apprentices and transformed the captives into creatures like themselves.

Could the control placed upon Master Erland have something to do with them?

Koen swallowed, his throat working before a voice dry as old bark emerged. “But what did Master mean? Was he telling us not to look for him?”

“That was how I understood it at the time. But I had already lost everything. How could I accept giving up?” Jerome continued. “After leaving Kaer Seren, I searched the whole North, as well as several nearby provinces in the south. I found nothing. He had not left so much as a footprint.”

“Teacher Erland had vanished from the world as completely as breath from a mirror,” Jerome said, his voice sinking lower. “After that, it seemed the whole world had abandoned me. I lost every purpose, every scrap of will. I returned to Beauclair and remained beside the grave of the last person who had saved me, my mother. I guarded her grave like a vagrant, like a Beggar.”

“You never returned to Kaer Seren during the hundred years that followed?”

“I was afraid to.”

No one answered.

“Sometimes the pain became unbearable, and I ran back to Mount He…” Jerome said. “I roamed the place like a madman or a wild beast, caring about nothing.”

Roy nodded. At last, the account matched the Grimm Knight’s description of encountering a wild man.

“At those times, I would think that if I had escaped ten years earlier, the fate of the people bound to me, perhaps even the fate of the whole world around me, might have been entirely different.” Jerome closed his eyes. “Or perhaps I should have died beside my comrades in that avalanche.”

“Don’t say that, friend. You were alone then, and one man’s strength only reaches so far.” Koen, seated beside him, laid a hand on his shoulder and gave it a firm squeeze. “But you are not alone now. The Griffin School still has me, and it still has you. We should support one another and discover what happened to Lord Erland.”

Jerome’s indigo gaze moved across their faces. Then he shook his head.

“Do you know why I told you all of this? I told you all this because I wanted you to understand what you’re up against and turn back. I do not care what organization you belong to or what purpose brought you here. I have not touched a weapon in a hundred years. I have lived like a vagrant. Long ago, I abandoned the creed of the Griffin School and forgot the Witcher’s Path.” Jerome laced his fingers behind his head and lay back down upon the straw mat. The last flicker of life faded from his face. “I only wish to lie here in peace. Leave this place to me and let me rot alone. One last thing, thank you for the food, and thank you for listening to an old man complain.”

…

The others exchanged glances.

“Why speak words you do not mean, Lord Jerome?” the bald Letho cut in. “If you have abandoned your identity as a Witcher, why not give the School of the Griffin Medallion on your chest to Koen? It serves no purpose in your hands. Better to entrust it to a young successor with ideals and fire in his blood. Consider it your final contribution to the Griffin School.”

Koen’s lips parted. The suggestion plainly pained him, but Roy silenced him with a look.

“Even a dying man wasting away from an incurable disease has the right to remember his past. This medallion is the only bond keeping me alive.” The muscles twitched beneath the grime on Jerome’s cheeks. “Would you strip even that last right from me?”

“You should learn to be honest with yourself, Lord Jerome. Since some attachment to the Griffin School still remains, why not find your courage once more?” Letho asked. “If you spend eternity lying beneath this bridge, wandering from place to place half-dead, you will never change anything.”

“It is useless. No matter what I do, I cannot find my teacher. Decades, a century, time has tested it again and again. This is fate!” His voice rose into a ragged scream, every word soaked in the despair of a man bent on destroying himself. “A fate no one can escape!”

The bald Letho shook his head and sighed. He could understand the man’s anguish, but he had little patience for sitting here while Jerome wallowed in it.

“Friend, you are wrong about something fundamental.” Roy gently lifted Jerome’s arm from his shoulder. “You failed to change anything because one man cannot hold up a collapsing roof alone.”

“If you leave with us, we will show you what united strength can accomplish.” He clenched his fist, his voice rising with sudden force. “The Brotherhood of Witchers may be far smaller than the Griffin School at its height, when it had sixty or seventy members, but we already have more than ten brothers. And they do not come only from the Viper School and the Wolf School. We also have members of the School of the Cat.”

Roy’s chin lifted with unmistakable pride. “Koen has not joined us, but he maintains a sound working relationship with the Brotherhood.”

Jerome’s face remained blank, yet his breathing quickened.

“We also have a Spellcaster.” Roy glanced at Coral. Her eyes had gone slightly unfocused, and she covered her red lips as she yawned before giving him a tired smile. At this hour, she would normally have begun her beauty sleep. “Together, we can wield far more power than you ever could alone. Your failure to find him does not mean we will fail.”

Jerome rolled onto his side.

“You regretted not escaping ten years earlier, believing everything might have turned out differently if you had,” Roy continued, every word carrying quiet conviction. “One day, you may look back with the same regret and think that if you had accepted the Brotherhood of Witchers’ invitation, events might have taken a better course.”

“If you truly wish to find Lord Erland, then come with us. Stop lying here, pitying yourself and drowning in the past. If your teacher could see you now, he would grieve for what you have become.”

Roy extended a hand toward Jerome. The night wind stirred his short black hair across his cheek, leaving a faint itch against his skin.

This time, no answer came.

Jerome remained silent, his back turned to him.

Roy waited for a long while. At last, he lowered his hand and shook his head in disappointment.

“Jérôme Moreau, an opportunity will not wait forever. We will give you two days.”

It was Koen of the Griffin School whom Roy valued, not this wretched man who had spent a century sinking into decay. If Jerome truly refused, Roy would not drag him away by force.

“In your present condition, you have only a few years left if you continue like this. Think carefully.”

…

A sigh sounded in the night.

Letho, Roy, and Coral returned at once to the secret laboratory beneath the Valley of Nine. Koen alone remained behind, lying on the soft, muddy ground opposite Jerome, with the campfire between them.

“Why didn’t you leave?” Jérôme Moreau finally asked after a long silence, his voice cutting through the chirring insects.

“I wanted to try it as well.” A faint smile touched Koen’s face as he lay on his back, staring at the moss-covered stone beneath the bridge and the few scattered stars visible in the night sky. “I wanted to know what it feels like to be a vagrant. It must possess some remarkable charm, if it has kept a senior like you enthralled for so long.”

He abruptly stripped off his leather armor, leaving only a thin layer of underclothes. Scooping up filthy mud, he smeared it across his face, neck, and every patch of exposed skin until he looked like a begrimed wanderer himself.

“Whew…” He closed his eyes and rested for a moment, then released a long, contented breath. “It does feel better. As though every shackle has fallen away. I need not concern myself with anything. The dream of restoring the Griffin School, the Knightly Spirit, Master Erland, the Book of Shadows, Ygsena, none of them have anything to do with me.”

“I think I shall simply lie here. Lord Jerome, perhaps I should wander with you from now on.”

“Who is Ygsena?” Jerome asked instead of answering.

“My girlfriend, a girl from the countryside. No, I suppose she should be considered a city girl now. She stayed beside me when grief and despair had hollowed me out. In that respect, I must admit I was luckier than you.”

A foolish, contented grin spread across Koen’s face.

“I still had Ygsena. You had no one back then. Otherwise, I fear I might have fallen even farther than you and wasted away in the same fashion.” His tone suddenly shifted. “But do you know something? I nearly lost her.”

“Roy and the Brotherhood of Witchers were the reason I did not. Much of what Roy does serves some purpose of his own, and his words can be sharp enough to cut flesh. He shows no mercy when he speaks. But he does keep his promises.”

Across the long river of time, Jérôme Moreau had passed through more places than he could count and heard voices of every kind. Most of the time, however, he had been no more than an irrelevant passerby.

For decades, no one had sat beside him and laid bare the contents of his heart.

Koen was no gifted speaker. He often faltered halfway through a sentence, stumbling over his words and falling silent for long stretches while he searched for the next one. Yet there was an earnestness in his manner, an unaffected honesty shared by so many of the plainspoken men of the Griffin School.

As Jerome listened, the hardness in his face slowly eased. A faint spark returned to his empty eyes.

Without noticing the passage of time, he listened to Koen until morning.

West of Beauclair, south of the palace gardens.

Four Witchers followed the clear river upstream toward the Cave of Trials. They swam across a pool wreathed in white mist and entered a dim cavern. Jagged rocks crowded the walls, while withered yellow vines hung from the ceiling like a monster’s tentacles.

They pressed on, squeezed through a deep hollow, and emerged into a broad chamber. The mist grew thicker there, steeped in a strange odor that left their heads faintly spinning.

Within it, several shapely figures twisted and beckoned. Naked beauties with voluptuous bodies reclined upon the cold, moss-slick ground, laughing like silver bells as they crooked inviting fingers at the newcomers.

Letho, Orin, and Kaen gripped their trembling medallions. Every muscle tightened at once.

No beauties of such quality wandered by chance into a cavern this far from human tracks.

“They look like Vampire Ladies,” the bald Letho observed, his face set. His left hand swiftly traced Heliot and Quen, coating his Troll-like frame in golden and pitch-black light. He rolled his wrist and performed a Sword Flourish. “No wonder you two knew when to retreat last time.”

Back when Roy had still been in Vizima, Orin and Kael had crossed the Amell Mountains and come to Toussaint in search of Griffin Blueprints. They had entered this very Cave of Trials.

Had they tried to force their way past five Vampire Ladies, the creatures would have drained them into husks. Even now, with several Witchers fighting together, the danger would have been extreme.

“Are we doing this?” Orin swallowed. Wariness filled Kaen’s scarlet pupils.

Roy merely shook his head. His Scry detected magic stirring within the mist, yet the supposed Vampire Ladies yielded no useful information at all.

That meant only one thing.

He drew out a bottle of Golden Oriole Potion and gulped it down. Wormlike veins rose across his handsome cheeks, and the apparitions vanished at once.

“What are you doing, Kid?”

The others watched in surprise as the young Witcher strode to the edge of the mist. The fingers of his left hand traced a Sign, a crimson Rune flared, and an Igni: Wrathflame shot into the haze.

Boom!

Flames roared toward the cavern roof. In an instant, they ignited the gas hanging stubbornly in the chamber, and the beauties burned away with the mist.

Roy turned with a pleased smile and beckoned the others forward.

“An illusion?” Shame reddened Orin’s coarse face. Last time, he and Kael, two seasoned Witchers of the Viper School, had been driven back by mere illusions. The disgrace stung worse than a blade.

The others followed Roy onward. They climbed slopes and clambered over ledges through the dark, twisting cavern until they entered a second chamber, still choked with hazy Hallucinogenic Gas.

Immune to the poison after drinking the Golden Oriole Potion, Roy cleared the path while the other three watched from behind. Together they experienced the Cave of Trials and its succession of ordeals. First came a Beggar kneeling on the ground and pleading for mercy.

Roy showed him mercy with an Igni.

Then came a man under attack by several Kikimore Workers, followed by a table heaped with rare delicacies and chest after chest of gold, silver, and jewels.

The flames reduced them all to nothing.

“There is more to the Cave of Trials than meets the eye.” Letho compared what he had seen with his companions. Their visions had been almost identical, and each illusion had clearly been chosen with care. “The Vampire Ladies test resistance to beauty. The Beggar tests compassion. The Kikimores test courage, while the delicacies and treasure test Greed. Anyone deceived by them becomes lost in the vision and never rises again. Only those who continue forward without wavering can reach the end.”

At the farthest end of the cavern, beside a stone platform, they encountered the final illusion.

An old man with white hair and beard sat cross-legged in Meditation, wrapped in a canvas robe. His eyes were wise and benevolent.

“Gods! He looks like the legendary Prophet Lebioda, but Lebioda died centuries ago. This is impossible!” Orin exclaimed.

Roy walked straight toward him. The old man rose, as if preparing to impart a few final words.

No words came, only a look.

The figure was plainly an illusion, yet its eyes shifted with all the subtle life of a real man, carrying encouragement and quiet satisfaction enough to stir the heart. An ordinary person might truly have believed that Lebioda had manifested before him and thrown himself devoutly into the Prophet’s embrace.

Roy ignored the apparition, picked up the cloth sack at its feet, and grinned. He had found what they had come for, the Manticore silver sword diagram and the notes of Pilgrim Merten.

…

17 Sunfest, 1203.

I reached the Cave of Trials… Lebioda blessed me…

…

The notes roughly described Mordun’s spiritual journey. Inside the cavern, he had faced a series of ordeals, including Drowners, Endregas, fire-breathing Monsters, and humans with the faces of beasts.

There had also been tests of morality, beauty, wealth, and power.

Wielding blades forged from steel and Willpower, he had overcome every trial and finally stood before Prophet Lebioda. The saint had offered him no words, only silent encouragement through his gaze.

Within the saint’s pupils, the Griffin Witcher had seen the end of his pilgrimage, the Lake of Cleansing. There, the stains of the mortal world and grudges of the past would be washed away, body and mind would be healed, and he would be fully received into the faith. It was to be his next destination.

Merten came from the School of the Manticore, whereas Jerome Moreau belonged to the School of the Griffin. Their only common ground was that both had suffered a life-changing upheaval in Toussaint.

…

The four Witchers exchanged peculiar looks after finishing the account.

“Kael and I were fooled because we never went up and tried fighting the illusions…” Orin bared his teeth. “But this Master Mordun never questioned any of it? He believed everything from beginning to end?”

“You have forgotten something important.” Letho paused before continuing. “The grasslands of Hakland produce countless varieties of Herb. The Witchers of the School of the Griffin founded there are skilled in all manner of Potions and Decoctions, and their study of Alchemical Potions has been pushed to its limit. They rely heavily on them in battle and in daily life. Many members suffer from severe drug addiction.”

“Master Mordun was probably one of them. He became lost in the illusions until he could no longer distinguish falsehood from reality. That was why he believed them and devoutly entered Lebioda’s embrace.”

“Then does this count as a deception laid by Lebioda?” Orin asked.

“Brother, mind your tongue. There is more here than illusion.” Kaen gave him a warning look. “Do you think a natural cavern could produce visions this intricate and meaningful? There is magic stirring here as well. We may have nothing to do with faith and worship no Deity, but some things are safer believed than dismissed. Show a little respect, then leave.”

The carelessness fell from Orin’s face. He nodded gravely.

The four retraced their steps out of the Cave of Trials, then followed the location recorded in Mordun’s notes and found the Lake of Cleansing. In truth, it was merely a small, ordinary lake with water clear enough to see the bottom.

The journey there offered little worth mentioning.

In the lake, they found the Blueprint for the Griffin Gauntlets. Together with the four diagrams Orin and Kael had discovered earlier, this completed all six pieces of the Griffin Schematic.

They had also obtained the three Griffin School upgrade Blueprints from Fort Usar the previous day.

…

Most of their goals in Toussaint had now been accomplished, and the two days they had agreed upon with Jerome passed in the blink of an eye.

They met Koen beneath the bridge in Beauclair.

He was alone.

“Friends, I’m sorry. I couldn’t persuade Jerome. He refuses to leave.” The Griffin School Witcher lowered his head, his face cast in shadow.

“I expected as much.” Roy gave him a reassuring smile. “The man has wandered for nearly a hundred years. It would be stranger if he changed his mind easily. If he refuses, let him think a little longer. We’re going home.”

“I want to stay.” Koen drew a deep breath, his gaze steady. “Please take a message to Ygsena for me. I will be away for no more than three months.”

Surprise crossed the others’ faces. It was rare to see such resolve from the quiet, inarticulate Witcher.

“I have decided to wander with Senior Jerome. I will do everything I can to move him and bring him back to Novigrad. This is a battle that belongs to the Griffin School.”

“You can try telling him something,” Roy said after a moment’s thought. “We have a fair chance of finding clues to Erland’s whereabouts. In fact, I already have the beginnings of a lead. When the time comes, we will need to borrow your Book of Shadows.”

Vizima Royal Palace.

Dreamlike light spilled from the lavish crystal Magic Lamps.

At the head of a rectangular table covered with an intricately patterned cloth sat Foltest, a crown upon his head and a red cloak draped over his shoulders. Thick muscles strained beneath his white shirt. His back was straight, his posture brimming with restless vigor.

One hand propped up his chin while the other tapped lightly against the tabletop. Beneath a dense crop of short brown hair, his hard-featured face was dark with thought. Shadows gathered and scattered behind his bright eyes, while a trace of untended stubble roughened his chin.

Across from him, a woman in a white dress raised her teacup to sharply defined lips. Her bright eyes were narrow, her nose proud and straight.

“What exactly do you intend to do? Amell has already sent back its report. The Nilfgaardians have amassed far more than twenty thousand soldiers, and more continue to arrive…” Adda lowered the cup. “The Goddess’s Prophecy and the diary sent by Advisor Keira prove one thing beyond doubt. Cintra alone will not satisfy its appetite.”

Her delicate features tightened.

“If we stand aside and allow the Nilfgaardians to attack and occupy Cintra, they will gain a natural harbor from which to launch probing attacks against the North Bank of the Yaruga, against your Demesne. For the sake of the entire kingdom, you must begin preparing early.”

“Adda, what have I told you before? Nilfgaardian ambition threatens more than Temeria. Aedirn is in just as much danger. I have already sent Demavend a letter of warning. We will make our decision after he replies.”

The king gave his daughter a charming smile, though it vanished almost as soon as it appeared.

“And in future, try not to speak of your Goddess so often in my presence. I respect the foresight she has demonstrated, and I am grateful that she set aside our past grievances long enough to share the Prophecy with me. But Temeria and Vizima do not belong to her. Do you understand?”

“I have already rewarded her generously. She has the region around Lake Vizima, and she may preach freely in the surrounding villages so long as she violates neither the law nor public morals. But only within that region. She is not to expand beyond it, much less imagine she can enter Vizima. That is the line I have drawn. Do not cross it.”

Foltest’s fingers ceased tapping.

“Of course, if the Goddess is willing to help Temeria intervene in this war, that would be another matter.”

“I understand.” The Princess of Temeria released a slow breath. The Lady of the Lake would never enter the war rashly. “But you have contacted only Aedirn? You have not warned Kaedwen or Redania? Only by uniting every force in The North can we stand against the Nilfgaardian army.”

“Adda, do not spend all your time on religious affairs. You are a princess. You ought to possess some political instinct.” Foltest crossed his arms over his chest and rested his chin upon the arch of his clasped hands, his voice carrying the patience of a stern tutor. “The true strength of the Nilfgaardian army has yet to be proven.”

“If your Goddess’s Prophecy comes true and Nilfgaard sweeps through Cintra without meeting meaningful resistance, Vizimir II and Henselt will send armies to our aid without any warning from us.” His expression darkened. “But if the Nilfgaardians do not appear overwhelming, if they show even the slightest strain and fail to make the whole of The North feel threatened, then our nightmare begins.”

“Temeria will become a living shield. While Nilfgaard marches north, we will also have to guard against Redania and Kaedwen putting knives in our backs. Kaedwen in particular. Its king, Henselt, may possess exceptional Martial Art, but fidelity to his word is hardly among his virtues.”

Adda sat rigid for a time, turning his words over in silence.

“So we cannot count on either of them, at least in the short term?”

“We can make an attempt.” Foltest watched his daughter and shook his head, faint disappointment drawing a crease between his brows. “I have already instructed Triss and Advisor Keira to contact Philippa Eilhart of Redania and Sabrina Glevissig of Kaedwen.”

“The Brotherhood of Sorcerers favors uniting the whole North to drive out the invaders. After all, Spellcasters of ‘noble status’ would rather serve as partners to a Royal Council than as servants whose lives and deaths rest in another’s hands. Those two forceful advisors will likely speak in our favor.”

Adda tucked a lock of red hair behind her ear and pressed her thin lips together.

“If the other three kingdoms prove shortsighted and refuse to send troops, will Temeria support Cintra?”

“Did the Goddess send you to persuade me?”

“This is my own thought…” Adda’s slender fingers twisted together. “I cannot rid myself of this unease. We must not allow the Nilfgaardians to succeed.”

Foltest slowly closed one hand into a fist. Once, knowing little of the enemy, he had been able to deceive himself. Now that the reports lay before him, standing aside would make him nothing less than a witless tyrant.

Cintra lay almost at Temeria’s feet. If Cintra fell, Temeria would be the first kingdom struck by what came next.

“I will help, for Temeria’s sake and for my reputation throughout the kingdom. But we must be patient,” Foltest said tersely. “We will wait for Cintra to approach us and offer an exchange of interests.”

“We will plan for the worst. If every soldier we send is lost, Cintra must pay compensation in advance.”

“But you have already refused one invitation to a conference.”

“Trust me. A second delegation will come. Calanthe and Eist are standing at the edge of a cliff. They have nowhere left to retreat.”

…

A faint hiss sounded.

In a villa beside Vizima Royal Palace, within a fragrant bedchamber hung with dark-red sheets, gauze curtains, and heavy drapes, Triss Merigold brushed her fingers across a Spyglass.

She wore a blue silk strapless gown speckled like a field of stars, her red hair gathered neatly behind her head. A bright-yellow Magical Aura flashed across the diamond-shaped mirror, then vanished.

A watery blue screen shimmered into being. A Sorceress leaned toward it, filling the glass with her face. There was a masculine hardness to her features. Her jaw was slightly broad, and her eyes, nose, and mouth seemed almost plain compared with those of other Sorceresses. Black hair had been woven into two braids that fell over her shoulders, while a high ring of white lace framed the back of her neck.

Her light, close-fitting brown leather dress boldly bared both arms and left little of her broad bosom or voluptuous figure to the imagination.

She fixed the woman on the other side of the Spyglass with a bright, penetrating stare.

“Well, well. My little Triss has finally remembered me.” Philippa blew the Sorceress a kiss. Predatory warmth gleamed in her black eyes. “How are matters in Vizima? Have you grown accustomed to life there?”

“Lady Philippa, it is good to see you. Thank you for asking.” Seated behind a table in the dimly lit room, Triss offered her a gentle smile. A flicker of unease passed through her eyes. “Everything is well…”

“Caught you, little Triss.” Philippa burst into laughter, white teeth flashing between lips painted a vivid red. “I am hardly a man-eating Monster, so please do not look at me that way. You should know that I never force anyone. Everyone enjoys herself, and everyone takes what she needs.”

“What happened is past, unless someone wishes to revisit old pleasures.” Her hand swept boldly across the smooth skin above her breasts, and she gave a low, throaty chuckle. “Enough teasing. Tell me why you called.”

Only then did Triss pat her burning cheeks. Her bosom rose and fell as she released a conspicuously deep breath.

“King Foltest asked me to contact you. It mainly concerns the military reports from Amell.”

“I have heard a little. Apparently, those people in the south are coming in force.” Philippa tapped her chin with one forefinger. “Poor Lioness Calanthe will have her hands full. She will be tearing her hair out for quite some time.”

“I fear it goes far beyond that…” Triss toyed with the heart-shaped pendant at her throat, then recounted the diary and everything Foltest’s Scouts had witnessed, omitting not a single detail.

The teasing curve of Philippa’s lips vanished.

“Amell. Black sun banners spread upon the wind. More than twenty thousand soldiers.” Her gaze sharpened. “This is extremely important news. Tate, thank you for warning me.”

Her smile returned, this time without mockery.

“I understand your concerns as well, and I support you with both hands. We cannot allow those southern barbarians and their Sorcerers to invade our lands and trample the rules established by the Brotherhood of Sorcerers.”

“I will do everything I can to persuade Vizimir, but His Majesty is suspicious by nature. He will certainly send a Royal Spy to Amell to see matters with his own eyes. Even if the spy confirms the report, I know Vizimir. Unless the fire is already singeing his arse, he will not move.”

“Do what you can.” Triss sighed. “And there is also the Brotherhood…”

Neither Triss nor Keira was yet fifty. They were young, their standing too slight to contact the core figures of the Brotherhood of Sorcerers, while Feket had already received other orders from Foltest.

“I understand. I will inform the five lords of the Conclave and the Supreme Council, Tissaia, Hen Gaidth, Vilgefortz. Preparing a plan before the crisis arrives is also the responsibility of the Brotherhood of Sorcerers.”

Philippa planted both hands upon her hips, her expression solemn.

“Tate, only a river separates you from Cintra. Look after yourself. Do not rush headlong into danger.”

“Thank you for your concern.” Triss nodded, though stubbornness flashed in her eyes. After a few distracted pleasantries, she extinguished the Spyglass.

…

Not long afterward, Keira arrived in a cool gown of thin gauze.

“Darling, how did your battle go? That wanton woman Sabrina boasted that if Henselt refuses to send troops, she will keep him out of her bed for a month. I doubt she could endure three days herself.” Keira shook her head. “Still, I think it best not to place much hope in Kaedwen. It is too far away.”

“Lady Philippa’s response was not encouraging. In any case, once we receive their answers, we will report to His Majesty.”

Arm in arm, the two Sorceresses spoke for a while about the situation across the North.

“Enough of these troublesome affairs. Why have I not seen you contact that savior of yours lately?” Mischief curled Keira’s shining lips. Her slender fingers stroked Triss’s cheek, soft and ripe as a peach.

Triss lowered her head, heat flooding her face until even the tips of her ears burned.

Damn that Mandrake.

The memory of how she had behaved during that period made her want to claw open the floor and crawl beneath it. She had displayed such lovesick foolishness over a man she had met only a handful of times, without the faintest scrap of shame. Fortunately, he seemed a proper gentleman and had apparently thought nothing of it.

She suppressed the inexplicable disappointment tightening beneath her ribs and drew a deep breath.

She had no time for such wandering thoughts. Every scrap of her strength had to be devoted to the war now bearing down upon the kingdom.

Late autumn had come to Novigrad. Withered yellow leaves drifted from the trees lining the streets, and broken shafts of sunlight gilded the buildings along the splendid avenue.

It was still early morning, yet several tables were already occupied inside the Novigrad Cabaret. At center stage, a dozen actors performed Unexpected Journey to the strains of gentle music.

“According to the two masters, Nilfgaard’s northward invasion is now a certainty… Cintra stands on the brink.” The Doppelganger Gael Sahmza smoothed the elegant mustache extending to either side of his upper lip. “Which means we ought to prepare in advance… and seize the chance to make a fortune!”

“Your words are precisely what I wanted to hear.” Kael nodded, then turned toward Roy with more than a little complaint in his voice. “The Brotherhood’s finances are hardly encouraging at present. Ninety percent of our income comes from those two shops. Though profits have risen lately, they still bring in no more than twenty-six hundred Crowns a month. As for our expenses…”

He shook his head and sighed. “Gael’s House has more than thirty mouths to feed, and they eat better than ordinary families. Twenty half-grown kids with the greatest appetites, eleven Mutants even worse than them, every last one with a bottomless pit for a stomach. Living expenses alone cost around six hundred Crowns a month. Add the other sundries, and seven hundred still won’t cover it… Then there are the equally costly lessons in Alchemy, forging, and the rest. Those require at least another five hundred Crowns. And none of that is the worst of it. Master Kalkstein and Lady Rita’s research consumes no less than two thousand Crowns every month. If the money stops, that master will likely go on strike at once.”

“And that doesn’t include the new Decoction project involving Letho and Kaen.”

“Besides, each disposable Teleportation Artifact made by Lady Rita costs two hundred Crowns. The stable Portal she constructed for the laboratory beneath the lake in the Valley of Nine cost me another two thousand in reimbursements. She has always worked for the Brotherhood without payment because you sacrificed your charms for the cause, so we have even less reason to haggle over these basic expenses.”

“Work it out for yourself. How much have we spent?”

The bright lights exposed the shock on Roy’s face and the twitch at the corner of his mouth. He had left the accounts alone for quite some time. Without his noticing, the Brotherhood had taken on a burden of staggering weight.

Concern flickered through Kael’s amber pupils. “The expansion of Gael’s House is already complete. According to plan, the children temporarily staying at the Eternal Fire Orphanage will move here the day after tomorrow. Our number of students will leap from twenty to fifty, more than doubling. Plainly, the burden will increase by far more than that… Afterward, there can be no doubt. We’ll be pouring out money like water.”

“How much do we have left?” Roy breathed out and wiped the cold sweat from his palm.

“Our reserves will hold for now. We originally had twenty thousand Crowns. Add the ten thousand you swindled out of Vizima and the twenty thousand Geralt earned in Cintra, then subtract our recent expenses, and we have roughly forty-five thousand left. Enough to finance one major venture.”

“There is no need for you two to worry so much. The money spent building those houses at Gael’s House…” Gael smoothed the short purple hair at his temples and offered them a thoughtful smile. “I’ll reimburse you.”

“I knew Your Excellency possessed a heart overflowing with compassion!” Kael’s worries vanished at once. He reached out and clasped the Doppelganger’s hand firmly, while Roy gave Gael a grateful look.

“Very well, back to the matter at hand. As for this way of making money…” Chappelle rubbed his leather-gloved fingers together, gravity entering his metallic pupils. “May the Eternal Fire illuminate the path of those who suffer in the war. We certainly cannot behave like other black-hearted merchants and hoard vital wartime supplies…”

The others nodded without prompting. Once a man tore through the last boundary of decency, finding his way back was rarely easy.

“The simplest respectable trade…” Kael said. “We purchase Cintran specialties in bulk, Cintran Spirits, spices originally produced in Skellige but shipped north exclusively through Cintra, and so forth. Once Cintra becomes a ruin consigned to history, plenty of Northerners will mourn it of their own accord. Its specialties will become the finest vessels for their sentiment. They’re certain to be scarce and sell well.”

“Even if Cintra eventually rises again from its destruction, it will never be quite the same… What we hold will become priceless treasures from the true Cintra of old.”

“I have a suggestion…” Roy cut in. His gaze drifted across the front of the stage, where dancers, Ygsena among them, linked arms and tapped their feet to the lively beat of the drums. Roy had already told her that Koen was remaining in Toussaint.

At the edge of the stage, half hidden in shadow, Dandelion and Priscilla were arguing in hushed voices. The great poet poured out explanation after explanation, bowing apologetically from time to time like the very picture of a husband caught straying.

The Witchers had not betrayed him. Perhaps he had simply let something slip.

The blond beauty stood with her arms folded, chin raised and face turned away. A storm had settled plainly across her features, and her lips moved every so often.

Roy read them easily enough. Heartless bastard. Damned liar. Scoundrel. Keep this up and I’ll find myself a lover just to make you choke on it.

A silent sigh passed through him. All that affection had been wasted in the end. Dandelion, that incorrigible philanderer who never listened to advice, was clearly due for a lesson.

“Cintra’s flag is the Three Golden Lions Banner,” Roy continued. “At present, lake-blue and orange-yellow dyes are…”

“Cheap! There’s almost no demand for them right now.” Light flared in Gael Sahmza’s narrow eyes as the calculations spun through his mind. Excitement brought color to his cheeks. “This is undoubtedly the best time to buy.”

“Once the war begins, the people of the North will make Three Golden Lions Banners to show their support for Cintra. The price of the dyes will soar, at least threefold, perhaps fivefold! And ours will be a righteous undertaking. We can earn this money with clean consciences!”

“If there’s money to be made, we’ll all make it together!” Kael slammed his fist onto the table and leaned toward the two Doppelgangers, sharp light Blinking in his amber pupils. “Your Excellencies, why don’t we settle our respective shares of the investment at once? But I’ll make this clear beforehand. The Brotherhood doesn’t command the wealth you two do, and we can’t put up as much coin. When the time comes, can we make up the difference with manpower?”

The two Doppelgangers exchanged a look.

“The Eternal Fire’s last operation succeeded in large part because of you masters. My useless brothers must also rely on you masters to train them properly. We accept your proposal!”

…

Temple Isle, directly north of Novigrad.

The underground laboratory was lit by long tongues of fire. Their glow fell across glass tubes, metal canisters, great vats, heating vessels, and an Alchemical Table built around a Steeping Furnace. Shelves stood packed with sacks of Dried Herbs, bottled Monster Parts, and Mutated Tissue.

A hunched figure stood beside a bookcase, engrossed in Mutation and Genetics, The Secret of Mutation, The Demon in the Blood, and other works from the collection of the Valley of Nine.

At the workbench, a second, shapely figure repaired a damaged oval Gargoyle Heart.

The flames beneath the heating vessels hissed. Green liquid burbled inside a vast measuring cup. The disheveled man’s breathing grew steadily quicker.

Kalkstein slammed the book shut and stroked the single stubborn tuft of black hair standing proud amid the bald expanse atop his head.

“What a stroke of genius…” Wonder spread across his face. “These comprehensive and meticulous experimental records perfectly compensate for our inability to conduct experiments on living subjects. The dozens of Mutagenic Extracts described in these books, together with their adverse reactions, have been especially illuminating… I can already make a number of targeted adjustments to eliminate the harmful Mutations caused by The Decoctions of the Grasses.”

“This has saved us at least ten years of work!”

The Alchemy master’s body jerked and shuddered as though seized by a fit. The heavy black circles surrounding his grain-sized eyes trembled with him.

“It feels as though someone has sent lightning through my brain. Ideas keep pouring out. Manticore Decoction, Viper School Decoction… Elemental above, I have already conceived at least four new paths of improvement!”

“I am now certain I can improve The Decoctions of the Grasses into something safe and reliable within three months. It will not be as potent as the original formula, but at least it will pose no mortal danger.” Absolute conviction hardened the Alchemy master’s pinched face.

Joy broke across Lytta Neyd’s features. After so long, were their efforts finally about to bear fruit?

“By the way, who exactly was the author of these books, Thomas Moreau? Could you arrange an introduction?”

“I’m afraid he has been dead for more than a century. You can only pay your respects at his grave.” The Sorceress set down the Gargoyle Heart and gently shook her head.

“Heaven truly envies genius!” Kalkstein shook his head in grief, as though the dead man had been his own kin.

“What does Master think of this Secondary Mutation? Is there room to improve it? Could it possibly replace the Trial of the Grasses and serve directly as the first Mutation?”

The Alchemist raised his thick, unruly brows. His displeased gaze swept across her ample chest.

“Stupid woman, did all your nourishment pass your brain by and end up elsewhere? How could you conceive such an absurd idea? Use your head. That would amount to creating an entirely new form of The Decoctions of the Grasses. The risks would far outweigh the rewards…”

“I address you as Master.” The Sorceress narrowed her blue eyes to slits, dangerous light gleaming within them as frost settled across her face. “That does not grant you leave to insult me at will. I am warning you for the last time. If you cannot hold your tongue, then beware…”

“Fine. That kid Roy is so thoroughly bewitched by you that he’ll certainly do whatever you ask…” The Alchemist drew a deep breath. “But I finish what I begin. Until I have produced results, I will never abandon a project halfway.”

A counterfeit apology squeezed its way across his dry cheeks. “My apologies, Lady Rita. I have a blunt temper. When I’m engaged in research, my words carry no feeling, and I have a habit of wounding my colleagues by accident. Treat the nonsense I just spouted as a fart and let it pass.”

Only then did the frost on the Sorceress’s face begin to thaw.

“Back to the matter at hand. Improving the Mutagenic Potions and studying Higher Vampire Decoction already occupy all my time. I have no energy to spare for a third project, Secondary Mutation.”

“I can offer you one suggestion. Secondary Mutation should be limited to Witchers who have already undergone the Trial of the Grasses. Every few months, once the Mutation White Widow lays its eggs, take them to the Valley of Nine and perform the procedure according to the established steps. Once enough people have undergone Secondary Mutation, we can begin more thorough research.”

The Alchemist rolled up his sleeves and rubbed his hands together with a lecherous, excited grin. “Then let us begin, Lady Rita. Don’t return home tonight. We’ll work together and conquer the first path of improvement.”

The Sorceress pressed her red lips together and shook her head.

“Lady Rita, what did I just say about where all that nourishment went? If you still want us to work together, prove that you retain the basic discipline of a professional researcher.”

The Sorceress ground her white teeth. Then a thought struck her. Her anger drained away, and she answered in kind.

“Very well… This once, and never again. Staying awake all night is a woman’s greatest enemy. After all, I am not some permanent bachelor entirely devoid of Charisma, with no understanding of dress or manners, who has lived for nearly two hundred years without ever once falling in love!”

The words seemed to strike the Alchemist squarely in an old wound. His cheeks turned a rare shade of livid green.

Delight stirred in Lytta Neyd’s breast. She patted her peach-soft cheeks and pulled on a pair of professional white gloves.

…

Gael’s House.

Beside the spacious courtyard, beneath drifting willow fluff, a sparring match was underway.

The two opposing Witchers reached for their sword hilts at the same moment. Both blades left their sheaths, and both men took two swift, light steps, first forward, then to the side. Steel hissed through the air as they performed Sword Flourishes in perfect unison.

Flavius, the grey-green-eyed Griffin, pushed off with his toes and shot forward like a spear cast through the air. His silver longsword reached the bald Letho’s shoulder first, its Edge almost touching the protective Quen Shield.

Before he could shatter the Quen Shield, however, Letho stood at the Griffin’s right and twisted his wrist with a savage grin.

His longsword carved a blinding half-circle.

Clang!

Steel struck steel, and the air burst with a dense succession of cracks.

Clang! Clang!

Two blurred figures hurtled through the sunlight, crashing together and springing apart. In the space of a blink, they exchanged more than a dozen blows.

At last, Letho used the momentum of a turn to knock aside the descending blade. His crossguard caught the middle of his opponent’s sword spine. He tried to drive his own blade forward along it and slice into a vital point.

The Griffin sensed his intention at once. Strength gathered in his wrist, and he turned the Edge with Letho’s force.

The two blades seemed glued together. With their swords locked in midair, the Witchers spun through several continuous turns, sparks spilling around them like a fountain.

Amber pupils and grey-green eyes glared at one another across the crossed blades.

Their feet never stopped, turning, sliding, and shifting direction with ghostly speed.

The Witcher Apprentices watching from the side saw only two figures pressed close together, darting back and forth across the yard as though performing some strange ballroom dance.

Their pace began to slow.

The Griffin’s wrist sagged. At last, he could no longer withstand the crushing force driving into his fingers, and the longsword flew from his hand. Silver flashed through the air and buried itself in the trunk of a willow.

He dropped and rolled hard across the ground.

Boom!

The bald Letho thrust one muscle-knotted arm toward the earth. Thunder cracked through the courtyard.

The watching pups forgot to breathe. Their eyes went wide.

At the edge of the Alder Grove, the Griffin secretly peering at the fight gave a wary cluck and puffed up its wings.

A visible wave of air erupted around Letho, as though a Fuel-Air Explosive had detonated where he stood. The shock wave radiated in every direction, ripping dust from the ground and hurling it skyward.

Everything within five meters of Letho was caught in the blast.

The Griffin Witcher was no exception. His roll carried him clear of the pursuing longsword, but there was no evading an Aard that struck from every direction. A blow hammered into his back, and his Quen Sign burst with a soft pop.

Force tore through his body.

He was flung sideways and struck the ground face-first. A moment later, cold steel kissed the nape of his neck.

The dust settled.

At the center of the courtyard, the bald Letho stood with his sword resting against the neck of the one-kneed Griffin.

The five Witcher Apprentices erupted at once.

“Teacher Letho wins!” Monty crowed with laughter.

“Was that an Aard Sign just now?” Akamtom asked curiously.

“It didn’t look like Boss Karl’s technique,” Lloyd added.

“The boss’s mentor actually lost!” Chanem cast his companion a teasing look.

Karl lowered his head, wounded disbelief tightening his face. In his eyes, the Griffin had always been invincible.

The Griffin himself appeared entirely unconcerned. He pulled his sword from the willow, loosened his wrist with a Sword Flourish, and slid the Edge back into the sword strap across his back. Not a trace of frustration showed on his face. Folding his arms, he studied the bald Letho from head to toe.

“Mate, what miraculous medicine did you swallow in Toussaint? Your speed and strength have improved considerably…” The cat school Swordsmanship in which the Griffin took such pride proved rather less effective against overwhelming strength and speed. “And your Signs are completely different from before. Did you read the Book of Shadows and undergo a Mutation like Roy?”

In the nearby smithy, Vesemir loosened his grip on the newly acquired School of the Griffin Blueprint. In the classroom, Geralt set down his charcoal pencil. In the cornfield, Orin released his hoe. Inside the Alchemy Workshop, Kaen lowered the solution he was using for Mutagen conversion.

All four glanced over and quietly pricked up their ears.

“It’s all the result of Secondary Mutation.” Letho rolled his neck. “I thought it would merely improve my physical attributes. I didn’t expect my Aard Sign to change with it. It’s no longer a one-directional Magic Blast. Now it erupts in a full circle around me.”

“You experienced it yourself just now. It works well for breaking out of an encirclement, or as an Assassin’s Mace!”

“Roy gave it a new name, Aard: Piercing Cold!”

“My body seems to have undergone a few other changes as well, though I haven’t uncovered them yet.”

The Griffin nodded, envy plain in his eyes. “We happen to lack Elemental Talent, so we can’t learn Mutated Signs. Secondary Mutation makes up for that weakness to some extent. It seems a journey to Toussaint cannot be avoided.”

“You’ll have to speak with Orin first. The materials required for Secondary Mutation are extremely rare, and that fellow reserved the next place long ago. Lambert and Aiden are waiting in line as well. You’ll have to persuade them first.”

The Griffin gave a disdainful smile and slipped his fashionable dark glasses back over his eyes. “I’ll show them through strength who deserves to be next!”

…

Still talking and laughing, Letho and the Griffin returned to the wooden training posts and sat down to rest with the children.

The questions began again at once. They asked about the Signs from the fight, about Catalysts, and about The Decoctions of the Grasses.

Letho looked past the wooden fence to the other side of the grounds. Three new wooden houses had been completed. Through their open doors, he could clearly see the clean communal sleeping platforms within, along with neat sets of quilts, blankets, and clothes.

Even several of the little girls in the classroom had become unusually distracted, their expectant eyes straying toward the new houses.

“Are you ready, children? Your new friends arrive the day after tomorrow.”

“Teacher, could we change dormitories when they come?” Monty asked, a faint flush creeping across his small face.

“What are you planning?” The Griffin’s voice turned cold.

“I… I…”

“Oh, we want to move over there and live with the newcomers!” Karl could no longer bear to watch his underling stammer. He caught his teacher by the hand and shook it. When the man gave him a look fit for a blushing maiden, Karl released him in mortification. “And while we’re there… while we’re there, we want to make some new friends. Living together will make it easier to build friendships!”

“That’s right, Teacher. Please let us!” The five pups clasped their hands before their chests and fluttered their innocent eyes.

“Enough, Stinky Kids. You only want to show the newcomers that jar of Drowner Tongues!” The bald Letho saw through them at a glance. All five mouths drooped at once. “Still, I might allow it…”

Letho bared his white teeth in a grin.

“At the welcoming celebration, all five of you will wear dresses and dance!”

“What? Never!”

Dawn tore a breach in the black horizon, spilling pale violet light across the sky.

The late-autumn wind passed through the verdant Alder Grove and over the low hedge, then slipped through the dormitory window of Gael’s House and swept around the broad communal sleeping platform within.

A blond girl suddenly sat up, stretched, and gave a soft, kittenish murmur. A bright smile spread across her doll-like face as her dark, shining eyes passed over the six companions still sleeping soundly around her.

One lay like a proper young lady, hands folded over her belly, quiet and composed even in sleep. Another had rolled onto her side and thrown one leg across the girl beside her, sprawled as carelessly as any boy. A third slept facedown, stiff as a frozen stick.

As for the friend beside Vicky, she lay spread-eagled, freckles scattered across her round bun of a face, while a bubble at her nostril swelled and shrank with every breath…

The corner of Vicky’s mouth curled upward.

Only a year ago, she had slept in a filthy village where sewage ran through the mud, with pigsties and haystacks for beds. Now she had the sort of happy life she had once scarcely dared dream of. The teachers had given her all of it.

“Come on! I mustn’t disappoint the teachers!”

The little blond girl set her face, clenched one small fist, and punched it into the air.

“Wake up, sisters!”

“Ah!”

The freckled girl bolted upright. Plainly scared half to death, she opened a mouth missing two front teeth and stared about in ridiculous bewilderment.

“Vicky, you mad girl!”

“It’s only five! It isn’t even time for morning training!”

“Boss, I’m begging you. Let me go back to sleep. Just five more minutes.”

The girls reacted with astonishing unity, dragging their blankets over their heads with sleep-clouded eyes.

“The new students are arriving today! Get up, we have to clean everything!”

Every body beneath the blankets jerked as though a bucket of cold water had been poured over the bed. Eyes flew open, and the last traces of sleep vanished from their faces.

“Ugh…”

“I think the teacher said thirty new students were coming.”

“Everyone, get up! We have to make ourselves pretty and leave them a good first impression!”

“Every room must be cleaned. Not one speck of dust!”

A flock of magpies began chattering around the room. The girls moved briskly, pulling on their bright clothes, identical fitted blue tops and blue knee-length skirts sewn from cotton and satin. Each garment bore its own unique mark, the wearer’s name and “student number.”

Before long, seven neatly dressed girls poured into the courtyard. The bitter morning wind struck them, and they shivered in unison, their heads clearing at once.

Behind them, lights flared inside the other dormitory, followed by the clamor of more than a dozen boys.

“Ow! Stop stepping on my foot!”

“Which idiot took my shoes?”

“My back’s killing me. Who lay on top of me all night again?”

“Where are my shorts? You have ten seconds to give them back!”

After five frantic minutes, thirteen boys emerged in grey coats and sturdy leather boots, successfully joining the seven girls in the courtyard.

“Good morning, Vicky! Good morning, everyone!”

Karl beamed and waved at the girls. His gaze slipped toward the Obsidian necklace around Vicky’s slender, pale neck, and secret delight warmed his chest.

It had been fashioned from the gem a Troll had given him. He, in turn, had presented it to the girl he adored as a token of their love, though the love remained entirely one-sided.

Vicky gave him a calm nod. The other children quickly and wordlessly formed four orderly rows of five, their faces solemn and their bodies still.

Vicky addressed them in the tone of a little adult.

“At noon today, Gael’s House will welcome thirty homeless children.”

“The teachers feed us, house us, and teach us to read and write. We owe them more than we can repay. Now it is our turn to do something for them.”

“Except for Fat Auntie, none of the teachers will take part in today’s welcoming event. We will handle everything ourselves. Everyone must act with the spirit of a ‘young master of the house.’ We will greet our guests with smiles and let our new classmates feel the warmth of a true home.”

“The specific assignments are as follows…”

Vicky read out the names of all nineteen children without missing a single one.

The girls took up brooms and mops to clean the dormitories, workshops, and courtyard. Others went to the kitchen to help the fat aunt prepare the ingredients.

The boys hurried into the house and carried every long table, chair, and large blackboard outside, arranging them neatly in the courtyard.

Beneath the golden signboard at the gate, they hung a red banner reading, WELCOME TO GAEL’S HOUSE. The girls had sewn the banner stitch by stitch, while Vicky, the outstanding student for twelve consecutive months, had written the words in elegant Northern Common Speech.

In case the newcomers could not read them, the children had thoughtfully added drawings of little figures grinning from ear to ear. No one could mistake the sincerity of their welcome.

Cheerful humming drifted through the courtyard of Gael’s House as boys and girls worked to the rhythm of the songs.

Along the paths through the Alder Grove, they hammered a wooden signpost into the ground every few dozen meters.

In one corner of the courtyard, beneath a willow, they fitted planks to wooden posts, then tied ropes around pendulums to fashion a slide and several swings.

The whole of Gael’s House took on a new appearance, becoming a small playground.

The children wiped the sweat from their brows and began rehearsing on the open ground before the courtyard. Seven students from the cultural classes practiced a group poetry recital, Witcher Apprentice Karl led the Swordsmanship Display, and Vicky and Reni prepared their duet…

…

The rising sun gradually climbed above the children’s heads.

Monty, waiting to receive the newcomers among the Alder Grove, suddenly lit up with delight in his Cornflower-blue pupils.

“They’re here! They’re here!”

In an instant, everyone abandoned their work and crowded against the hedge, craning their necks in anticipation.

A small, tense face emerged from the shade of the trees. The girl had brown hair, grey eyes, and delicate features set into sallow, freckled cheeks. She looked seven or eight years old. Beneath her grey, many-patched clothes, her body was thin and undersized, plainly starved of proper food.

Twenty pairs of eager eyes startled her. She lowered her gaze, timid and bewildered as a newborn fawn. Only after a long hesitation did she venture carefully into the courtyard.

“Welcome to Gael’s House. I’m Reni, and I’m eight years old. What’s your name?”

The little girl with two missing teeth went forward without hesitation. The other nineteen children watched with friendly curiosity, and several of the bolder boys leaned over the hedge and waved.

“I… I’m Corinne…”

The brightness of Reni’s smile eased something in her chest. The brown-haired girl nervously took the offered hand and allowed herself to be led to the long table, where she sat listening as Reni proudly and happily introduced every part of Gael’s House.

Then came the second newcomer, the third, and eventually the thirtieth. All wore plain clothing, and hunger had left a sickly cast upon every face.

Karl made a rough count. For once, the girls outnumbered the boys. There were sixteen of them.

The thirty newcomers reacted differently to their new home. Some trembled with fear and uncertainty, while others stared around with bright, excited eyes. At least the children’s preparations had not been wasted. Warmth and goodwill showed in every corner.

It was nearly noon.

All three long tables in the courtyard were filled. Fifty children sat together, with a lively “current student” beside each newcomer to keep the conversation moving.

There were also eleven Witchers, Lytta Neyd, Dandelion and Priscilla, Old Mole and his wife with little Minnole in swaddling clothes, Kantila from the Potion Shop, the jubilant Gael Sahmza, and even Kalkstein, who had been dragged away from his experiments and wore his displeasure openly.

…

“Quiet. Settle down!”

A young man rose beside one of the long tables. He was handsome, with Heterochromia, and wore a suit of Griffin Armor polished to an oily shine. A mild smile rested on his face as his level gaze passed over the gathering.

“Children, welcome to Gael’s House. I am Roy, one of the school’s teachers. For the moment, I will say a few words on behalf of Gael’s House.”

“I know that natural disasters and human cruelty cost you your families and your homes. You wandered from place to place, enduring contempt and abuse. You went hungry, without enough food to fill your bellies or enough clothing to keep out the cold.”

“But I promise you, all that suffering ends at Gael’s House!”

“From today onward, we are one family. Every student seated here is your brother or sister. You will live together in peace, care for one another, and help one another. There will be no senseless accusations or insults, and no one will be allowed to bully a companion simply because he is bigger and stronger. Otherwise…”

Roy abruptly turned and gave Karl a warning look.

Karl froze in utter confusion. His eyes reddened, and his mouth folded into a wounded pout. Do I look like a monkey? Does Teacher truly think I’m that sort of villain?

The girls and his four young followers covered their mouths and snickered.

“Here, no one will drive you away like stray dogs for the sake of a mouthful of food. You will not have to search rubbish heaps for rotten, stinking bones. The school provides clean, delicious, nourishing food every day!”

“At Gael’s House, you will not stumble through life without purpose or ambition. You will learn knowledge that others must pay dearly to obtain. You will exercise, keep yourselves healthy, and discover the worth of your lives. You will grow into people useful to your brothers and sisters, to Gael’s House, and even to society and the kingdom as a whole!”

Disbelief spread across many of the children’s faces. The handsome teacher spoke of a life so far removed from anything they had known that it might as well have belonged to some unreachable heaven.

Yet their bodies leaned toward him despite themselves. No one looked away.

“If you do not believe me, then look at the children beside you…”

Pairs of uncertain eyes turned toward the current students. They were lively and well proportioned, with healthy color in their cheeks and something bright flickering in their eyes.

Hope.

“A year ago, these twenty children had lived through the same things you have. But after a year of study and change, they have escaped the shadows of the past. Look at how happy they are now!”

“Karl, Monty, Vicky, Akamtom…”

Roy called out the names of all twenty children, missing none.

“Tell everyone. Do you like Gael’s House?”

“Yes!”

Twenty proud, open faces broke into smiles, and twenty childish voices answered in a single resounding shout.

The newcomers stared. Even the shortest time any among them had spent wandering was half a year. Some had survived on the road for two years, passing through great cities, small villages, and every sort of danger between them.

Never had they seen orphans anywhere wearing smiles so full of life.

“Very well. Once again, on behalf of everyone at Gael’s House, I welcome you.” Roy saw the urgency in their eyes. “There is no need for more talk. In the days ahead, you will come to understand everything for yourselves.”

The food in the center of the tables exceeded anything the newcomers had imagined: fresh crabs, lobsters, octopus, eggs, bread, pickled cucumbers, boiled corn, stewed beef, and freshly pressed apple juice. Everything was delicious and nourishing.

Swallows sounded one after another. Thirty empty stomachs twisted and roared.

“Now, don’t stand on ceremony. Eat your fill and enjoy the feast before you. But remember, waste nothing, and don’t eat too much. You’ll make yourselves ill if you stuff your bellies until they burst!”

The Witcher finished speaking.

The newcomers remained motionless, looking from one face to another. Then Vicky smiled, speared a piece of roasted octopus, and placed it on the plate of Corinne, who had been licking her lips beside her.

Clatter!

In an instant, the crisp clamor of knives and forks striking plates erupted along all three tables.

Gulp, gulp!

Thirty children bent over their food and devoured it ravenously.

Karl exchanged a glance with Monty and his four companions. None of them intended to be left behind in this particular contest.

Letho and the others kept their Feeding slow, their attention fixed less on their plates than on the children.

“There are a few promising ones over there…” Orin’s amber pupils swept across the new boys to his left, and his voice dropped until it was barely audible. “Look at the ferocity in those movements, even in the way they eat. Put half that ruthlessness into training, and they’ll make qualified Witcher Apprentices.”

“That little girl has nimble fingers. She could study Alchemy later…” The bald Letho nodded, then continued selecting potential seeds with Kaen and Vesemir beside him.

…

Dandelion’s clothes remained as gaudy as ever, a purple shirt beneath an olive-colored hat, but his expression had acquired a rare humility. With ingratiating care, he shelled a crab and placed the meat on Priscilla’s plate.

She returned it untouched and looked across the table.

…

Roy watched the scene in silence. Beside him, Lytta Neyd’s slender fingers pulled apart a lobster. Her red lips moved slightly, and magic carried her private words directly into his ear.

Then a leg brushed against Roy’s foot.

At first, he assumed the contact had been accidental and ignored it, continuing to exchange idle, suggestive glances with the Sorceress.

The foot touched his boot again. Then again. After several such advances, it grew bolder, slipped free of its shoe, and rubbed nimble toes along his trouser leg in unmistakable provocation.

Roy calmly glanced at the Sorceress, letting his eyes speak for him.

Behave yourself.

Lytta Neyd had been taking small, elegant bites from a piece of steak. At his look, her blue eyes widened and her red lips parted in confusion.

Now? Isn’t that rather risky?

Damn. It isn’t Coral!

Understanding struck Roy in an instant. He turned and surveyed the gathering.

His eyes passed over Kantila. The Zerrikanian woman was wholly occupied with the roasted meat on her plate. Sensing the Witcher’s gaze, she looked up, smiled sweetly, and winked.

Not her.

Then Roy glanced at the blond woman sitting opposite him.

Priscilla jerked as though an electric current had run through her body and hurriedly turned her head away.

The great poet mistook the movement for forgiveness. Delight spread across Dandelion’s face. He seized her hand and began reciting a love poem in a low voice.

Roy, however, clearly saw the Bardess’s delicate shoulders tremble.

“I’ll find myself a lover just to make you choke on it!”

The furious words he had overheard at the cabaret returned to his mind.

A woman playing with fire. You ought to be grateful I’m not Lambert.

Dandelion, watch yourself. Your brother has done all he can for you.

…

Lunch lasted roughly half an hour.

Every dish was scraped clean. The newcomers had likely spent too many ordinary days half starved. They licked their plates until not a drop of broth remained, leaving the surfaces bright enough to serve as mirrors. Utter satisfaction shone on every small face.

Afterward, the twenty current students led the thirty newcomers into the newly built wooden houses beside the hedge. The generous meal had already forged the beginnings of a revolutionary friendship between them, and the pairings proceeded smoothly.

Under Roy’s newly devised system, every current student would serve as the study partner of one or more newcomers. They would teach them the basic rules of Gael’s House and help them adjust more quickly to school life in the days ahead.

At the end of every month, the two sides would score each other. The best newcomer and the most responsible study partner would then be chosen.

Vicky’s popularity was plain to see. She became the study partner of three little girls. The dull and taciturn Lloyd, meanwhile, was nearly left without anyone at all. Fortunately, Karl forcibly assigned him a rustic boy named Takuma, whose hair had been cut into the shape of a watermelon rind.

…

Once the newcomers had been given their beds and changed into school uniforms of astonishing softness and comfort, they settled down in the new houses for their first afternoon nap.

The twenty “veterans” began clearing the battlefield. They washed the dishes, buried the kitchen scraps in a deep pit beside the fields, and swept the courtyard clean.

By the time they finished, the nap was nearly over, though most of the children had been far too excited to sleep.

Everyone returned to the courtyard, and the welcoming performances began amid a blaze of activity.

Golden afternoon sunlight poured across the stage.

The seven students from the cultural classes appeared first. They presented Friend, a new work by Dandelion master. Master Dan and Priscilla sat together in iris-colored hats, plucking their lutes as gentle music rose at precisely the right moment beneath the recitation.

“A friend is a bottle of fine wine, grown richer and mellower with the years.”

“Whether you drink deep or merely sip, its spirit will steal away your soul…”

…

Corinne sat upright on a chair in the courtyard, listening to the rise and fall of the poem. Dizzy circles and wonder filled her eyes. Like most of the newcomers, she had never seen a refined performance of poetry. She could not even read.

But she could feel the warmth of the current students’ welcome.

As soon as the recitation ended, the newcomers rose of their own accord and applauded with all their strength.

Next came the Swordsmanship Display performed by five Witcher Apprentices.

Armed with wooden training swords, they methodically demonstrated five forms of Casting Wind-up, from the High Guard Stance to the Tail Guard Stance. Their movements were correct and plain.

They were also far from exciting. Before long, the girls were struggling to keep their eyes open.

Then Karl and Monty stepped forward to spar.

Even with Training Wasters, the two long-trained boys made a convincing sight. Their small figures crossed at speeds beyond anything ordinary children could imagine. The Edges collided again and again with piercing clangs that sent the blood surging through most of the new boys.

Karl spent some time Suppressing his physical attributes. At last, he struck with sudden precision and knocked Monty’s weapon from his hand. Half the wooden blade flew away and lodged in the willow.

Karl loosened his wrist and performed an elegant Sword Flourish. Then he winked flamboyantly at the girls, amber pupils surveying the world with lofty pride.

“This victory is dedicated to the beautiful Vicky!”

“Boo!”

Twelve boys jeered in unison. The girls laughed, surrounded Vicky, and began teasing her. Heat flooded her face until it burned crimson, and she glared fiercely at Karl.

“To all our new friends, you’re welcome to come and discuss Swordsmanship with me at any time!”

He smiled proudly. His delicate face was so pale it seemed to shine. In that instant, the eyes of two or three little girls as thin as bamboo poles began to sparkle.

“I’ll be waiting beside the wooden training posts!”

“This is youth…” Lambert sighed. “Children mature frighteningly early these days.”

The Griffin twisted his face into the most intimidating smile he could manage. It was this fellow, together with Orin, who had led his own apprentice astray.

…

After the Swordsmanship Display came the most eagerly awaited performance of the entire welcoming celebration, a duet by Vicky and Reni. Dandelion had once again served as their instructor and had written the song, Autumn.

The two childish voices were clear and sweet, filled with a warmth that reached straight into the heart. According to Master Dan, the two Alchemy Apprentices had the makings of young singing stars.

He had once suggested that they perform at the cabaret, only for both girls to refuse.

“A morning glory rests between her lips. Draw the purple curtain closed, and autumn hides within its arms, whispering all its little secrets!”

The children hummed along with the music.

Several of the bolder newcomers began to sing as well.

The courtyard grew steadily livelier.

The moment the song ended, Orin gave a sudden shout and bounded into the center of the stage.

The children flinched, their mouths falling open. Then a ridiculous sight unfolded before them.

The Witcher thrust out his chest and raised his chin. With his knees bent, his legs churned like wheels, while his arms remained tucked against his sides, flapping in and out like a duck’s wings. He waddled in circles around the two “little stars.”

“Quack, quack! Come along, pups!”

Orin crooked a finger at the audience. The five Apprentices who loved a commotion more than anyone rushed up first. They fell in behind him and imitated the duck, looking like a mother duck leading a clutch of ducklings on a domineering stroll after dinner.

Several lively girls ran after them.

Then the situation slipped entirely beyond control.

The white-haired old man put on the black top hat he had treasured for years and became a second mother duck. His wrinkled face bloomed like a chrysanthemum as he pulled one impossible face after another. Behind him, Eskel widened his eyes at the opposing group and beckoned in challenge.

Across from him, the bald Letho stretched out his thick, short neck and drew a finger across his throat.

Several newcomers were dragged into the “dance floor” by their companions. Half reluctant and half delighted, they circled behind the teachers while quacking like ducks.

Quacks, panting, squeals, and shouts filled the entire courtyard.

Gael’s House became a sea of joy.

Roy watched with his arms folded, quiet satisfaction lifting the corners of his mouth.

If only they could remain this happy forever.

Yet an inexplicable unease tightened his brow. It felt as though a venomous snake had settled against the nape of his neck and was slowly crawling down his spine.

“What are you brooding over, little scoundrel?”

Two slender hands covered in purple armor suddenly caught his face and turned it aside. A rich scent of roses swept over him. The sorceress pressed a fierce kiss to his lips, her blue eyes rippling with affection and dimples appearing in her cheeks, then seized his hand and pulled him into the dance.

The other two ladies followed.

Before Roy quite understood what had happened, he found himself surrounded from four sides in a most peculiar ambush.

Rita stood before him, holding his hand and swinging it back and forth.

Kantila pressed against him from behind. Priscilla and Dandelion somehow appeared at his side.

Old Mole and Aunt Susan repeatedly lifted the babbling little Minnole toward him, letting the infant press its cheek against his face.

Amid laughter that seemed it might never end, the day quietly passed away.

Deep into the night.

A cave outside Novigrad.

A strange wind howled through the darkness. Torchlight waxed and waned, throwing shadows across the walls that shifted between savage beasts poised to spring and candle flames trembling on the brink of extinction.

A single figure stood straight-backed at the center of the cave.

The wind rose to a roar, and the hurried Incantation grew louder with it. The entire cave began to shake, as though disaster had descended and the end of the world stood close at hand.

Then, without warning, the Incantation ceased.

A slender crane-shaped shadow plunged from above. Its long beak shot forward like a shuttle while wings hard as iron oars beat the air. It loosed a clear, piercing cry and swooped viciously upon the waiting figure.

Its beak never reached its target.

A vast, hideous octopus burst from behind the figure and met the crane head-on. Tentacles studded with suckers coiled around it, crushing it in place, while countless arms writhed and contracted like springs.

Their shadows thrashed across the cave walls.

Crunch. Crunch.

A burst of ghastly chewing followed.

Then all was still.

Roy released a long breath. Satisfaction glimmered in his Heterochromia as he sat cross-legged in the Meditation posture, at the center of a pale Hexagram Magic Circle drawn with a panther-shaped statue and Wraith Dust.

He sank his consciousness into the Template.

“You Devoured an Evil Spirit. XP +340. Witcher Lv9 (6540/6500).”

“The Evil Spirits summoned through Summoning are growing stronger. Devouring them is becoming increasingly difficult. It is time to stop for a while.”

Roy focused upon the “+” beside his level.

XP is full. Increase level?

Yes!

A flash swept through him.

Witcher Lv9 → Lv10 (40/8500)

Primary Attribute Willpower +2: 21 → 23

“The XP difference between levels has risen from 1,000 to 2,000. It seems the requirement increases every five levels. Advancing will only become harder from here.”

The additional explanation that appeared after the level increase left him with decidedly mixed feelings.

You have obtained the Skill:

Greed (Passive Trait)

Your Witcher progression has reached the Intermediate Stage.

Ordinary souls are no longer sufficient to fuel your continued growth.

Effects

Soul Quality Threshold

Any lifeform whose soul would provide less than 10 XP can no longer grant experience upon being devoured.

Examples may include:

• Small animals

• Weak undead

• Inferior monsters

• Trivial magical creatures

XP Gained: 0

Roy drew a sharp breath through his teeth. “So I can’t gain levels by Defeating ordinary beasts, poultry, or livestock anymore…”

He had not farmed XP that way for a long time, yet he still shook his head with a rueful smile.

“From now on, I’ll have to kill at least a Drowner, or a person, if I want to advance.”

The compensatory function that followed, however, brought a gleam to his eyes.

“Using low-level Souls to restore HP and magic isn’t bad. It gives me another means of healing and sustaining myself, something to fall back on when every other road is closed.”

His attention continued downward. Several months had passed since he had taken The Decoctions of the Grasses for the second time, and some of his lower attributes had increased naturally.

Roy

Age: 16

Identity: Viper School Witcher, Griffin School Witcher, Honorary Member of the Wolf School, Knight of Lake Vizima, Member of the Brotherhood of Witchers

HP: 310

Mana: 290

* * *

Attributes

Strength: 15

Agility: 15.5

Constitution: 23

Perception: 12

Willpower: 23 ★ (Primary Attribute)

Charisma: 9

Spirit: 21

* * *

Skills

Carnage LV7

A killing aura forged through countless hunts.

• Blood Scent: Hostile creatures entering a 3-meter radius have a fixed 20% chance to suffer Intimidate. Targets with Willpower not exceeding Roy’s may lose bodily control for up to 3 seconds.

• Intimidate: Active release of killing intent. Affects one, several, or all targets within 3 meters. Cooldown: 2 minutes.

• Reality Interference: Upon reaching Willpower 20+, Blood Scent, Intimidate, and Suppression evolved beyond psychological effects and began directly interfering with reality and biological functions.

• Permanent damage bonus against previously hunted species: +30%.

* * *

Scry LV2

Allows observation of distant locations, magical traces, and hidden phenomena through mystical perception.

* * *

Meditation Lv8

After a complete meditation cycle, stores one Activation.

Activation:

• Restores 50% HP

• Restores 50% Mana

• Can be stored in advance and triggered instantly

* * *

Crossbow Mastery LV2

• +10% accuracy

• +10% effective range

• +10% penetration

Active Activation:

• Bonuses doubled

• Stamina consumption doubled

• Movement speed reduced by 50%

• Minimum duration: 30 seconds

* * *

Longsword Specialization LV2

When wielding longswords or bastard swords:

• +10% Strength

• +10% Agility

• +10% Constitution

Active Activation:

• Bonuses doubled

• Stamina consumption doubled

• Minimum duration: 30 seconds

* * *

Alchemy Lv3

Capable of brewing basic Witcher potions, oils, bombs, and mutagenic compounds.

* * *

Witcher Signs Lv3

Mastered:

• Aard

• Igni

• Quen

• Axii

• Yrden

• Heliotrop

• Somne

* * *

Griffin School Arcane LV6

You have mastered:

Dual Signs

Cast two Signs simultaneously through coordinated rune Formation.

Sign Mutations

Igni: Wrathflame

• Homing fire projectile

• Explodes upon impact

• Enhanced by nearby Fire Elementals

Somne: Reflection

• Summons a combat-capable illusion

• Inherits part of Roy’s attributes and passive abilities

• Can obey commands

• Releases a Frost Shockwave when destroyed

Axii: Puppet

• Deep mind control

• Can influence instincts and behavior

• Greatly extended duration

Quen: Shelter

• Mobile protective sphere

• Radius: up to 5 meters

• Defends allies against physical attacks

Heliotrop: Shelter

• Mobile magical barrier

• Specialized against magical attacks

Aard: Vibration

• Fires a lightning strike up to 20 meters

• Burns and paralyzes targets

Yrden: Circle

• Mobile binding field

• Radius: 3 meters

• Slows enemies and disrupts teleportation and phasing

* * *

Wingbeat

The signature technique of Griffin School Arcane.

By invoking Elemental Domain Roars, Roy synchronizes nearby elemental forces with his Signs.

Current known applications:

• Fire Elementals → Wrathflame amplification

• Water Elementals → Somne Reflection / Axii enhancement

• Earth Elementals → Quen Shelter reinforcement

• Air Elementals → Secondary lightning strikes for Aard Vibration

* * *

Witcher Senses LV2

Enhanced perception of:

• Tracks

• Scents

• Magical residue

• Hidden creatures

• Weak points and combat openings

* * *

Passive Traits

Elder Blood

An ancient and mysterious bloodline.

Effects not yet fully understood.

Potentially grants extraordinary affinity toward magic, space, destiny, and higher-order mutations.

* * *

Trial of the Grasses

Second-stage Witcher mutation completed.

Benefits:

• Strong resistance to disease and plague

• Extreme toxin tolerance

• Enhanced night vision

• Reinforced physiology

Permanent bonuses:

• HP +80

• Mana +80

* * *

Greed

Intermediate Witcher progression trait.

Souls worth less than 10 XP no longer grant experience.

Instead:

• Restore HP

• Restore Mana

• Can heal minor injuries through repeated consumption

…

“Remaining: 1 Skill Point, 1 attribute point.”

Roy considered his choices. Not long ago, Jérôme Moreau had told him of the incredible power Meditation possessed once it reached its highest level. Roy’s own mastery of Meditation was already no worse than that of three-hundred-year-old Old Man Vesemir. There could be no better use for the Skill Point.

With a thought, he committed it.

Meditation Lv8 → LV9

Your understanding of Meditation has reached a masterful level, allowing you to touch upon its deeper essence.

* * *

Attribute Growth

Constitution: 23 → 23.5

HP: 310 → 315

Spirit: 21 → 21.5

Mana: 290 → 295

* * *

Activation (Enhanced)

After completing one full Meditation cycle (5 hours), you gain one Activation.

Activation Effects:

• Instantly restores 60% HP

• Instantly restores 60% Mana

• Cures Minor Injuries

• Cures Moderate Injuries

• Can be triggered instantly, even during combat

* * *

Limitations

• Only one Activation may be stored at a time.

• Activations cannot stack.

• An unused Activation automatically dissipates after 24 hours.

…

A thunderous crash erupted inside Roy’s skull.

His pupils widened. His body suddenly felt weightless, like a snake slipping free of its old skin, and a strange exhilaration rose through him.

The song of ancient stone murmured in his ears, mingling with the light dance of swift winds and the laughter of running water.

The surrounding light faded. Though he had not entered Meditation, the Meditation vision opened before him of its own accord.

He heard the slow, steady friction of Chaotic Energy and understood that this was how Elementals communicated across space and time.

Elemental Particles of every color swam through the black void like lively fish, tails flicking as they darted to and fro.

Far away, The Four Elemental Planes circled the vault of the heavens. In the next instant, the immense distance collapsed, drawing them directly before him.

Heat alternated with cold. The seasons turned at impossible speed within four spaces, each no larger than the face of a mirror.

Within those planes, Roy saw The Four Primordial Genies raise their heads and howl: the plump, rounded Dao; the Djinn, shaped like a sphere of lightning; the translucent azure Marid; and the Efreet wreathed from head to foot in flame.

He reached toward those legendary beings.

Everything vanished.

A pale-yellow orb of light appeared in the black Meditation Void.

Roy stared at it. Recognition stirred beneath his ribs, instinctive and intimate. Some unseen bond seemed to stretch between him and the light.

Is that Letho, in Meditation?

The thought had barely formed before Roy moved toward it.

Before he could touch the orb, darkness and light flickered across his vision.

The world changed.

Torchlight swayed overhead. The dim cave closed around him once more, and the cold night wind brushed his cheeks.

Roy found himself back in the waking world, hollow disappointment tightening his chest. The experience had been intoxicating.

“Level-nine Meditation is still a step short of Erland master’s realm. I can’t use it to make contact yet.”

Even so, he was satisfi