Hazy morning light spilled over the fence and across several small, finely built wooden cottages.

“Vicky’s skill is nearly on par with a full-fledged Apothecary.” By lamplight, Letho swirled the milky, lustrous solution inside a glass vial and studied it, then ran a hand over the little girl’s soft golden hair. “Keep these two little fools in line and teach them properly. I have to go out.”

“Don’t worry, teacher. Leave everything here to me!” The girl patted her small chest, a sweet smile lighting her delicate face. She could already brew dozens of Potions on her own and had trained at the Gvaed Potion Shop on several occasions, earning lavish praise from Madam Kantila.

“Hmph! Teacher’s playing favorites again!” Reni, her hair tied into two little horn-shaped braids, turned her head away with an indignant snort, baring the neat white milk teeth that had only recently grown in. “Why don’t you pat my head?”

A broad, heavy palm pressed against her forehead. Just as she narrowed her eyes like a contented kitten, the thick index finger curled and snapped forward, delivering a solid flick between her brows.

Reni yelped at once, then pushed out her lower lip and put on the pitiful look of someone about to burst into tears.

The Witcher’s face remained as stern as stone.

“Where are you going, teacher?”

On the other side, Conrad tugged nervously at the hem of Letho’s leather coat.

“You spend all day asking this and that. Why not ask about something useful?”

“Back to practice!”

* * *

Letho adjusted the sword harness across his back, drew a deep breath, and left the Alchemy Workshop. Compared with half a year ago, the place had undergone a thorough renovation. The outer walls had been painted blue, and every piece of experimental equipment had been replaced.

It had begun to resemble a proper laboratory. For a handful of young Apprentices, it was more than enough.

At almost the same moment, Eskel lowered the book from which he had been teaching in the classroom. In the smithy, Vesemir untied the thick cotton apron around his waist and handed his forging hammer to three broad-shouldered, muscular boys. Beside the fields, Orin and Kael passed their hoe and bow to three grimy-faced young disciples.

Kaen returned from the botanical garden deep in the woods with a spring in his step, while Lambert, Aiden, and Griffin left twelve reserve Witchers behind and strode over from the training equipment beneath the willow tree.

Ten tall, fully grown Witchers abandoned their respective posts and converged behind the fence at the edge of the courtyard.

Lytta Neyd, glamorous and dressed for the occasion, was already waiting there with Triss and Kalkstein.

The steady chorus of reading in the classroom dwindled. Boys practicing sword forms beside the Plum Blossom Stakes, and others leaping from post to post near the willow, began missing steps as their attention strayed toward the fence.

“Boss Karl, where are the teachers going? Is there another big operation?” Monty stared longingly at the tall figures beyond the fence, hunger burning in his amber pupils. “We’ve already passed the Trial of the Grasses. More than fourteen Drowners have died by my sword!”

“I’ve killed fifteen!”

“Thirteen for me!”

“One hundred and twenty,” Karl said with a weary sigh.

“Uh… however many it was, we’re obviously better fighters than most adults. Isn’t that enough?” A note of complaint crept into Chanem’s voice. His green vertical pupils narrowed to serpentine slits. “Why won’t they take us with them?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Lloyd rubbed his plain, close-cropped head, his blue-green vertical pupils perfectly calm. “Hmm… we haven’t had long to recover since the Trial of the Grasses. Our bodies still haven’t settled. They’re doing this for our own good!”

“In short, the transformation is not yet complete. Brothers, we must continue proving ourselves until the teachers recognize our worth and take us seriously!”

“What are you standing around for?” Akamtom barked, his face stern with all the gravity of a much older man. “Reserve Witcher Apprentices who haven’t even drunk the Catalyst have no business listening to this! Didn’t you eat enough breakfast? Put some strength into it and move faster!”

“Whoever falls behind won’t get to… ngh… kill any Drowners next time!”

The seven newcomers who had been eavesdropping beside the Plum Blossom Stakes went pale. A moment later, they threw themselves back into training, panting like bellows and refusing to slow.

* * *

“Madam Rita, why did you suddenly summon everyone?” Lambert planted his hands on his hips, his keen gaze traveling over the sorceress before him, radiant enough to eclipse the flowers around her. The two buttons at her collar gleamed in the morning sun. “The Mutation White Widow won’t lay its eggs for another two months, and it’s too soon for the Secondary Mutation. Has Triss remembered something?”

Ten pairs of vertical pupils immediately turned toward Triss. Even the freckles on her pretty face seemed lost beneath their scrutiny.

Every jaw tightened, and their concern and expectation were plain to see.

“Sorry. I still can’t remember anything.”

Lytta Neyd’s expression remained severe, her blue eyes solemn. “In fact, I made an important discovery at the Valley of Nine. I believe all of you need to come and see it for yourselves.”

“How important?” Orin’s suspicious amber gaze swept over her dress, which looked like a flame caught perfectly still. The calculating sharpness of a Witcher Investigator entered his eyes. “Important enough to send this many people? You aren’t deceiving us, are you?”

“Why the sudden change of clothes, Madam Rita?” Lambert had already noticed the difference. He rubbed his chin with calloused fingers. “For the past two months, you’ve worn nothing but black lace dresses, like a widow mourning her husband. What prompted this change in style?”

His gaze passed over her smooth face and the faint flush warming her cheeks, a stark contrast to the haggard pallor she had worn only days before.

“You look much healthier. Had a bath first thing this morning, did you?”

“Shut your crow’s beak! What widow? You’ll understand when we get there!” Anger flashed across Lytta Neyd’s face. She flicked one hand, and Lambert instantly clutched his throat, eyes bulging, unable to force out another word.

Boom!

The three sorcerers moved at once. Their amulets jumped against their throats, blazing with magical light. With a sweep of their hands, three Portals appeared in the empty air, roaring as violent winds churned within them.

The three stepped through first.

Several of the remaining Witchers stared after them, their faces tightening with unmistakable misery. Teeth clenched, they jumped in after them.

* * *

Toussaint.

Sansretour Valley.

The laboratory beneath the waters of the Valley of Nine.

Braziers in the four corners and torches mounted beside the stone pillars cast enough light to expose every crack and grain in the chamber.

A thunderous roar suddenly rolled through the deserted hall, and thirteen figures sprang out of the Portals.

Several Witchers stood with their chests heaving, dragging in deep breaths through clenched teeth. Their faces had turned grey, as though they had just fought their way through some long and agonizing battle.

“Now will you tell us, Lytta Neyd?” Lambert demanded. “What secret are you hiding here that was worth putting us through that?”

The Sorceress’s blue gaze moved slowly over each puzzled face. She folded her arms beneath her breasts, and an easy smile touched her red lips.

She had not smiled once in the past two months.

Something had gnawed at her every waking hour.

The same thought flashed through every mind.

“Roy?”

The bald giant’s voice trembled. His head snapped up, his gaze fixed behind the Sorceress, toward the wall concealing the passage to the Mutation White Widow’s cavern.

Steady, powerful footsteps sounded beyond it.

A figure strode into view.

Firelight washed over white-steel Panoply and a tall, lean frame. Two swords crossed his back. His black hair was cut short and neat. One eye was dark gold, the other silver-grey. Strange red markings lay across his face, and a warm smile curved his lips.

“Good morning, everyone!” Roy spread his arms wide. His gaze swept over every face in the room, bright with emotion, and his voice shook as he shouted, “I’m back!”

The entire laboratory fell into a strange silence.

The air seemed to vanish from the room.

Every breath stopped. Faces hardened, and eyes glimmered in the firelight like a pack of wolves hunting after dark.

“Kid!”

“Stinky Kid!”

Bang!

The bald giant dropped into a crouch and charged like a beast wearing a man’s shape. He flung an Aard straight at Roy’s chest.

The air exploded.

Roy threw himself into a low roll and narrowly slipped beneath it, but even the quickest man could not fight a dozen hands at once. Seven or eight Witchers surged out of the group, even Vesemir, who was certainly old enough to know better.

The knot of thickly muscled men closed around him until not a sliver of escape remained.

Bang!

Bang!

The air cracked again and again, a teeth-grating barrage of fists and open palms striking flesh.

Orin, Lambert, Letho, Griffin, and Kael stripped Roy of every piece of his Panoply. They seized his four limbs and head, then hoisted him high above their shoulders.

Beneath his silk shirt and short trousers, bare arms and legs swung helplessly in the air. The sight was absurd enough that Koen, Griffin, and Aiden could no longer hold back. Their laughter spilled out, ragged with relief.

“Stinky Kid! Do you have any idea how worried we were?”

Smack!

Kael gritted his teeth and slapped Roy hard across the backside.

Roy winced, baring his teeth through a rueful smile.

He did not resist. He merely hung there and obediently endured their peculiar grand welcome.

“You forget your brothers the moment you find a woman, Kid!” A cold gleam Blinked in Letho’s amber pupils. He planted a fist the size of a sandbag against Roy’s cheek and ground it slowly, crushing one side of his face inward until he looked like a fool at a fair. “You come back and don’t even pay your respects to us first. Instead, you sneak off to meet a Sorceress. How can you face the brothers gathered here? What place do we hold in your heart?”

Off to one side, Kalkstein stroked his beard, a teasing smile on his face as he settled in to enjoy the spectacle.

Triss’s eyes were harder to read. At first, she covered her red lips, surprise and delight breaking across her face. Then her pupils flicked between Lytta Neyd and Roy, and the light in them dimmed.

The first person he had wanted to see was the one who weighed most heavily in his heart.

“Just look at him, all smooth skin and tender flesh.” Lambert pinched Roy’s cheek, then gave the hard muscle of his chest an impertinent squeeze. “Not a scratch anywhere… except, well, a woman’s claw marks and bite wounds. She certainly didn’t hold back!”

“And he’s put on more muscle since two months ago. No wonder Lytta Neyd looks so pleased with herself!”

“You’ve been living far better than the rest of us, Kid!”

“And how did you reach that conclusion?” Aiden, his closest and worst friend, cut into the teasing. “You visit Spear Cave twice every week without fail. Your life seems comfortable enough.”

Lambert’s grin stiffened. He withdrew the hand that had been patting Roy’s cheek.

“I misjudged you,” Orin said, his face hard. His gaze dug into Roy’s skin like a knife. “Have you been hiding somewhere and watching the orphanage this entire time? Refusing to show yourself while the rest of us worried for nothing?”

“You little pervert!”

“Hiss… easy!” Roy’s face twisted between delight and pain. “Could you put me down first? I promise I’ll explain everything!”

“You won’t be forgiven so easily. You must be punished!” The five men exchanged a glance.

Lambert drew a finger across his throat.

Then it began.

Thump! Thump!

The five muscular brutes repeatedly slammed Roy’s backside against the laboratory’s black pillars and stone floor.

“That’s enough!” Lytta Neyd snapped.

She swept out both hands, and multicolored magic flooded the laboratory.

The five men released Roy against their will. As he dropped backside-first, he discreetly braced himself with one wrist, then an invisible force whisked him across the chamber and deposited him beside the Sorceress.

“You’ve gone far enough!” Lytta Neyd wrapped both arms around the Witcher’s arm and solicitously brushed the dust from his trousers.

Roy felt the strength of the fingers pinching into his arm. The corner of his mouth twitched, and his smile went rigid.

The dull ache was spreading through his body again.

Had last night’s punishment not been enough?

“Lost your head over him, have you? We barely touched him!” Lambert raised his eyebrows in open resentment and rubbed his increasingly perilous hairline. “Fine, Kid. For the sake of our Resident Sorcerer, we’ll spare you for now. Start talking, and don’t leave anything out.”

“Where were you for the last two months? What were you doing? And why did you sneak home like a thief, only to lure us all the way here?”

“It sounds unbelievable.” Roy picked up the pieces of his Panoply one by one, dressed himself properly, and straightened his collar. Then he faced the others with clear eyes and an earnest expression. “All this time, I was somewhere billions of miles from Novigrad.”

“How far?”

“Another world. Nirn, Tamriel, Skyrim, Whiterun Hold…”

“…”

Letho and several others fixed him with murderous looks once again. Knuckles cracked as their fists tightened.

“Stop! Let me explain!”

“Nirn? Tamriel?” Orin shook his head, suspicion written across his face. He clearly took the whole thing for a joke. “You’re spouting nonsense because you fear we’ll blame you. There’s no need. We promised to let the matter rest. It is enough that you returned alive.”

“I’m serious.” Roy circled the group once, drew a deep breath, then spoke each word with care. “Every one of you has lived for nearly a hundred years. You’ve seen more than most and must have heard something of this. Across distant reaches of time and space, many other universes exist. Other worlds.”

Triss pursed her red lips, displeasure creasing her brow. She was not even fifty.

Lytta Neyd’s nails dug deeper into Roy’s arm.

To convince his companions, Roy turned directly to the history of their own world.

“Fifteen hundred years ago, enormous celestial bodies appeared above this world. Countless worlds converged in the sky. During that convergence, all manner of Otherworldly monsters, races, and creatures, including humans, Vampires, Wraiths, and Nekkers, poured into this world through invisible passages in the heavens.”

“That alone proves other worlds exist!”

“What the Kid says is possible,” Kael conceded, some of the menace leaving his face.

The others remained skeptical.

“You don’t believe me? I have proof!” Roy opened one tough, pale hand before them. Resting on his palm was an enormous elongated object.

“Is that a toe?” Kalkstein’s eyes lit as though he had found buried treasure. He took the object and examined it closely. “Several times larger than a human toe. Judging by its proportions, its owner must have stood at least four metres tall!”

“Isn’t it from the Old Speartip we killed at Kaer Morhen?” Letho shook his head. “The Kid collected plenty of materials from it. Now he means to fool us with one?”

“No. This toe did not come from a Cyclops.” The Alchemist’s expression was certain. “Its bone structure and texture are entirely different from those of the specimen I examined at Oxenfurt Academy. It must have belonged to another species of giant.”

At once, every gaze turned toward Roy.

Roy said nothing. He swept a hand across the empty workbench before him, and five vividly green Herbs appeared upon its surface.

“Take a look. Do you recognize them?”

Letho, Kaen, and the three Sorcerers, those most accomplished in alchemy among them, each picked up one of the Herbs. They studied the leaves, tested their texture between their fingers, and breathed in their scents.

Five minutes passed.

Every one of them stood frozen.

“I considered myself familiar with every medicinal plant in this world, yet I’ve been stumped by a wet-behind-the-ears Kid like you.” The Alchemist stared into the distance, fingers tightening around an Herb with pale blue, spindle-shaped leaves. “If even I cannot recognize this Herb, there is only one possibility.”

“It’s called Deathbell. Highly poisonous, so handle it carefully.” Roy’s gaze passed over the other four Herbs in turn. “Nirnroot, Bubble Grass, Bleeding Crown, and Bloodthorn Vine. Every one of them comes from Skyrim’s Whiterun Hold.”

“No, I must return and study these at once!” Kalkstein’s body began to tremble like an addict denied his draught. Manic delight creased Kalkstein’s face. “Herbs from another world, with entirely different medicinal properties. Think of the inspiration, the innovations! With these, I shall create an Alchemical Potion unlike anything this world has ever seen!”

Both Letho and Kaen began breathing more heavily. No Master Alchemist or botanist could remain unmoved by the discovery of an entirely new Herb.

“Evelyn will be fascinated by them.” Kaen seemed to remember something, and a sweet smile softened the scarlet scars webbing his face.

“Patience, everyone!” Roy said. “I haven’t finished with the surprises yet. Don’t you want to hear the rest?”

“There are more herbs?” The Alchemist stared at him, stunned.

The women, however, had their attention elsewhere.

Triss watched Lytta Neyd with cornflower-blue eyes, a trace of envy stealing across her pretty face. “So you already knew? That he had returned from another world?”

“Of course…” Lytta Neyd nodded, her hair bouncing playfully against her shoulders. Pride and a hint of smugness colored her smile, like a woman complaining to her closest friend about a troublesome lover. “Last night, I made him explain everything, including what he should have told me and what he shouldn’t. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have made it here today.”

Triss drew a deep breath. Her head lowered, and the light left her face as her fingers closed around her Amulet.

* * *

“Very well, we believe your explanation,” Koen said. “But how did you reach Another World?”

“It happened in Cintra Castle, didn’t it?” Light gleamed in Griffin’s pupils behind his dark glasses. “Triss remembers several men attacking you. Were they the ones who sent you to that Tamriel?”

Roy looked toward the red-haired Sorceress standing behind the others. When he saw her whole and unharmed, he nodded firmly.

Feeling his gaze, the Sorceress’s eyes brightened, and she gave him a soft smile. “I don’t know why they spared me. They erased my memories instead.”

Bitterness clung to the smile, too deep to hide.

Roy fell silent for a moment before slowly drawing the buried memory to the surface. “You needn’t force yourself to remember. I’ll fill in what you’ve forgotten. That day, the two of us entered the castle to search for Ciri, but four people intercepted us halfway. As for who they were…”

Roy’s voice faltered. His jaw tightened as though the memory had left a foul taste in his mouth.

Coral immediately took his hand between both of hers, her touch gentle.

“Their identities are far from ordinary.” Roy’s voice dropped, each word scraping through clenched teeth. “I believe everyone here has heard their names.”

“I feared they might follow the trail to Gael’s House. That is why I summoned everyone here, thousands of miles away in Toussaint’s Valley of Nine.”

“After all, they still don’t know I’ve returned. By chance, I found a powerful Grand Sorcerer in Skyrim willing to help me. With his Spatial Magic, I managed to escape.”

In truth, Roy had returned through the World Gate using his own power.

But the World Gate involved the Elder Blood. Its roots ran too deep, and for now, he had no intention of revealing it to the others.

* * *

“Kid, skulking and stammering aren’t like you.” The bald giant gave Roy’s shoulder an encouraging pat. “Remember? You killed the projection of an Evil God in Vizima. In La Valette, you fought a legendary Demon alone. What sort of person could make you this wary?”

“Kid, have you forgotten your promise?” Orin frowned and growled at him. “No more concealing things from your brothers. No more hiding everything and facing danger alone. What are you hesitating for now? Do you mean to break your word?”

“You misunderstand. I was only considering how best to explain it.” Roy drew a deep breath, his gaze moving slowly across their expectant faces. “The four people who attacked me were called Erland, Ivar Evil-Eye, Aiga, and Arnaghad.”

The words fell.

In an instant, the laboratory went deathly still.

Every sound vanished. Shock froze across the faces of the ten Witchers. Their fists tightened in unison, throats working soundlessly as though an unseen hand had seized them by the neck.

Only the pounding of hearts remained.

At length, Kael found his voice.

“Master Ivar? How could that be…” Disbelief burned in his amber pupils. He stared hard at Roy, searching for the slightest flicker of guilt or uncertainty.

There was none.

“Master Aiga… a name both distant and familiar.” Vesemir closed his eyes. Something strange crossed his weathered face, a mingling of comfort and shock. “The set of Wolf School Schematics we found at Kaer Morhen was derived from the equipment he left behind.”

“As for Arnaghad, I met him once, several centuries ago. Founder of the Bear School. A towering man with eyes cold enough to freeze blood.”

“Master Ivar Evil-Eye broke away from the Bear School led by Arna Halo, then founded the Viper School at Gvaed.” Reverence shone in Letho’s eyes. “Several decades ago, Master Ivar left Kolgrim instructions to search for the Viper School Schematics, then vanished himself. Berengar later mentioned that he had appeared in Aedirn.”

“After the Griffin School’s Kaer Seren was destroyed by an avalanche in the Dragon Mountains years ago, Master Erland left behind a Book of Shadows and began wandering the world,” Koen recalled. “He apparently appeared during the Battle of Marnadal and met Jérôme Moreau.”

“The Witcher masters, meaning the first-generation Witchers, have all vanished in recent years, as far as I know,” Kael concluded. “Their strength is beyond question. They endured repeated transformations with mortality rates and suffering far beyond those of an ordinary Trial of the Grasses.”

“But why are they gathered together? How can Ivar and Arnaghad, enemies by every traditional measure, coexist peacefully? If Master Ivar is still alive, why has he never come to see us after all these years?”

“The reason is simple!” The bald giant slammed his broad palm against the table, certainty blazing in his eyes. “When we concluded that Erland had appeared at the Battle of Marnadal and met Jérôme Moreau of the Griffin School, we formed a theory. Some powerful force had taken control of Master Erland.”

“We went further. If the masters of the Wolf School, Viper School, and Bear School had all vanished as well, might they also have fallen under the same control?”

“Doesn’t the Kid’s account prove our theory?”

The Witchers stiffened. It was as though a missing corner of a shattered puzzle had clicked into place, revealing the first glimpse of a vast and turbulent landscape.

Understanding dawned across their faces. Now they wanted the remaining pieces.

* * *

“What are they trying to accomplish?” Kaen asked. His brow knotted as he struggled to make sense of it. “Four masters working together, appearing repeatedly on the battlefields of Marnadal and Cintra, then ambushing Roy inside Cintra Castle?”

“What sort of entity could control four Witcher grandmasters?”

“Letho is wrong about one thing.” Roy shook his head and dropped another verbal bomb among them. “The four grandmasters were never controlled. They admitted that to me themselves. It appears they joined a mysterious organization of their own free will.”

“As for their repeated appearances on battlefields, I suspect it has something to do with the Souls of the soldiers who died there.”

“In addition, they believed I had unwittingly taken an Artifact, and that was why they attacked me.”

Roy thought again of the object they had called a fragment of The Exalted One.

Whatever its origin, it now belonged to him alone. It had become his Template and was bound to his Soul.

No one would ever take it from him.

“Four masters roaming battlefields together to collect Restless Spirits for some organization?” Orin blurted. Then he hunched his shoulders as if a cold draft had slipped down the back of his neck. “That sounds thoroughly evil, but it doesn’t fit Master Ivar’s character. What are they ultimately trying to achieve?”

“I don’t know,” Roy said. “They considered me an obstacle, so they took measures to exile me to Another World.”

At the time, Roy had still been slowly reviving and had not witnessed the method used by the four masters.

A trace of pity entered the others’ faces.

In some ways, exile was more terrifying than death.

Their brother must have endured things he had yet to tell them.

“Exiling someone to another world sounds somewhat like the Goetia expressly forbidden by the Brotherhood.” Triss’s fine brows drew together as she considered the possibility.

“They may also have used some kind of tool,” Koen said, fitting another piece into the puzzle. “At Hen Gaidth Fortress in Amell, we found a Wish Bottle imprisoning a Djinn. A Djinn can predict wars. Surely one might also possess the power to exile someone?”

* * *

“The four masters revealed that much to you?” Griffin raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Had it been me, I would have struck at once and sent you to your next life.”

“At first, Master Ivar treated me quite mildly. He wanted to negotiate and reach an agreement.” Roy pressed his lips together and sighed. “Aiga and Erland were also rational and restrained.”

Letho, Orin, Kael, and the other members of the Viper School released the breaths caught in their chests.

They remembered Ivar Evil-Eye as an admirable man who had sworn to drive out the Wild Hunt and restore peace to the world. If he had become some murderous wretch who butchered innocents, none of them would have known how to face it.

“But Arnaghad of the Bear School tried to kill me.”

Roy remembered the Broadsword carving his body apart, the cold weight of death closing over him.

Whether Arnaghad was a master or anything else no longer mattered.

Roy would collect that debt in blood.

“We’ve all heard the tales about the Bear School,” Lambert said, shaking his head. “Cold-blooded, ruthless, without mercy or compassion. Arnaghad’s conduct is hardly surprising. But don’t worry, Kid.”

“The Brotherhood of Witchers will avenge you.”

“A master is merely a relic of an older age, one that should have been buried beneath the dust of history long ago. Since he dared lay hands on you, we owe him no courtesy.”

“Exactly!” Orin nodded so vigorously his head seemed ready to fly from his shoulders. “Arnaghad is our enemy!”

“You’re deciding this rather quickly, aren’t you?” Koen asked. “Are the Brotherhood of Witchers and the four masters, along with the organization behind them, now sworn enemies?”

The Griffin School Witcher’s question stopped everyone cold.

“Perhaps we should find a way to contact the masters first,” Aiden suggested. The scar on his chin glimmered faintly red. “We could pretend we have nothing to do with Roy and sound them out. Learn what they truly intend, and whether they pose a threat to the Brotherhood or Gael’s House.”

“First, you would have to find them. Then what?” Griffin shook his head, contempt sharpening his voice. “Convince them to recognize their mistakes and kneel before Roy to beg forgiveness? Do you honestly believe that possible? The moment they attacked Roy, the outcome was already decided!”

His voice was cold enough to make the skin crawl, yet warmth spread through Roy’s chest.

“The Brotherhood of Witchers and those bastards cannot coexist!”

The air hardened once more.

“The matter of the four masters requires careful planning. We cannot act recklessly.” Roy’s gaze passed over Coral, Triss, and Kalkstein as he set the final piece of the puzzle before them. “There is one more important detail. A powerful Sorcerer was with them.”

“His name was Idarran. Does that name mean anything to you? Who is he? I remember him using some form of Double-Cross Magic to Summon Mutant Insects.”

It was that Sorcerer who had repeatedly disrupted the escape Portal Roy and Triss tried to open, driving them into a hopeless corner.

Coral’s beautiful eyes Blinked as she sank into thought.

Triss suddenly stiffened. Color rushed into her cheeks, and excitement brightened her face.

“Idarran of Ulivo! I read about him in an old text. He is an expert in hybridization, Mutation, and genetic engineering. He created countless horrific creatures, including hybrids of insects and amphibians, gigantic Monsters, and much more!”

“Do you all remember this?” Koen suddenly drew an exquisite dark-gold metal plaque from inside his clothes. “We killed a Mutation insect in Hen Gaidth and found this buried in its flesh.”

Triss took the plaque and examined it briefly. “Yes. Idarran liked to mark the creatures he created with numbered metal plaques.”

“So this man recruited the four predecessors, including Master Ivar?” Eskel asked.

“My first impression was that he wasn’t particularly powerful, and both his appearance and manner were repulsive.” Roy shook his head as he recalled that sinister face. “I don’t believe he could brainwash Lord Ivar Evil-Eye.”

“He has little fame, and what reputation he possesses is mostly foul. The book said that many of the Monsters he created still roam the world, preying upon innocent commoners. But his greatest claim to prominence comes from his teacher.”

Triss’s clear, gentle voice paused. When she continued, reverence threaded every word.

“The creator of Double-Cross Conjuration Magic, Alzur!”

A sharp intake of breath swept through the chamber.

Alzur?

Every Witcher’s expression changed. At last, they seemed to have seized the thread running through the whole affair.

Coral’s grip tightened around Roy’s hand, and an excited flush spread across her pretty face.

“Alzur had another identity. He and his teacher, Cosimo Malaspina, are known as the creators of the Witchers!”

Alzur.

To Coral, Triss, and Kalkstein alike, he ranked among the greatest Sorcerers the world had ever known.

“Alzur was a legendary figure. He left marks upon the history of northern humanity that can never be erased.” Coral’s bright eyes gleamed with a touch of reverence. “In the tenth century, for instance, he and his teacher Cosimo created the Witchers.”

Memory stirred in Vesemir’s clouded eyes. At three hundred years old, the old fellow had naturally met the creator.

Vesemir remembered a man of singular bearing, one who inspired trust almost at once.

Unfortunately, they had met only once.

“Beyond that, he invented many miraculous forms of magic, including the powerful defensive magic Alzur’s Shield, the wide-ranging offensive magic Alzur Thunderbolt Spell, which rivaled a Forbidden Spell, and his most famous Summoning magic, Alzur’s Double Cross, capable of creating the terrifying Monster known as the Viy of Maribor…”

“The Viy of Maribor was dozens of times larger than a Dragon. It could destroy a city with ease.”

Conjuration Magic capable of Summoning a city-destroying Viy of Maribor?

That sounded more formidable than the common dragons of Skyrim.

Roy rubbed his chin and committed the detail to memory. After all, he possessed Skyrim’s Conjuration Magic himself. If Alzur’s Double Cross was truly that powerful, it was difficult not to covet it.

“Are you serious?” Kael frowned, disbelief creasing his face. “If that is true, then by controlling the Viy of Maribor, he could have taken the entire world for himself.”

“According to the Brotherhood of Sorcerers’ historical records, Alzur had his own principles and convictions. He had little interest in power. His ideal and ambition were to save the common people, and there is evidence to support that.” Coral shook her head. “He and Cosimo created the Witchers precisely to save humanity from the ravages of Monsters.”

A flicker of awe crossed Rita’s pretty face. “There is another story that supports this. From the ninth century to the eleventh, the Prince of Maribor and the Duke of Ellander fought an endless war over the throne of Temeria. Their strength was evenly matched, so the war dragged on for two hundred years, condemning the people of both realms to generations of misery.”

“To end their suffering, Alzur cast Double-Cross Conjuration upon the battlefield during one of their fiercest clashes. He unleashed the enormous Viy of Maribor, which swept through Ellander’s army and forced Ellander to surrender. Maribor gained control of Vizima, and the people were freed from war.”

“That’s right,” Koen added. “Keldar once told me that although the Griffin School’s Knightly Spirit was established by Master Erland when he founded the School, its true origin lay with Alzur, the creator of the Witchers. Alzur may have been a Sorcerer, but in his youth he received formal Knight training and was steeped in the Knightly Spirit.”

“Don’t speak of Alzur as though he were a saint.” The bald giant offered the contrary view, his distaste for Alzur plain. “As I recall, he and his teacher Cosimo carried out countless cruel experiments to create the Witchers. A great many innocent people died because of them.”

Coral inclined her head in agreement. She had spent years studying the Witchers’ Mutagenic Field and knew something of the uglier details. “According to the historical records I have studied, Alzur and Cosimo moved between experimental grounds in several ancient castles, conducting Mutation Experiments on adults. Kaer Seren was one such place.”

“Their experiments failed again and again, leaving countless victims behind. Once transformation in adults proved unworkable, they turned their attention to children. Only then did they create true Witchers.”

“Later, Alzur and Cosimo abandoned the Witcher Order they had created and devoted their efforts to other fields.”

* * *

“Idarran’s ability to transform and Summon Mutant Creatures was clearly inherited from his teacher, Alzur,” Kael reasoned. “According to Roy, Idarran appeared at Cintra Castle alongside the four masters. Does that mean the one directing those five is none other than the creator of the Witchers, Alzur?”

Every breath caught.

“That possibility cannot be dismissed. The masters would naturally hold their creator in awe.” Griffin nodded, breaking the silence. “Alzur may have used that reverence to persuade the four masters to help him pursue some purpose.”

Koen suddenly straightened as another piece of evidence came to him. “After Kaer Seren was destroyed by the great avalanche in the Dragon Mountains, Master Erland left the Griffin School in despair. Yet the Book of Shadows he left behind recorded where he meant to go.”

“He intended to find Alzur, his creator!”

“Clearly, he found him.” Orin raised his voice, firelight illuminating the excitement on his face. “Alzur moved him, and Erland joined his new undertaking!”

Roy considered this in silence before speaking. “Jérôme Moreau once mentioned that Erland had told him not to search. Now I suspect that ‘search’ carried another meaning.”

“Erland devoted half his life to the Griffin School he founded. He spent the rest tirelessly searching for his creator, hoping to persuade Alzur to continue serving humanity. It seems he finally found what he sought.”

“Is this fate?”

“Erland was probably the first to join,” Kaen said, his voice hoarse. “Then came Master Aiga of the Wolf School, Master Arnaghad of the Bear School, and Ivar Evil-Eye of the Viper School.”

“Alzur and his disciple Idarran stand at the heart of the organization.”

The dozen or so Witchers stared at one another, unable to put their tangled feelings into words.

After teasing apart clue after clue, they had discovered that the enemy they might soon face was their own creator.

Every veteran Witcher knew the name Alzur. It inspired greater dread than any Grandmaster of the School.

* * *

“Your reasoning is not without merit.” Kalkstein stroked his beard and shook his head with a mocking smile. “Unfortunately, you have overlooked one important fact. It renders the entire theory untenable.”

“What do you mean?” Eskel asked in his deep, muffled voice.

“Alzur has been dead for more than a century.”

The Alchemist’s words left every Witcher staring blankly.

“And the manner of his death was remarkably ironic,” Kalkstein continued. “More than two hundred years ago, during the Endless War, he Summoned the giant centipede known as the Viy of Maribor and helped the Kingdom of Maribor seize control of Vizima.”

“Later, for reasons unknown, a similar calamity struck again. Alzur Summoned the giant centipede within the city of Maribor and unleashed it to wreak havoc. Maribor, built upon the foundations of an ancient elven city, was half-destroyed by the monstrous creature. Terrible ruins and broken walls still scar the city to this day.”

“And amid that chaos, Alzur met his end.” Kalkstein paused. “He died in the jaws of his own Summoned Creature.”

“I was born in Maribor.” Triss’s face lost some of its color as old, unpleasant memories returned. “Before I became a sorceress, there was one tale I heard throughout my childhood. Alzur Summoned the Viy of Maribor, destroyed half of Mari, and killed countless innocent people, only to perish in the beast’s jaws himself. My countrymen still fear giant centipedes, and they hate Alzur with all their hearts.”

“What truly happened in Maribor?”

The same question rose in every mind.

Why would a Powerful Sorcerer standing at the pinnacle of his age suddenly turn upon innocent civilians?

“That was Alzur’s true nature,” Kalkstein said bluntly, making no effort to conceal his dislike. “He was a contradictory man, impossible to fathom.”

“If Alzur is dead…” The others’ hearts sank. “Then what of his teacher, the other creator of the Witchers, Cosimo?”

“He died even earlier,” the Alchemist said, shaking his head.

“Then are we facing only Idarran and the four masters?” Roy murmured. If so, the thought brought him some relief.

“Everyone… Cosimo’s death is beyond dispute.” Lytta Neyd clenched one fist and gently challenged the Alchemist’s conclusion. “But there are doubts surrounding Alzur’s death.”

“Everyone in the Brotherhood of Sorcerers says he died, and the people of Maribor believe he perished. Yet no one ever saw his corpse.”

“There was a time when I was obsessed with Witcher transformation. I searched every historical record I could find. Several sets of remains were rumored to be Alzur’s, but each proved to be the skeleton of an ordinary human, with not the faintest residue of magic.”

“I have a bold theory…” Her blue gaze traveled slowly across the silent faces. “After Summoning the Viy of Maribor, Alzur faked his death and escaped. Then he began gathering the finest ‘works’ he had created to pursue some ideal or ambition.”

“That is why the masters of so many Witcher Schools, the first-generation Witchers, vanished without a trace. They did not die. They went into hiding!”

“Madam Rita, could you show us the barest measure of respect?” Orin interrupted, displeasure roughening his voice. “Would you call the man beside you, your beloved, a ‘work’ as well?”

“You’re quite right!” Lytta Neyd lifted her chin with a triumphant smile, thrusting out her chest like a victorious queen. “He is a work shaped by my own hands, and I shall make him more exceptional with each passing day!”

Roy sucked in a breath and tried to pull his arm from her embrace. The Sorceress glared at him and held on even tighter.

The others hunched their shoulders as gooseflesh crawled over their skin.

Triss quietly turned her face away.

“Their purpose is deeply concealed,” the Sorceress continued. “I suspect most people would never accept it. It may well be considered outright heresy.”

“That is why they act in secret. For more than a century, they have kept contact with the outside world to a minimum and even severed their ties with the Brotherhood of Sorcerers. They appear repeatedly on battlefields, always seeking Restless Spirits.”

The murals in Hen Gaidth, recording dates, places, and death tolls, were evidence.

* * *

“We cannot afford carelessness.” Vesemir struck the wall firmly with his right fist, drawing everyone’s attention back to him. “Alzur may stand behind the four masters and Idarran, the researcher of Mutant Creatures.”

“And Alzur, in my judgment, is unquestionably one of the most powerful Sorcerers in the world. We must prepare for the worst.”

The words struck like cold iron.

The four masters were already extraordinary combatants. If Alzur, perhaps the greatest Sorcerer alive, truly stood behind them, they faced a thoroughly dangerous enemy.

Every face turned grave, and a leaden silence settled over the laboratory.

“Hey, Kid…” Lambert suddenly hooked an arm around Roy’s left shoulder. “Why not surrender to them outright? The Brotherhood can join them and help accomplish some grand undertaking!”

“…”

A dozen pairs of cold eyes turned upon him at once.

“Uh, it was a joke. They dared attack Roy. What room is left for negotiation?”

“They didn’t harm Triss or touch Gael’s House,” Kael said. “That means our work developing the orphanage does not interfere with their plans.”

“Exactly.” Roy’s gaze passed across the faces of his companions. “They will target me alone. I am their only objective.”

The others fell into thought.

They all knew Roy carried some secret. Through it, he had advanced and grown stronger at a terrifying pace.

He had walked the Witcher’s Path for only three years, yet not long ago, he had defeated Letho in single combat.

With no restrictions on his methods, Roy had already become the undisputed strongest fighter in the Brotherhood of Witchers.

Did the four masters and the organization behind them covet the secret he carried?

* * *

“To keep them from noticing anything amiss, I cannot openly appear at Gael’s House, in Novigrad, or anywhere else conspicuous.”

“Whatever happens, we cannot let them discover that I have returned to this world.” A blade-cold light flashed through Roy’s eyes, and he bared his white teeth. “I must find their headquarters, uncover their true purpose and intentions, then prescribe the proper remedy and repay them handsomely for their ‘kindness.’”

“Arnaghad in particular. He and I have an account to settle.”

As matters stood, the Brotherhood of Witchers remained hidden, while the four masters and their organization had stepped into view.

That gave the Brotherhood an advantage. For now, the initiative belonged to them.

* * *

“Are you certain you won’t return?” Kaen lowered his head and sighed. “For more than two months, the Kids at home have asked where Teacher Roy went. They’ve repeated it until my ears are nearly calloused. They miss you, understand? Monty, Akamtom, and the other two Kids have already passed the Trial of the Grasses.”

“The improved Decoctions of the Grasses they used proved quite safe and reliable. Before long, they should be ready to venture outside and gain experience.”

The Brotherhood’s steady growth warmed Roy’s chest, but it only hardened his resolve. “Once this matter is settled, I’ll see them. For now, tell them I went traveling across the sea.”

“You already have a plan, Kid?” The bald giant studied his disciple. Roy had changed again over the past two months, and Letho could now feel a faint pressure merely standing near him.

“Of the clues we possess, one pattern is clear. The grandmasters always appear when war breaks out.” Roy cracked his knuckles and began circling the group, drawing every gaze with him. “The Battle of Sodden Hill ended not long ago. North and south both suffered grievous losses. Another large-scale conflict is unlikely within the next three or four years.”

“Is that a premonition?” Triss asked.

“Yes. Today is March 15, 1263. Within half a year, the Nilfgaardians will reach a peace agreement with Cintra. This Northern War will officially end.”

In truth, Roy remembered that after the north and south signed an armistice, Cintra would be ceded to the Nilfgaardians.

That would mark the end of the First Northern War.

“In peacetime, the four masters will inevitably disappear from sight.” Roy reached into empty air. Dozens of Magical Portraits flew into the others’ hands, five copies for each of them.

“Coral painted these portraits of the four masters and Idarran from my memories. Watch carefully in your daily lives, and pay particular attention to suspicious people near Gael’s House.”

“That’s simple enough. We could give the portraits to Gael and Chappelle,” Orin suggested. “Chappelle is a Bailiff and holds considerable influence at the Eternal Fire’s headquarters in Novigrad. The Eternal Fire also maintains branches across the world. If they help us search, I believe we’ll have news soon enough.”

“Nonsense!” Kael shook his head contemptuously, wariness tightening his eyes. “Do you take the masters for barnyard fowl waiting to be caught? Have you forgotten how Master Ivar demonstrated his stealth and concealment techniques? If they truly wish to hide, who could possibly find them?”

“And the only person whose fate was connected to Erland, Jérôme Moreau, is already at rest,” Eskel added. “A Book of Shadows alone cannot Divinate Erland’s location.”

“A public search,” Letho said with a nod, “would only reveal our movements and alert them.”

“I may be able to help.” Triss nervously moistened her full lips before volunteering. “Now that Roy has returned safely, there is no longer any reason for me to remain in Novigrad and keep trying to recover my memories.”

Roy parted his lips. He had sacrificed one life to bring Triss to Gael’s House. How could he let her leave so easily before making her a Resident Sorcerer?

“I need to return to the Royal Council in Vizima and meet Foltest. I must also report back to the Brotherhood of Sorcerers. Afterward, I intend to remain there and gather information for you.”

The wavering candlelight illuminated Triss’s resolute face, while her soft voice carried through the laboratory. “The four masters conceal their movements well, but Idarran is obsessed with researching Mutant Creatures. He is not a man who can remain idle. I believe we can find an opening through him.”

“An excellent idea, little sister.” Coral’s praise came easily. “Idarran is not the only person in the Brotherhood interested in the field of Mutant Creatures. We should search for traces of him through other Mutation experts.”

“They may still exchange information in private.”

Coral released Roy’s hand, crossed to Triss, and linked arms with her. She smiled sweetly, as though they were the closest of sisters. “You may return whenever your investigation allows. The children are very fond of you, and we have worked together quite pleasantly.”

Rita was thoroughly pleased with Triss’s behavior. After two months of correction, Triss no longer dared poach her man beneath her nose. She barely dared look at him.

She could not have been more obedient.

“Then it’s settled. I’ll miss everyone too!” Triss agreed readily, making every effort not to look at the man behind her.

He had saved her twice.

It was time to repay him.

The ten Witchers watched the spectacle with undisguised amusement, their gazes traveling ceaselessly between Roy and the two Sorceresses.

The mockery in their eyes made Roy’s scalp prickle.

“I’ll leave it to you, little… Madam Triss. Your safety comes first. You must protect yourself.”

Roy forced out the words of concern but did not dare ask her to stay. Instead, he changed the subject.

“Large-scale conflict and death will not return to the North or the south anytime soon. I intend to search around Sodden, where scattered fighting still continues.”

“Even a mosquito has meat on it, however little. The four masters may appear in Sodden.” Roy turned to Coral. He had already used every method at his disposal to persuade her the previous night. “When the time comes, I’ll act alone…”

His mismatched eyes flicked discreetly toward Triss, who stood twisting the hem of her dress, her thoughts clearly elsewhere.

The humiliating ordeal at Cintra Castle had taught him a severe lesson.

With the Elder Blood, he could come and go freely on his own. He could not bring along someone who would weigh him down.

“As for everyone else…”

“Chappelle and Gael have nothing pressing for us,” Lambert announced. “Aiden and I have been idle, so we’ll go to Kaedwen and search for information about the four grandmasters and Idarran. Aiden knows Kaedwen better than most.”

“Eskel and I will go to Aedirn,” Orin said, unwilling to be outdone.

“Then the rest of you should guard our home. That will be the greatest support you can offer me.”

“Kid, if you’re going to Sodden…” A knowing gleam flashed in Vesemir’s eyes. “You may as well contact Geralt along the way. You can help each other.”

“No wonder he wasn’t here today. What is he doing in Sodden?”

“Looking for his daughter,” Lambert answered, his face turning solemn. “Half a month ago, Madam Corinne Tilly gave Geralt the approximate location of Ciri, the Lady of Fate.”

“Somewhere around Sodden in the Yaruga basin. The aftermath of the Battle of Sodden Hill has yet to fade, and scattered clashes still plague the region. That fool went alone to Sodden to search for Ciri. He was afraid we might interfere with some thread of destiny and refused to let anyone accompany him.”

Roy nodded.

He seemed to remember a Druid Circle near Sodden.

Was Geralt’s mother there?

“Perfect. I’ll find him along the way.”

* * *

“When are you leaving, Kid?” The bald giant reached out casually. Light Blinked across the Ring of Holding on his finger, and a bottle of Dwarven Spirit appeared in his hand. “It’s been too long since we gathered. Stay for a few drinks and a proper talk. What sort of place is this Skyrim of yours? What happened to you there?”

Roy glanced at Coral. Expectation shone in her eyes.

“Very well. I wasn’t planning to leave for another two days anyway…”

“Oh, and I brought gifts for everyone.”

He swept a hand across the empty space before him. A brand-new Enchanting Table appeared at once, accompanied by two filled Soul Gems.

“Coral, Kalkstein, and, hmm, Triss, these are for you. An Enchanting Apparatus from Skyrim!”

Coral’s face blossomed into a smile. She planted a firm kiss on his cheek, then examined the intricate, mysterious Enchanting Tools from Another World with shining eyes.

Triss’s eyes glittered as she joined her.

“Letho, Kaen, these are yours.”

A dazzling heap of lush green Herbs covered another platform.

“Thirty-six varieties of Herbs native to Skyrim. You can study their medicinal properties, develop new alchemical medicines, or improve the Decoctions of the Grasses.”

The two men stared at the Herbs as though beholding women of incomparable beauty, their breathing turning rough.

“Your opportunity has come, Kaen!” Letho teased, a rare note of humor in his voice. “Take some seeds back to Evelyn and find a way to transplant them into the botanical garden.”

“I will!”

Finally, Roy filled the table with a small mountain of jointed bones radiating a terrifying presence and exquisitely patterned, unyielding scales.

He had brought out only a quarter of his stock. He could release the rest gradually.

“What are those?” The remaining men, including the Auckes brothers, Lambert, and Koen, fixed their gazes upon the pile.

“Bones and scales from a powerful Magical Beast.” Roy smiled at Vesemir. “See whether you can forge them into peerless weapons.”

“What beast?” Vesemir ran his rough fingertips over a smooth scale, then flicked it with one finger. The sound was neither metal nor stone. Light flared in his amber pupils.

“In Skyrim, that beast is called a dragon.”

Pfft!

“Idiot! You have five seconds to wipe it clean!”

Orin fumbled for a cloth and hurriedly wiped the mouthful of liquor he had sprayed across Lambert’s face.

Roy smiled as he surveyed the pairs of eyes stretched wide with astonishment. Every scrap of attention in the chamber had turned to the dragon remains.

“We have plenty of time.” Roy took a sip of wine he had not tasted in far too long, slipped an arm around Coral’s slender waist, and boldly kissed her cheek. She wrinkled her delicate nose and stared at him with wide blue eyes, plainly caught off guard.

“The tale of my adventures in Skyrim is neither too long nor too short.”

“But it will certainly satisfy everyone’s curiosity!”

On the Skellige Isles, atop a wooded hill, stood the magnificent Fortress of King Bran, Ruler of the archipelago.

Within one lavish bedchamber, a figure bearing two swords stood silently beside a soft blue bed, his eyes bright in the gloom. Sparks leapt from the crackling hearth, illuminating the tangled emotions on his face and the sleeping woman reflected in his pupils.

The Queen of Cintra looked far more haggard than when they had last parted. Fine crow’s-feet marked the corners of her eyes, while the flesh had fallen from her cheeks until the bones stood sharp beneath the skin. Her dry yellow hair lay in disarray behind her head, and her lips were pale and cracked. Nothing remained of her former regal beauty. She looked like an ordinary woman in her forties, worn thin by grief.

Some nightmare seemed to hold her fast. Her brows pinched together, her cheeks taut. Even asleep, she lay rigidly straight, both hands clutching the blanket against her chest.

As Roy watched her, an inexplicable warmth stirred inside him.

During his final days in Skyrim, he had clearly sensed that, apart from Griffin, another life in the Witcher world was closely bound to his own. Tonight, he had used that life as a Beacon and opened the World Gate beneath the cover of darkness, only to find himself transported directly to Skellige.

There he had found Calanthe, who had sought refuge with her late husband’s elder brother.

Now the unseen bond between them had tightened to its strongest point.

Roy pressed a hand against the trembling pendant at his throat. A strange exhilaration rose in his chest.

A tiny life moved vigorously inside the Queen of Cintra’s belly, sending him a wordless pulse of affection and delight. At the same time, it radiated extraordinary Vitality and magic.

“Calanthe, Calanthe… so it was the little one in your belly causing all this trouble.”

The unborn child was greeting him without even knowing it.

From what he could sense, the child had inherited the elder’s Bloodline, just as her niece Ciri had. The Elder Blood flowing through her awakened an answering throb in the Witcher’s Bloodline, born from the same source.

Roy could not tell whether it was a blessing or a Curse.

“The bond of destiny created by the Law of Surprise truly is wondrous.”

Geralt had Ciri, his Lady of Fate.

Now Roy had a child of destiny as well.

Yet Roy himself was still young, a youth fond of pleasure and mischief. He could not begin to understand what a father was supposed to feel.

He simply felt happy.

“Stay healthy, little one. Grow quickly…” Roy bent one knee beside the bed and leaned closer to the sleeping queen, almost pressing his cheek to her belly. His right hand traced two tentative motions through the air several inches away, as though he might somehow stroke the unborn child’s tiny face.

Then he shook his head and laughed at himself, light gleaming in his Heterochromia. “You’ve lost your father and the title of princess before you were even born. I can hardly leave you to grow up alone. Once I reach Sodden, I’ll bring your niece to meet you.”

With that farewell, the Witcher vanished from the bedchamber.

A moment later, Calanthe’s eyelids stirred. Her eyes flew open, green and bewildered, and searched the room.

“Who was here just now?” she murmured.

The sultry sea wind drifting through the window carried the rank scent of salt and fish. Something stirred in her heart.

“Eist… did you come back to see me and our child?”

Her voice, bright with surprise and sharpened by urgency, echoed through the bedchamber.

No answer came.

* * *

At dawn, the first pale light touched the rippling lake at the heart of the Valley of Nine.

Letho, the Auckes brothers, Lambert, Lytta Neyd, and several others nursing the remains of their hangovers summoned Roy after his return from Skellige. The whole party marched to the open ground beside the lake.

Lambert still wore a drunken flush across both cheeks. With wine lending him courage, he crooked a provocative finger at Roy.

“Come on, Kid. Show me what you learned in Skyrim. That Conjuration Magic you mentioned yesterday, and the power you used to defeat a dragon, the Dragon Shout…”

“Are you certain?” Roy shook his head with a laugh. “I’d hate to shatter your confidence.”

“Don’t boast too soon. Even a good sailor can drown in a ditch!” Lambert bared his white teeth and spun the gleaming steel sword in his hand through a graceful Sword Flourish. “I passed the Secondary Mutation. I have a few tricks of my own to show you. But no ranged weapons. If you spend the entire fight skulking about and loosing arrows from the shadows, there’ll be no pleasure in it.”

“Grant his wish.” Coral shot Roy a meaningful look. “Teach that loose-tongued fool a proper lesson. I also want to see how Skyrim’s magic system works.”

* * *

Roy nodded.

His mind sank into the Conjuration Rune.

At a thought, the air thundered.

A blue-violet sphere appeared in the space between them.

135 mana deducted. Level 2 and Elder Blood reduced the cost by sixty percent, while crossing planes increased consumption by fifty percent.

15 XP deducted.

An enormous, pallid Elemental spirit appeared from nothing.

It stood over two metres tall, broad and powerfully built, its massive muscles seemingly cast from solid frost. Blue-grey armor like overlapping shields covered its limbs, chest, abdomen, and the back of its neck. A triangular head rested atop its shoulders, bearing two small, ice-blue eyes that regarded Lambert without the faintest trace of emotion.

The onlookers’ expressions hardened.

Every Witcher present was a seasoned veteran, yet none had ever encountered an Elemental this strange.

Unlike the Flame Atronach, fragile but capable of unleashing rapid volleys of fireballs from a distance, the Frost Atronach possessed a hide like stone. Apart from its vulnerability to fire, it had astonishing resistance to other forms of magic and especially to physical blows.

Every strike of its fists and feet carried freezing force that slowed whatever it hit. It was, in every sense, a defensive Summoned Creature.

Roy had not finished Summoning.

The fingers of his left hand traced a pitch-black Somne Sign. Arcane Aura gathered before him as he drew a breath, and the long-unused Griffin School Arcane erupted once more.

Wingbeat!

Roar!

A rousing bellow shook the lakeshore as a Witcher phantom sprang from the torrent of magic.

Lambert copied him. His fingers traced a Sign, Summoning a phantom of his own. Then he raised his steel sword and charged like an arrow loosed from the string.

Roy remained perfectly calm and issued two commands in succession.

The Frost Atronach moved in front of him and met Lambert’s cold, flashing blade.

The two phantoms collided.

Swish! Swish!

Blade-Glint sliced through the air. After a brief, savage clash of steel, the Blade-Glint Blinked repeatedly, and the opposing phantoms remained locked together for less than two seconds.

The Mutation phantom, which had inherited Roy’s physical attributes and combat ability, quickly shattered Lambert’s ordinary phantom, which was useful for little more than deceiving an opponent.

Clang!

Lambert’s sword knocked aside a Thunderbolt blow descending from the Frost Atronach’s fist. His left hand traced a crimson Rune, and an Igni Sign woven from flame engulfed the creature. Steam and white smoke burst into the air, yet the Frost Atronach continued hammering its fists at Lambert without pause.

The Yrden Trap beneath its feet bound its swollen, cumbersome body fast. Its movements became so slow that it could not touch so much as a hair on Lambert, who darted around it with the speed of a mongoose.

At that rate, the Witcher’s flames would melt it into water within twenty seconds.

Then Roy’s phantom joined the battle.

Swish!

Aerondight tore through the air and struck hard at Lambert’s back.

At the same moment, the Frost Atronach raised one pillar-like leg and stamped the earth.

Crystalline spikes of frost exploded outward.

A freezing shockwave struck Lambert.

He threw himself into a low roll and escaped the attack’s reach. Planting his left hand against the ground, he unleashed the area-wide Aard granted by his Secondary Mutation.

Invisible magic exploded outward from his body. Dust billowed, and shredded grass whirled through the air.

The massive, hard-bodied Frost Atronach staggered backward, but its sheer weight kept it upright.

The phantom was less fortunate. The surging Magic Torrent flung it from its feet and sent it crashing onto its back.

Swish! Swish!

Lambert stepped lightly, leaving an afterimage behind him.

One stroke severed the phantom’s head.

Puff!

A great cloud of deathly pale frost burst from the phantom’s collapsing body. Lambert had no time to evade. The freezing vapor washed across the leather armor and trousers on his left side, coating his arm and flank in crystalline frost.

His speed and reactions fell by thirty percent.

The Frost Atronach’s huge feet hammered the ground as it advanced, awkwardly swinging both arms at him.

Roy smiled at Lambert’s sour expression and rapidly traced another Sign. A second Witcher phantom leapt from the magic blazing at his fingertips.

The interval had been too short for Wingbeat to empower it, leaving its body slightly transparent.

“Damn it!” Lambert circled the Frost Atronach like a ghost and drove his sword into its back with tremendous force, carving several thin cracks across the ice.

But the creature had no true weak point. Physical attacks alone could do little against it in such a short span, and Signs had never been Lambert’s strength.

“Stop!”

Lambert shouted the word.

At Roy’s command, the sword-bearing phantom and Frost Atronach immediately ceased their attacks. Both returned to his side and stood with heads bowed.

“You meant to grind me down with one foe after another? Ruthless bastard.” Lambert sighed helplessly. He could undoubtedly destroy the Frost Atronach and the phantom, but Roy would simply Summon more, one after another without end.

Aerondight had not even left its sheath, yet Lambert already lacked the strength to divide his attention further.

Somewhere along the way, the gulf between them had grown this vast.

Lambert gave Roy an aggrieved glare. “Ever heard of respecting your elders? Couldn’t you let me win just once?”

“Weren’t you the one demanding a demonstration and telling me to come at you with everything I had?”

Lambert grumbled under his breath as he sheathed his sword. Then he joined the others in surrounding the Frost Atronach, prodding and touching it with unabashed curiosity.

“Is this thing related to a Troll?” Lambert asked.

“Nonsense! A Troll is far stronger.” Orin slapped the Frost Atronach on the back of its head. It stood there like an idiot, its ice-blue eyes showing no response. “Smarter too. This thing looks more like a frost Golem.”

“That is perfectly normal,” Coral said with complete seriousness. “Most Elementals possess little intelligence. That applies not only to this Frost Atronach. Even a powerful Djinn is none too bright. Otherwise, it would never allow itself to be Sealed inside an Elemental bottle.”

“But how did you accomplish this?” Kael glanced at the companions around him. “You learned magic this powerful in only two months. Every old fellow here has progressed no further than mastering Witcher Signs.”

“Tamriel’s magic system differs from ours. Perhaps I simply possess a little talent by their standards.”

“They have something rather useful called a Magic Tome.” Roy’s next words shook them all. “Tear apart a Magic Tome, and you can bypass the arduous process of study and directly master a form of magic, provided you possess sufficient talent. As it happens, I do.”

Coral smoothed her hair, longing entering her eyes. “From the way you describe it, Tamriel’s magic appears more advanced than ours. The Enchanting Table you gave me yesterday is intricate and ingenious. It bears almost no resemblance to any form of enchantment I know.”

“It is,” Roy said gravely. “After all, Deities exist in that world, The Eight Divines and sixteen Demon Lords. I even had dealings with one of them.”

Roy stopped abruptly. During the previous night’s reunion, he had told his companions nothing about the Demon Lord Sanguine or Snowdrop.

This time, not even Lambert or Orin pressed him.

Witchers did not believe in gods, but they retained enough sense to treat them with basic respect.

“You should have brought back a Magic Tome for us to see, Kid,” Kael said regretfully.

“That was an oversight. Don’t worry. There will surely be a chance to take all of you there and let you see it for yourselves.”

Roy considered experimenting with the World Gate one day, perhaps taking several companions to Skyrim to travel and obtain new powers.

But not yet. He was still lying low.

His own plan came first.

* * *

“What about the Dragon Shout you used to defeat the dragon Mirmulnir?” Lambert began clamoring again. “Use it on me. Let me experience how a dragon feels!”

Roy noticed the expectation in everyone’s eyes. He would not, of course, use the Dragon Shout on the foolish Lambert.

At close range, it would shatter more than flesh and bone. Even a body of iron and steel would break beneath it.

His mind sank into the Rune.

Compared with Tamriel, Summoning the Dragon Shout in the Witcher world required an additional fifty Mana.

He could easily afford it.

Roy turned toward the lake, drew a sudden breath, and activated the Summoning Rune.

“Fus!”

The tremendous cry made every heart lurch.

Far away in Skyrim, upon the seven thousand steps leading to High Hrothgar in Whiterun Hold, a lean, sharp-featured man covered in frost climbed beside an honest-faced young man.

The latter jolted as though struck by lightning. Some distant sensation made him turn and look down from the snow-covered cliff into the abyss thousands of feet below.

“Goldeneye?”

An immense and irresistible force crossed the barrier of space.

From Tamriel, it descended upon Toussaint.

A narrow black fissure appeared before Roy. The Power of the Earthbones surged from it and followed his Thu’um into the still surface of the lake.

Boom!

It sounded as though a thousand-ton weight had fallen from the sky.

Freezing lake water erupted high into the air. The lake rose like a river in sudden flood, and churning spray crashed over the watchers, soaking every face and garment.

A vast hollow more than three metres in radius opened upon the water. Dense streams of bubbles boiled up from the depths.

It lasted only a second.

Dozens of broad-headed fish floated to the surface, pale bellies turned toward the sky.

“So that is the Dragon Shout…” Wonder sharpened every face.

Koen studied the shattered water. “Why does it remind me of the ‘Roar’ from the Griffin School Arcane, the one derived from the spirits of The Four Elements? Wingbeat.”

Roy released a breath. Sunlight caught a crystalline layer of sweat upon his relaxed face. “More precisely, the Griffin School’s ‘Roar’ manipulates Elementals. The Dragon Shout commands a different power.”

The Power of the Earthbones.

“Very well, Kid. Neither your style nor your methods resemble those of a Witcher anymore.” The bald giant folded his arms, his amber eyes complicated as he studied his disciple. “Your Swordsmanship is barely passable, but you carry a whole heap of strange abilities.”

The Auckes brothers and the three men from the School of the Cat nodded in full agreement. They could no longer make sense of their young junior’s methods. His abilities appeared disorderly, yet each carried a lethal threat. No one knew how many Assassin’s Maces he still concealed.

Their old experience could no longer guide this Kid.

“So what?” Lytta Neyd lifted her chin and proudly clutched Roy’s arm. “What does his manner of fighting matter, so long as he can protect himself and those he cares about? Besides, as far as I know, he has never abused his power.”

The others nodded.

That was true enough.

Had any of them possessed such strange and formidable power at sixteen or seventeen, they would have roamed the world in pursuit of pleasure.

Witchers could not father children, so what restraint was needed? They would have slept with dozens of women at the very least.

Yet this Kid, young as he was, remained firmly caught in Lytta Neyd’s grasp.

At the thought, the older men exchanged glances and shared an unspoken wave of comfort.

Roy would probably never enjoy their romantic fortune.

* * *

For the next two days, Roy remained in the laboratory beneath Toussaint’s Valley of Nine, keeping the others company.

With his limited understanding, he assisted Coral and Kalkstein in studying the Enchanting Table and supplied them with several Soul Gems. The two soon immersed themselves in the work.

Their goal was to adapt the Enchanting Table to local methods. If they succeeded, they would be able to enchant equipment for the Brotherhood of Witchers.

After a reluctant farewell, Triss temporarily returned to Vizima.

Lambert and Aiden departed for Kaedwen, while Eskel and Orin traveled to Aedirn to investigate.

Letho and Kaen took Roy’s translation of A Guide to Skyrim Alchemy, rendered in The Northern Tongue, and threw themselves into its study, forgetting food and sleep.

The possibilities between these Herbs from Another World and the local Herbs seemed endless.

According to them, the new Herbs would profoundly affect existing Potion Formulae, Potion Formulae, the Decoctions of the Grasses formula, and the Higher Vampire Decoction formula they were currently developing.

Testing and modifying them, however, would take a great deal of time.

Druid Evelyn of the High Alder Grove botanical garden also began attempting to transplant Skyrim’s Herbs.

Perhaps fate had lent a hand.

Novigrad’s climate closely resembled that of Whiterun Hold. The Herbs from the new world had a strong chance of surviving transplantation, which would grant the Brotherhood an inexhaustible supply.

One other matter was worth mentioning. During Roy’s absence, Kaen’s long-dormant heart had somehow begun to bloom, and his relationship with Evelyn had advanced swiftly.

The Druid seemed entirely untroubled by Kaen’s terrible face. A deep understanding had grown between them, and all that remained was for one of them to speak plainly.

Roy was glad to see it. Ideally, Kaen would persuade the Druid to remain with the Brotherhood forever.

* * *

Not all the news was good.

Attempts to work the Dragon Scales and Dragon Bones went poorly.

Even Old Man Vesemir, with all his skill at the forge, found himself helpless before such rare and precious materials.

“I do not know what manner of creatures Skyrim’s dragons are, but these scales are rich in magic. Their hardness and resilience surpass anything I have ever handled, yet they are unbelievably light. They are almost too perfect to be real.”

“None of the Witcher School equipment we currently know, whether from the Viper School, Griffin School, Wolf School, or Griffin School, can draw out their full potential.”

“The Dragon Bones could likewise be forged into heavy armor with astonishing defensive power, or into bone weapons rich in magic and sharp enough to cut through anything.”

“We need at least two Master Smiths and an Ofieri skilled in enchantment. Otherwise, we must wait until Madam Rita and Kalkstein make progress with that Enchanting Table, then combine our efforts to work these precious materials.”

“Anything less would be a criminal waste.”

* * *

Work on the Dragon Bones and Dragon Scales was set aside for the time being.

Roy also kept the Dragonblood secret from the others. They still had vast quantities of Alchemical Ingredients, Herbs, and a Higher Vampire’s corpse left to study. Research, like all things, had to proceed one step at a time.

During those two days, Roy secretly returned to Gael’s House to see the children. He also repeatedly confirmed the safety of Old Mole and his wife, little Minnole, and Kantila.

Then Roy obtained some Higher Vampire blood from Kalkstein, along with a portion of his own Blood Essence.

He did not want Coral to bleed for him again.

Mixing the two with Dragonblood, he brewed a second Forging Elixir.

Unfortunately, the Elder Blood lying dormant within the Witcher behaved like a diner whose palate had grown impossibly discerning. It rejected the second dose of Forging Elixir.

Its effect amounted to less than one percent of the first dose.

Perhaps this was a safeguard left behind by Master Mirror. Roy would have to seek another way to Enhance the Elder Blood.

* * *

Two days later, Roy bade the others farewell. With Griffin beside him, he set out for Sodden to find Geralt and Ciri, and to search for information about the four masters.

The sky was choked with cloud.

The bitter wind had yet to relent, but the mountain path finally ended. The Witcher, dressed in light brown leather armor with his hood drawn and the Lady of the Lake’s Sword across his back, emerged onto a broad road.

It wound from south to north across the plains of Sodden.

The sights along it were much as he had expected. Since leaving Karlkano near the Sodden border, he had encountered scene after scene like this one.

Columns of refugees trudged along with tangled hair and yellow, hollow faces, scarcely more alive than walking corpses. In the roadside grass, and even amid the ruts in the middle of the road, lay overturned, broken wagons and horses stiffening in pools of blood. Bundles, linen sacks, and market baskets had been scattered underfoot. The dead wore rags and gave off a stench that clung to the throat.

Roy had counted more than thirty bodies in a single day.

Some were Cintrians who had fled inland from the coast rather than submit to Nilfgaardian rule, but most were Natives of Sodden. Flies swarmed over some, crawling across exposed rot and white bone. Others had died recently enough that their blood still shone wet.

They had met different ends. Standard-issue swords, flails, and axes had split skin, muscle, and bone. One victim had taken an arrow through the heart from behind.

Those killings were clearly the work of Nilfgaardian stragglers roaming Sodden.

After the Nilfgaardians withdrew from Sodden, the main army had returned to Cintra and established camp. Yet small bands of soldiers still crossed the border from time to time to harass the region.

A few of the dead, however, had been stabbed with pitchforks or other farming tools. Others had suffered their skulls beaten open with clubs and branches.

Then there was this one.

Roy stopped beside the corpse of a young boy. A rotten, mold-covered apple lay near one hand beside a wicker basket. Someone had taken everything else it once contained.

Roy adjusted the dark glasses concealing his eyes and gently examined the boy’s neck.

A dark-red ligature mark had bitten deep into the flesh.

The killer had not been particularly strong. The boy had suffered before dying. Even now, his pale eyes stared wide, terror fixed upon his young, bloodless face. In his final struggle, his fingernails had filled with foul earth and scraps of skin.

No soldier had done this.

Roy brushed mud and grass from his palm and sighed.

In war, the greatest victims were always the innocent.

Unease tightened beneath his ribs. There was no telling whether someone he knew might lie among the dead.

“Where in hell did Geralt go?”

The School of the Wolf Witcher had entered Sodden alone to follow the supposed guidance of destiny and find his Lady of Fate. He had rejected every possible source of interference.

According to the history Roy remembered, Geralt’s search for his daughter would end well. He would bring little Ciri home, and father and daughter would finally be reunited.

But Roy’s interference had shifted events forward by five full months.

Something could easily go wrong along the way.

Scattered soldiers posed no threat to the White Wolf, but a large detachment might.

And Ciri had only just turned ten.

Roy quickened his pace.

He crossed a narrow stream stained pale red with blood. An emptied burlap sack once used for horse feed lay on the pebbles beside the water.

He prayed its contents had ended up in the belly of Geralt’s fine mare, Roach.

Roy opened his Witcher Senses and followed the scent away from the road, forcing his way into a stand of ancient, dense brush. The ground beyond sloped gently downward.

Five minutes along the incline brought him to a broad patch of uprooted tree stumps. Beyond them lay a clearing containing several wooden houses, a barn, and a few thatched huts.

A battered fence surrounded the small farmstead. By some rare stroke of fortune, it had escaped the worst of the war. The place was dilapidated, but still largely intact.

Roy suddenly went still.

Something heavy slammed violently against a wooden door inside the yard.

He crouched and peered through the gaps in the boxwood leaves, one hand slipping behind his hood.

Griffin, the cat-owl sleeping soundly in the little nest inside, was seized by the neck and lifted into the air.

Griffin shook his plump body and reluctantly flapped his wings. He landed upon the farmhouse roof twenty metres away.

The cat-owl cooed, its round amber eyes transmitting everything it saw.

A hideous Monster prowled before the stout oak door. From time to time, it swung its short, thick, dark-purple claws and battered the locked entrance, emitting a low, irritable Roar.

It closely resembled a ghoul. Its mouth gaped wide, packed with foul yellow teeth, while thick grey-white horny growths covered its skin. It moved on all fours like a beast.

Three bone crowns, each the size of a palm, grew from the top of its head. They trembled slightly each time it hurled itself against the door.

Bloodthorn Corpse-fiend

Age: 8

HP: 230

* * *

Attributes

Strength: 20

Agility: 16

Constitution: 23

Perception: 8

Willpower: 6

Charisma: 2

Spirit: 5

* * *

Skills

Plague Claw LV8:

The Bloodthorn Corpse-fiend’s claws and fangs carry a lethal mixture of toxins, bacteria, and virulent pathogens.

Targets wounded by its attacks may suffer:

• High fever

• Physical weakness

• Festering wounds

• Accelerated tissue decay

• Progressive infection

The severity of the infection depends on the victim’s Constitution and resistance to disease.

* * *

Feeding LV7:

The Bloodthorn Corpse-fiend rapidly Devours flesh to replenish its own Vitality.

By consuming fresh corpses or living flesh, it can quickly recover from moderate injuries and restore a significant amount of HP.

The larger and fresher the meal, the greater the recovery.

* * *

Frenzy (Passive Trait):

The Bloodthorn Corpse-fiend stores a large reserve of flesh-energy gathered through its daily Feeding.

When its HP falls below 20%, this reserve is automatically Activated.

Effects:

• Rapidly restores HP

• Strength +4

• Agility +4

• Constitution +4

• Becomes far more savage

• Completely ignores pain

Duration: 1 Minute

During Frenzy, the creature fights with reckless aggression until either it or its prey is dead.

* * *

“The closer it comes to death, the more violently it clings to life.”

* * *

Several dozen metres behind it, two much smaller ghouls stood over two young corpses. The dead lay side by side in a shallow pit, their foreheads and the joints of their limbs torn open into bloody holes. The ghouls had cracked their bones and sucked out the marrow.

“No wonder the soldiers left this place alone. It has three guardian gods at the gate.”

After a great war, the commonest calamities were plague, bandits, and Scavenger Monsters such as ghouls and Nekkers, born and bred among rotting corpses.

Like flies, they followed the stink of death and blood.

Roy sent Griffin circling once more.

No other threats lurked nearby.

He drew his Hand Crossbow as magic surged into his fingertips.

Thunder rolled.

A towering, powerfully built Frost Atronach emerged from an Oblivion Gate. At the Witcher’s command, it strode forward and charged the ghouls without the slightest fear.

The Bloodthorn Corpse-fiend instantly stopped battering the door. Its black, crazed pupils swung toward the Frost Atronach, and it sprang with an enraged low Roar.

Twang!

The bowstring trembled.

A bolt punched through the skull of one ghoul behind the Corpse Fiend. It was as though a speeding wagon had struck it head-on. The force lifted its whole body and flung it two metres backward.

It hit the ground shrieking, red light spilling from its body. Half its shattered skull had fallen away, exposing a slick, revolting brain.

Twang!

The second bolt destroyed the brain. The red pulp burst like an overripe tomato.

The ghoul collapsed and lay still.

Defeated ghoul. XP +100. Witcher LV12 (7400/12500)

* * *

Roy blew across the Hand Crossbow and turned toward the main battle.

The slowing force carried by the Frost Atronach’s fists and feet kept the Bloodthorn Corpse-fiend pinned in the open ground before the farmhouse. Its Icebound armor effectively repelled the Corpse Fiend’s fangs and claws, while its Elemental body was immune to poison.

It was a perfect counter to ghouls.

The Corpse Fiend relied on its greater speed, circling constantly and slashing with its claws. Yet it could not break the Frost Atronach’s armor. Instead, the freezing vapor leaking from the Elemental steadily slowed it until the change was visible with every movement.

The two were almost evenly matched.

Roy looked with satisfaction upon the creature that had cost nearly half his magic to create. Then he saw the third ghoul closing in on the Frost Atronach.

“Two against one? Not a chance.”

Twang!

An Arrow tore through the air.

Blood burst from the ghoul’s head as if an enormous falling stake had smashed into its skull. It wailed and toppled backward.

Space rippled.

The Witcher appeared beside it.

Swish!

Aerondight left its sheath and carved a beautiful arc from above.

The blade swept through without resistance.

Thump.

The ugly head struck the earth and rolled to the Witcher’s boots. A Star Rune lit upon the blade.

Defeated ghoul. XP +100.

Roy flicked his wrist, scattering the foul blood from his sword.

Since the Elder Blood awakened, each teleportation cost only 8 mana. With his present reserves, he could almost Blink without restraint.

Swish!

The Witcher moved like lightning and attacked the Bloodthorn Corpse-fiend from behind.

Intimidate!

Blood-colored tendrils lifted the creature helplessly into the air. Roy aligned the dark Edge with its thick, short neck and struck downward.

Spurt! Spurt!

Black Blood burst like a broken dam.

The Edge lodged in the neck, which sprayed like a fountain.

The Corpse Fiend gave a piercing Wail.

A second stroke followed.

After repeated reinforcement, the Soulblade was sharp enough to shear through iron as though it were mud.

The huge head rolled to the Witcher’s feet.

Defeated Bloodthorn Corpse-fiend. XP +260. Witcher LV12 (7760/12500)

The fight had lasted less than twenty seconds.

“Summoning the Frost Atronach cost fifteen XP, and three Monsters gave me more than four hundred. A fine profit.”

Roy approvingly patted the Frost Atronach’s head, then casually returned it to Oblivion. Humming a cheerful tune, he drew a short blade and dissected the three corpses where they lay.

Eyeballs, tongues, internal organs, poisonous claws and teeth, and a large red Mutagenic Extract.

More than a dozen Witchers now depended upon the School. Their need for Potions and Mutagens used in mutation had increased severalfold. Roy could not afford to waste any harvest.

* * *

Within minutes, the three ghouls had been stripped almost to skeletons.

Roy cleaned the blood from himself and his sword at an unhurried pace, then gave a loud whistle.

It was meant for Griffin and the farmstead’s owner alike.

The cat-owl fluttered back into his hood.

Roy ignored the door, which remained firmly shut, and turned to leave.

Creak.

The door suddenly opened, and the face of a decrepit old man appeared behind it.

“Did you kill them, my lord?” He glanced at the ghastly remains of the ghouls and called timidly after the Witcher.

“They screamed at me. Killing them was no trouble.” Roy turned and regarded him without expression.

The old man was short but not a Hunchback. He wore a linen shirt and a filthy pair of trousers made from the same cloth.

“Thank you. You killed the Monsters in the yard and saved Albert. Mir and Lina have been avenged as well.” His words came in stammers, thick and indistinct. Beneath his lips sat large, crooked teeth in no discernible order.

“Albert? Since you’ve come out, I have a question for you.” Something sharpened in Roy’s eyes. He suddenly changed his mind, approached the old man, and laid one hand upon the door.

The abrupt movement brought fear across the age-spotted, kindly face.

“Don’t be afraid. I kill only ‘Monsters.’ I don’t touch ordinary people. Do you understand?”

“How long have you lived here? Have you recently seen a white-haired man, perhaps thirty or forty years old, around six feet tall and evenly built, with catlike amber eyes and two swords on his back?”

“Or a girl of eight or nine, with mouse-grey silver hair and green eyes? Very pretty, and not yet tall enough to reach my chest.”

“This old man has lived nearby for twenty years.” Wrinkles gathered across his brow as he searched his memory and shook his head. “The white-haired man and girl you describe sound too distinctive to forget. If they had come here, I would remember them. But I recall nothing.”

“For the past several months, Nilfgaardian troops have swept across the countryside. I hid in the deep woods and escaped by good fortune. Once the Nilfgaardians left, three hateful Monsters came and blocked my door. I haven’t even dared step outside since. I know nothing of what happened beyond this yard.”

“I see.” The Witcher sighed in disappointment, his gaze traveling slowly across the farmstead. “Are the dead in the yard your son and daughter-in-law?”

“My poor Mir and Lina were chopping wood in the yard half a month ago when those three Monsters sprang from nowhere and killed them.” The old man nodded, his voice rising into a hoarse cry as he rubbed his reddened eyes. “Three beasts! Killing my family wasn’t enough. They tried to smash down the door and eat me too. If you hadn’t arrived when you did…” His face crumpled. “I fear I would have answered the Summoning of the Goddess Freya.”

“Half a month?” Roy watched the old man’s eyes. “Apart from your children, has anyone else come near this place, particularly someone wounded? Or perhaps an injured, dying animal?”

“No. Only poor, lonely old Albert remains…”

Behind his dark glasses, Roy’s pupils returned to the two bodies.

“I’ve been traveling for half a day without a bite to eat. Could I come inside for water and some food?”

“What?” Albert’s face fell. His dull, clouded eyes flicked toward the longsword on the Witcher’s back, and discomfort tightened his mouth. “The Monsters trapped me inside for days. I’ve nearly exhausted my stored food. Only Turnips remain in the field. If you don’t mind those, you may pull a few yourself.”

“Surely you can spare me a drink of water. Once I’ve had it, I’ll leave.”

Only then did the old man step aside, his face bitter, and slowly admit the Witcher.

The interior of the wooden house was as filthy and disordered as the yard. It had plainly gone uncleaned for some time.

Something resembling wild dog hide covered the walls. A low table and a bench stood in the center. At the far end, stones and clay formed an enclosed hearth.

A black iron pot rested atop it, completely empty.

“Wait here. I’ll fetch you some water.”

The Witcher sat upon the bench and watched the old man disappear into an inner room divided from the rest by wooden boards.

Then Roy casually surveyed his surroundings.

Dark-red ribbons carrying the scent of blood intertwined in the air. Some streamed out through the front door. Others flowed into the inner room.

That was enough to confirm his suspicion.

Roy rose, followed the ribbons, and entered the room beyond.

The old man stood bent over an old water jar, scooping from its depths. The water was nearly gone, and every movement cost him effort.

He noticed nothing behind him.

Roy approached, his gaze shifting to a chopping block on the left of the jar. An axe had been buried in the wood, its blade crusted with brown blood.

On the floor to the right of the jar lay a square board several shades darker than those surrounding it.

“Mm…”

The old man lifted a bowl and turned.

Roy’s dancing fingers flashed before his eyes.

The man’s entire body trembled, then stiffened like a wooden puppet.

“Raoul, are you the owner of this house?” Roy addressed him by the name revealed through Scrying.

“No.”

His mismatched eyes turned cold.

“Where are you from?”

“Rivendell Valley, southeast of Sodden.”

“What truly happened to the two bodies and the Monsters outside?”

“A week ago, I passed this farmstead exhausted and starving. The couple saw that I was old and weak, so they took me in. Once the family fell asleep that night, I took an axe from the kitchen and cut both their throats. I threw the bodies outside and dug a pit. I meant to rest for the night and bury them properly the next day, but by morning, three terrible Monsters had appeared in the yard.”

“What had they done to you? Why did you kill them?”

Struggle twisted the old man’s face, but he could not break the power of the Mutation-enhanced Axii Sign.

He shook his head.

“The Battle of Sod