Laz arrived from the southern end of Midcopse, rode through and out of the village until arriving at Keira's thatched-roof cabin. Dismounting, she knocked at first, but met no answer. Trying to knob, the unlocked door creaked open, revealing a ransacked interior.

Spurred with alarm, Laz stormed passed the threshold and glanced about.

"Keira?"

Little remained of worthy possessions sans broken trinkets, invaluable to the ignorant, untrained eye. Standing in the main room, Laz looked around at the toppled chairs and tables. Potted plants had been thrown onto their sides, spilling dirt across the floor. Their leaves wilted from neglect and the damp air reeked of mildew and rotten food. Outside the wind howled a forlorn tune, the bare tree limbs clattering like dried bones.

Again, Laz had called out for Keira but no answer came. Moving towards the bedroom, booted feet knocking on the wooden floor. The bed was made but empty. She tried the dry storage, lifting the heavy door up and peering down in the dusty shadows.

"Keira?"

She wasn't here-or had been for sometime. The steady, perpetual apprehension grew. Something did not feel right. Fist curled, she strode out. Re-emerging from the cabin an overcast, thick and churning hung over head and the wind whipped viciously.

Laz mounted her horse and headed back towards the Midcopse.


The portrait of Keira Metz was rolled out and splayed open onto a table for Laz's small audience to see. They gathered around within the local tavern, glancing between the parchment and its owner, looking for similarities surely. They wouldn't find any.

She pointed to the drawing. "Have you seen this woman about?"

A yellow-toothed man with wisps of hair left on his head gazed at the placid expression capable of capturing Keira's aloof likeness.

"Ah, that's the witch." He nodded, unaware of Laz's narrowing glare, who held great disdain for such affront. "I haven't seen her for some months actually."

"Where's the last you saw her?" she quickly pressed. "And don't say her home. I just came from there."

A younger lad stepped up to peer at the portrait. His hands were stained black from soot, as was his face and he wore an equally singed apron; a smithy's boy.

"Last I heard, she was helping a witcher," the younger man said. "He came one day when we was out by her cabin, begging for help. She sent us away. After that, I nae see her or the witcher, but there was an awful bout of ruckus on Fyke Isle not long after. Thundering, flashes uh lights. All sorts uh uncommon occurrences."

"I 'member," the elder said, peering up at her with a timeworn squint. "I thought twas uh brewing storm, but nae a cloud in sight."

"Fyke Isle?" Laz repeated. Keira had made several mentionings of it. It housed a tower and laboratory, perhaps….

Laz snatched the parchment and was out the door.

While the wind clawed at her cloak, Laz rode her mount on a hard gallop towards the shores. Her steed locked its legs in a halt, digging fissures through the soft sand as it abruptly stopped short of the lapping waves. A body of water separated the mainland from the isle. Giving no other options and with panic fraying her senses, she landed softly from a dismount and began peeling away her cloak and gloves frantically.

She plunged into the water and swam the rest of the way.

Soaked to the bone but undeterred, Laz crawled like an stricken animal out of the icy depths and onto Fyke Isle shores. Sloshing through, she broke free of the water and sprinted toward the tower gates. Steam rolled off her shoulders and sodden clothes, breath coming as a small gusts of fog from each heavy pant.

Laz saw her the moment she breached the entrance.

Strewn across the ground, like a broken doll, was Keira Metz.

The air in Laz's lung went out. The roaring wind softened, as if too surprised by the startling discovery.

But somehow, she knew.

She felt in during the oncoming weeks, the night before, and the morning she left for Velen.

Leaving Midcopse, leaving her foster mother, meant no protection remained. Something had happened. Something terrible, reprehensible on every account.

The ground moved beneath her, the proximity between her and Keira shrank. She was moving, drawing closer though she did not feel her legs working, only the cold despair that held her heart and lungs in a tight, ruthless fist.

Squeezing, squeezing, squeezing...

Her boot caught a rock and she sank to her knees next to Keira's, hands hovering, afraid to touch, afraid to believe that what she was seeing was real and not an illusion.

Like the many years before, it was just Laz and Keira.

The wind held its breath, the trees leaned over the ruined fortress walls, listening.

Rigid from death's hold, half eaten by carrion birds and other horrid creatures that came to sate their fill with the flesh of Laz's only family, Keira's remains were a ghastly sight. Her lips and cheeks were eaten away, revealing a harsh, skeletal smile. Dirt, blood, and exposure stiffened her straw-blonde hair. She wore her favorite dress, far too revealing and impractical for Velen's climate, but it never seemed to bother her.

"K-Keira," Laz's teeth chattered.

Finally, she braved a touch, prodding the stiff corpse like a child rousing their parent awake. Keira did not open her eyes. A pair of insectile antennas poked out between her teeth, then the entire centipede emerged, crawling over her pale chin.

Reality sank a sharp dagger between her ribs, and just as painful.

Pulling the dead sorceress into her lap, Laz cradled her. Trembling not from the cold, Laz drew a deep breath and screamed until her voice broke.

A flock of blackbirds scattered from the tree tops and fled into the bleak, gray sky.

She screamed again, and again, and again until her throat scoured and tang of blood sat on her tongue. Then she wept quietly.

The clouds surrendered and it began to drizzle.

Keira had taught her everything. From alchemy, to simple magic, to even the art of being a woman. But most of all, she gave Lazarus of Everheart, orphaned after the death of her natural mother, a Gift and a Name. A second chance.

Cold and lifeless in her arms, Laz held Keira close, despite the fetor of decay and cold, clammy skin. Her hands were destroyed, nails chipped, palms gouged. Hands that had once stroked Laz to sleep, caressed her awake for breakfast. Hands that had picked berries and tossed them into the air so that Laz could catch them in her mouth.

She wept, rocking back and forth, holding Keira firmly against her chest. The devastation, the despair, the anger-fueled adrenaline heightened her sense of smell and hearing. The Gift subdued most of it, but if Laz wanted to, she could surrender to the call.

She needed to, for the emotions were too strong to handle.

From a distance, over the beaches crawling with drowners, over a water hag blathering incessantly as she sought shelter from the rain, through the wind that rattled the bared trees like bones, a lone howl rose.


Wiping her tears, Laz was not done mourning the loss of Keira Metz, but she could not remain on Fyke Isle forever. Toussaint was still her destination and if she put enough distance between her and this place of death, the better. Perhaps find a suitable place to bury Keira even. Velen has a harsh, starving landscape. Not the place for a beloved mother to rest eternally.

In the meantime, Laz took the time to investigate the area. The least she could do was attempt to understand what happened. No alderman or other humans would make an effort against a sorceress. They were too superstitious, but in great numbers, they could pose a problem. As far as humans were concerned, a dead 'witch' was a good witch.

Picking up Keira's hands, Laz scanned the injuries. Deep slices inflicted all parts of Keira's limbs and torso. Shoulders, her flanks, legs and there were defense wounds along her hands where she attempted to ward off her attacker.

Laz snorted, trying to breathe through the medley of harsh smells and concentrate. No local of Midcopse had the galls to approach Keira with ill-intent. Nor did they have a chance surviving such an ordeal. Not to mention, most saw the sorceress as a blessing. Someone to turn to when ailments lingered and heartache did not heal. She was revered and respected, her Keira. Despite the village's fickleness, they always came back around and sought her favor once again.

Perhaps it was a scorned lover? Even the most exalted sorceress had foibles. Keira wasn't impervious. Power obtained through brave men was her folly. More times than Laz liked to admit, Keira used her body to manipulate others. A strong knight, or wealthy merchant passing through. If Keira saw an opportunity to take advantage with much to gain in the long haul, she would make it happen. Its efficacy was unfathomable.

Fresh tears burned the corner of Laz's eyes as she counted the inflictions and wounds. A sword of some sort had done this to her and its wielder knew precisely where to strike for mortal devastation, but why? It had to have been the work of an expert, though no such man or woman lived in Midcopse.

Left undisturbed and still hung across her frame was Keira's satchel. Laz slipped her hand in and pulled out a stack of parchments. Most the of papers were written in a language she wasn't familiar with, though one or two words stood out, she still couldn't read Elven runes. There was also several withered Dwarf ideograms and a bust sketching of an unfamiliar man, titled Geralt of Rivia.

She placed the picture at the top of the stack and studied it. Long-haired, rugged with a short beard. Another one of Keira's interest. His hair fell to his shoulders, and a scar ran brow to cheekbone over his left eye.

Laz brought the picture closer to discern if she were actually seeing vertical-slitted pupils, like a cat's. She was not mistaken. Behind the man's broad shoulder jutted two ornate pommels and hilts. A tell-tale sign:

A witcher.