Triss sat back in the chair by her bed and sighed with relief, exhausted from the effort of keeping Lupus alive. In the corner, Philippa paced back and forth, her brows furrowed and her lips pursed. The cold rays of dawn shone through the curtains, illuminating the witcher's pale face. Cold beads of sweat trickled down his face. Triss found it simply miraculous that Lupus had survived to the morning. She glanced over at Philippa. She hadn't made any effort to aid Triss, simply warning her not to kill herself in the process. The wounds were deep, and each cut had taken a huge amount of energy to close. Triss had nearly passed out twice. She had, however, managed to close all of the wounds. Thin red scars were all that remained. Philippa finally broke the silence.

"Will he live?"

Triss looked at her with hollow eyes, then looked at Lupus. "I think so."

"You can't be certain?"

"No," Triss said, taking a deep, shuddering breath. "He's lost a lot of blood, and his hand was scorched down to the bone."

"It would be most disappointing if he were to die."

Triss was silent.

"He would have been a valuable asset."

"Philippa, could you do me a favour?"

The dark-haired sorceress considered the question carefully. "Perhaps."

"Leave me alone," Triss said quietly, but firmly. "Please."

"Triss, I understand the witcher means something to you, but –"

"He doesn't mean anything to me," Triss said angrily. "I told you that before. I just want you to go."

"But, if he says anything," Philippa continued, unperturbed by Triss' rage. "Let me know. It is important."

"Go away!" Triss shouted, physically shaking with rage. Lupus stirred in his sleep.

Philippa stepped towards the window. "I'll be in touch."

There was a flutter of owl's wings.

Triss took several shaky breaths to steady herself. She had let her emotions get out of control. All it did was provide more ammunition for Philippa to use against her. The angrier she got about Philippa's needling, the more she would twist the blade. She would use Lupus against her. Triss buried her face in her hands. She was risking his life. And for what? Philippa's schemes and plots? Triss felt rage building inside her again. She wouldn't let Philippa use her. She couldn't let Philippa use him against her. She took several more breaths to steady herself.

Philippa Eilhart sifted through the mixture of letters, drawings, and contract notices that she had slipped from the witcher's saddlebags. She paused occasionally to examine the sketches. Most of them were quite excellent. One she recognised as the sleeping form of Triss Merigold. The paper was cracked and folded easily, betraying its age, and the fact that it had been frequently opened, closed, and re-opened. Another showed a severe-looking woman in profile, with a griffin-shaped medallion hanging around her neck. It had been drawn quickly, and without the care and attention of the first. This drawing had been folded only once. The paper was still stiff. Philippa set the sketches aside for further examination. From amidst the pile, she extricated a battered journal. Drawing her eyebrows together, Philippa opened the journal and began to read.

It did not belong to Lupus Grimm, of Cintra. Instead, Philippa found she was reading of the exploits of a witcher by the name of Aiden Schrodinger. It began nine months ago, in the mountains of Kovir. Philippa struggled to decipher the hastily-written notes, which jumped between random witcher contracts, and discussions with a certain "Professor Moreau." Her eyes widened as she read of the experiments that Schrodinger had forced onto the witchers of the School of the Cat. Most of them died. Painfully. The details were recorded in blunt, uncaring detail. The last to die was a witcher from the School of the Griffin. Philippa glanced at the hurriedly-sketched drawing on the desk. After the experiments, there were vague references to a strange presence. One page was made up of a charcoal drawing. It simply showed a horned head. Though there were no eyes, Philippa felt it staring out at her, and quickly turned the page. The next page simply stated:

I can feel it watching me.

Philippa felt a wave of cold spread over her, as though she had just been dunked into a frozen lake. She slammed the journal shut and pushed it as far away from her as possible. To calm herself down, Philippa poured out a measure of wine from the silver jug on her table, and took a long draught. She drummed her perfectly-manicured nails on the desk, then sifted through some of the other writings. There were more drawings of Triss. Philippa wondered if her friend knew these even existed. Then, she noticed something odd. The drawings of Triss, and those of the severe-looking witcher had been sketched in the same hand, but had been signed by different people. As expected, Lupus Grimm had drawn the sorceress; but Aiden Schrodinger had drawn the witcher. And yet a third set of drawings – pictures of the sun setting over the Royal Palace in Vizima – had been signed by Felix Carentin.

"Who are you really, witcher?" Philippa murmured to herself.

He was alive. He was still fucking alive. The vampire had done a hatchet job on his back and chest. His own sign had almost burned his hand off. But he was still alive. Fucking hell, Lupus thought bitterly. Either he was the most fortunate witcher on the Continent, or the most unfortunate. He heard the drip of tears hitting cold stone slabs. Triss. Instinctively, he reached out for her. He was responsible for her. He needed to comfort her. She didn't have anyone else. But the effort was too much. His breathing grew heavy and laboured. A cool hands closed around his hand and shoulder and manoeuvred him back into the bed. He resisted.

He needed to comfort her.

She didn't have anyone else.

Pushing through the pain in his chest, Lupus raised his arm up until it came into contact with the sorceress' smooth cheek. He felt the tears sliding over his skin. With clumsy movements, he brushed them away, as he had in Novigrad all those years ago. He felt Triss' mouth twitch into a smile. She brought his hand to her lips and kissed it gently. Finally, he opened his eyes. He back was in Triss' townhouse. In her bedroom. In her bed. His leather jerkin hung over a nearby chair. Triss had clearly been busy. It looked as good as new – devoid of the punctures and rips that should have left it in a sorry-looking state. The sorceress herself was sat by his side, her beautiful auburn hair, almost always brushed smooth, was tangled and tousled. Her normally immaculate nails, often painted in shades of green and blue, were chipped. Dark rings circled her bloodshot eyes.

"Triss?"

"I'm here," the sorceress gripped his hand tightly, her nails digging painfully into the skin.

Lupus swallowed painfully. "Why am I still alive?"

Bewildered by the question, Triss gave no answer. Her eyes darted away from him, unable to meet his gaze. By the time she looked back at the witcher, he had drifted back into his restless sleep. Triss had sat by his side for two days. She had heard him cry out in pain and anger, and she had comforted him when he called out the names of those who weren't there. Even the names that stung her pride and brought back painful memories of her own. This time was no different. Lupus called out, but it was not Triss that he sought a reply from. Nevertheless, she comforted him. He didn't have anyone else there to comfort him. Why that was, however, Triss didn't know. She caught sight of the griffin-shaped amulet that hung from his belt. Where was she?

Yennefer glared at the witcher's sleeping form. She was unapologetic in her dislike of the witcher, and seemed averse to even being in the same room as him. Her cold, violet eyes shot daggers at him. Triss felt the sudden urge to remind Yennefer that the witcher wasn't even conscious, and subsequently her constant look of hatred was not only unnecessary, but a complete waste of time. Having subjected the unconscious witcher to her withering gaze, Yennefer rounded on Triss.

"Triss, I feel it is my duty as your friend to remind you that the last time you got involved with him, you shut yourself up in Novigrad for a week."

Triss felt her cheeks redden a little. "I'm not getting involved with him. He needs my help, it's purely professional."

"Purely professional?" Yennefer folded her arms. "Of course. That's why he's here, and not in your guest room."

"Yen, nothing is going on between us!" Triss flushed an even deeper red.

"If you say so," the dark-haired sorceress bit her lip, then continued in a softer tone. "Get some rest. I'll watch him for a while."

"No..." Triss said, trying to ignore the fact that she was swaying on her feet. "I should stay."

"Go!" Yennefer steadied her gently. "He's not going to wake up any time soon."

"Fine," Triss began to slide into the bed currently occupied by the witcher. Yennefer's face told her exactly what her friend thought of this plan. "It's my bed!"

"The man lying in it broke your heart, Triss," she said quietly, sitting down by her. "I came because you wanted my advice, and I would advise you to stay away from him."

"I can't just leave him." Triss whispered.

Yennefer's face grew hard and cold. Then, she seemed to relent. Whatever else she wished to say to her friend was held back. She plucked the griffin medallion from Lupus' belt, and swept out of the room, her dark curls whipping behind her. Triss watched her leave, then curled up next to the witcher. His hand gripped the sheets in a white-knuckle grip. Triss stroked his arm gently, trying to calm him, but Lupus jerked his arm away as though he had been scalded. She tried again, and was met with the same response. Triss took several deep breaths to steady herself, and entered herself into Lupus' dream.

She was standing in front of a pyre, in a glade at the edge of a craggy rock face. Black smoke trailed up towards the sky, blotting out the stars glittering like gemstones in the night sky. Beside her, Lupus watched the pyre, his face devoid of any expression. In his hand he clutched a griffin-shaped medallion. In the valley below, Triss saw a fortress built into the mountainside. She knew where she was.

"Who are you?"

A voice crept out of the shadows. It crawled up her spine, and into her ear, like a spider. Triss searched for the source of the voice, but the trees around her were so thick that they concealed whoever might be hidden there.

"What are you doing here?"

Triss muttered a spell, and a burst of light illuminated the area. Briefly, she saw a tall shadow amidst the trees. A shadow with a horned head. She blinked, and the shadow was gone.

"Why have you come?"

"What are you?" Triss shouted, casting the spell again. The shadow appeared in the trees to her right.

"You should not be here."

The voice was louder, angrier.

"Are you man?" Triss called out to the forest. "Or are you monster? Answer me!"

"You should not be here!"

"I will know what you are!" Triss cried. Another burst of light. The shadow appeared in the trees to her left.

"YOU SHOULD NOT BE HERE!"

The shadow appeared directly in front of her. It grew in height, towering above the magician. Its horned head looked down at her. The empty eye sockets stared blankly. Triss backed away towards the cliff edge. The shadow stopped next to Lupus, and laid a clawed hand on his shoulder. The witcher looked up at her, and his eyes bore death. Triss tripped over a stray rock, and tumbled over the edge of the cliff. The ground loomed up.

"YOU SHOULD NOT BE HERE!"

Triss gasped as she was ripped from her sleep.

She heard the flutter of owl's wings.

Yennefer finished off her notes on the griffin-shaped medallion, and briefly skimmed back over them, making sure she hadn't missed out anything of import. The medallion had been subjected to extensive experimentations. Runes had been inscribed on it, enhancing the intensity of witcher signs. Further enchantments had been placed on the medallion, enhancing the potency of the runes. Yennefer brushed aside a strand of black hair and balanced her chin on the tips of her fingers.

A magician had done this.

"Eh, Mistress Yennefer!" Called the innkeep. "Two of your learned colleagues are here to see you!"

"Let them in," Yennefer replied, tearing her eyes away from the medallion.

Philippa Eilhart and Triss Merigold stepped inside. Both looked shaken. Triss looked like she needed a bath. Yennefer smiled courteously, and indicated for the pair of them to sit down. Triss sat on the comfortable bed, while Philippa stood, arms folded and a dark look on her face.

"Well," Yennefer raised an eyebrow. "What have you learned?"

Philippa looked at Triss, who shook her head, her face pale. Philippa produced a charcoal drawing and handed it to Yennefer. She felt the empty eye sockets staring at her, as though the horned head was watching her every movement with its blank, passive face. Yennefer turned the page over, and read the single line that was written there.

"What is this?" Yennefer said in hushed tones.

"A… creature." Triss hugged her knees. "It's difficult to say exactly what it is. But we think it is a spectre of some kind."

"Triss entered a dream with Lupus," Philippa explained. "The thing expelled her. Whatever it is, it's powerful."

"What happened in the dream?" Yennefer glanced at Triss. The auburn-haired sorceress was visibly shaking.

"He was burning a body, at the Cat School fortress in Kovir," Triss said in a hoarse voice. "Her body. He had her amulet. He took it with him. A memento, most likely."

"I don't think so," Yennefer said slowly. "The medallion – it had been experimented on by a mage, though I don't know who. It intensifies any signs cast by the wearer."

"So when he used igni," Philippa pursed her lips, "It turned into a firestorm that almost burned down the whole city."

"That's the gist of it, yes," Yennefer turned back to Triss. "Anything else?"

"A shadow appeared. It told me I shouldn't be there," Triss shuddered, feeling a wave of cold pass over her. "It laid a hand on Lupus."

"Did he say anything?"

"No, he just watched the fire."

"Then that must be the subject of the dream, and the spectre's fixation," Yennefer frowned. "But why burning the body. Why not the death?"

"I may be able to answer that," Philippa indicated the battered journal. "That was written under what can only be a pseudonym. From various reports I've gathered, Lupus Grimm and Aiden Schrodinger have never been in the same place together. Indeed, Aiden Schrodinger died during the Trial of the Grasses, along with eight others. Only Lupus – if that is indeed his true name – survived."

"Is any of that relevant, Philippa?" Yennefer asked bluntly. "Or is it just professional appreciation?"

"The journal," Philippa carried on, pretending she hadn't heard Yennefer, "Makes references to some kind of experimentations. I'd wager it was the same mage that inscribed the runes on that medallion."

"The experiments failed," Triss whispered. "It wasn't the death that bothered him. It was the fact that all of the experiments failed. The School of the Cat was wiped out, with the exception of the handful that had wintered elsewhere."

"You mean…" Yennefer's cold, violet eyes widened in shock. "You mean he killed them all? For what?"

"It's hazy on the details," Philippa shrugged. "But there's mention of trying to recreate the Trial of the Grasses, but with new decoctions. He was hunting down monsters – vampires; trolls; werewolves. Evidently, nothing worked."

"He always was stubborn," Triss said quietly.

"But," Yennefer's head was spinning. "But, why? Why did he keep going?"

"Because the experiment worked on one person," Triss replied, staring out the window. Sheets of rain battered against it. "Him."