A/N

Should be working fine now, I guess. Please lemme know in the reviews if this update can be seen in the desktop version, it would be much appreciated, thank you!

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Geralt felt his medallion shiver atop his chest throughout the journey through the woods. He knew exactly why; the knight's cursed blood was seething with magic, and it was beginning to annoy him. He ignored the urge to press for answers as best as he could, for as much as he hated to admit it to himself, the White Wolf was curious. Alas, he may have to put his questions on hold, for he had a meeting with the King of Cintra- a possible contract. Although Geralt felt glad to have done some good in the world by ridding it of those men, he needed to take his coin and leave.

They returned to the camp, where a tall musclebound mercenary with a great-maul hanging at his back awaited Vandal. Upon seeing the state of both women and of the knight, it drew concern on his part. "Ye gods, what happened to you, boy?"

"Your man, Rostchild, had me speared and tossed off a cliff." Vandal replied as he let the women sit by one of the wagons, "He and some of the other sellswords then tried to rape Serah and Sandy. This man, Geralt of Rivia, helped me put a stop to that. We killed them, Enris, all of them."

Enris couldn't believe what he heard at first, but after giving it some thought he knew that Rostchild always held some animosity towards Vandal since the day they met. It wasn't hard to imagine him doing something so vile. He bemoaned his inability to see the danger his former friend posed to the lad, and especially to the harpies. Turning to Geralt, Enris noted that it was by good fortune that Vandal happened on the monster-hunter. "Oh, but that is no mere man, Vandal. You've been aided by a witcher."

"My coin." Geralt reminded the knight.

Vandal had brought with him one of the filled waterskins that Serah dropped from the spring, and he used the water within to wash her face and neck from the gore spilled from Rostchild's bludgeoned head. After cleaning her up, he beckoned for Geralt to follow him to his tent. There, he fished around a sack for his bag of money and counted out the coins he owed the witcher.

He placed them in Geralt's waiting hand, "20 crowns, as promised."

The witcher nodded and placed his reward along with his other coins hanging inside the pouch on his belt.

"Thank you again, Geralt." Vandal bade him farewell, "Safe travels, wherever the road may take you."

The witcher grunted and whistled for his horse. Roach came galloping out of the woods at the sound of his master's call, and the witcher hoisted himself up the saddle to resume his ride for Cintra. Without another word, he set his course west into the main roads and disappeared down the path. Enris watched him leave until he was but a speck in the distance, then turned to speak with the knight.

"I should have seen this one coming, lad." He said to him and to the women under his care, "For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

The mercenary rubbed the back of his head as he stood there awkwardly, feeling ignored as neither one of them acknowledged his words. "So, uh, I'll just leave you three be. Take all the time you need..."

Vandal emptied the whole skin trying to wash off all the nasty stuff from Serah's face. The blood of Rostchild mingled with the water, staining his hands as he rubbed and wiped down the ugly ichor from her skin. Upon finishing, he moved to see to Sandy's needs. The golden-haired woman did not weather the ordeal as easily as her friend, and it showed as fresh tears started to well up in her eyes.

It came rushing back, the reality of it all.

Opulent armor and weapons contrasted by mud and sluice water. Death was foul as opposed to noble with sprays of blood and hacked limbs. Armor and other products of civilized craft dragged through filth, as the elements of treason, deceit, illicitness and greed have stained the fickle hearts of men. No honor, no nobility, in the end there was only savagery.

"Come here." Vandal drew Sandy close and embraced her. She let herself fall forward into his chest, felt the solace offered in his touch, and let her fears melt away as the knight held her to his heart. "They are dead now. They cannot hurt you."

He pushed her to meet his gaze, repeating till the message rang clear. "Do you understand, Sandy? They cannot hurt you anymore."

Sandy sniffed, "Yes."

Serah moved forward and cupped her friend's cheek, "Sandy, I need you to be strong. The journey ahead of us is long and the days will be harder. Vandal will protect us as promised, but he needs our support too. Can you do that for me?"

Sandy bobbed her head in reply and dried her tears.

"Good." Serah turned to Vandal and kissed the knight on the cheek, "Thank you, Vandal, for defending our honor- no matter how little remains of it."

"My lady, speak not of yourself in such a manner." Vandal said, "I believe that all women are sacred, it's a shame that not all men see it that way."

Though in truth, Serah viewed the kindly knight's opinion on whores as unnecessarily generous, she appreciated his reliability as her protector. In the life they hoped to start anew in Cintra as refugees, she planned to keep him close. Men like Rostchild were always around the corner, and the guard-hound she found in him had value beyond measure.

"What did you mean when you said that they speared you and tossed you off the cliffs?" Serah asked him, remembering what Vandal said to Enris the moment they rejoined the refugees from Amendale.

Vandal got to his feet and busied himself with breaking camp and packing up for the day's journey, "Does it really matter, my lady? I am here now, very much alive, aren't I?"

"It does." Serah replied, helping him wrap up the furs and roll the tent cloth down to be tied along with their belongings on the cart. "Now, I understand that I've little experience in the subject of stabbing people, but I just find it very hard to believe that anyone would survive having a spear shoved into them and then hurled off a cliff."

"Well, I guess you'd better believe that's how it happened, then." Vandal sighed as he lifted Sandy up to sit her down on the cart with Serah. He took hold of the bars and started pulling the whole thing behind him like an ox, "Please, do try not to dwell on it."

"So...what? You've got magic on you?" Serah persisted, eager to get her mind off of things by immersing herself in conversation, as was her habit. "A sorcerer hiding under the guise of a knight?"

"Truth be told, I haven't all the answers myself." Vandal allowed her to have her way, "I just know that my wounds, no matter how grievous, heal faster than the norm. So yes, I do believe I've got some magic on me. Also, no..." He turned his head to look at her, "I am not a sorcerer."

"Well, I think that would prove useful in future fights." Serah remarked with a smirk.

"Indeed."

Onwards the caravan went, through the mist-laden forest paths, the dewy valleys and the chilly mountain passes leading into Cintra. They went onwards, unaware that the very city they sought refuge in had become the target of the undead incursions. There were, in total, three world shards found in the kingdom of Cintra. Each were three times the size of the capital city itself, stretching miles and miles across icy rubble and ancient stones that seethed with unholy power as the cursed souls within them spilled out of the shards in search of warmth among the living.

To the south, a miserable fortress wrought by alien hands and practically brimming with sources of power, that lay between Cintra and Attre, was named the Wyrm's Ruin. Here spawned both the fearsome flock of dragons that laid claim to Cintra's aeries and skies, as well as the cursed undead armies that now lay seige to Cintra and Attre. Although the dragons had yet to actually take part in the onslaught, to see them having free reign over the skies was a frightful sight indeed.

Northeast of the capital, responsible for the displacement of the outlaying villages and towns, including Amendale, was a world shard cut out of a once mighty citadel of black stone. Hence, it was named the Place of Withered Obsidian. From there, flesh-eater hordes and skeletons rose up from graveyards and long forgotten battlefields to prey upon the living, led by towering gargantuan revenants of iron and rotted flesh.

Lastly, to the west of Cintra, in the great old sea that surrounded Skellige, sat the howling glaciers called the Abyssal Isles. Preliminary attempts at scouting the place yielded little results, save for its aptly chosen name. Every so often, the dead that wandered its gigantic icebergs found their way to the mainland, washed ashore by the tide.

Nature itself was thrown off balance. The tides rose up to consume the land, sending its waves to creep up from its shores to claim more and more of good soil. Coastland towns, now reduced to ruins within marshy swamps, became veritable breeding ground for the monsters of the Continent. Curiously, they found a relatively peaceful coexistence among the new monsters from the wandering world above, sharing the ruins with the undead as they wandered aimlessly atop the murky sludge covering the land's muddy soil. Storms increased in regularity, blight of a kind heretofore unseen visited orchards and fields, and the northern wind started to blow- bringing with it winter's early arrival.

Masters of the sciences of all nations bearing witness to the cataclysmic event attributed this to the disruption of the Continent's axis due to the merging of the worlds, while those still holding to superstitious beliefs claimed it to be the work of unnatural forces- both were truths.

The merging of worlds was indeed an unnatural phenomenon.

Acclimatizing the dragonspawn to live among humans was not entirely as difficult as Bran thought it would be.

Freja acted very much like a human child, which was unsurprising given that she was born just recently, though she displayed an astonishingly fast rate of maturity. She was already grasping words on her third day staying in Bran's home, simple but able to interact seamlessly with whomever she spoke to. Dame Alessa saw to it that the woman was taught to behave in a manner that befitted a member of the clan, and created the alias that would serve as Freja's protection from scrutiny.

She was to be known as the woman saved from the dragon's belly, of whose loyalty was forever tied to Clan Tuirseach. Her upbringing was done with meticulous care, for truly the Dame was determined to bind the dragonspawn's purpose to Clan Tuirseach. Should she prove to be able to polymorph, it would only be right that the dragon served the clan rather than just another monster making a nuisance of itself in the island. As for the matter concerning the truth of her origins, should word ever get out, the Dame preferred it remained a closely guarded secret that none save for her and her family would know.

The news about Bran's success in slaying the dragon spread quickly throughout An Skellig, and another feast was to be held in his honor. The whole clan wanted to see him with the woman he saved, they all wanted to meet Freja, which presented a small problem. He had no idea how she would react to the loud festivities and crowded mead halls. As much as he'd like to show off his prize, he didn't want things to mess up this early, so he made excuses to keep Freja away from the public eye and kept her hidden within his house with only his most trusted handmaidens to keep her company.

Living in seclusion at that time didn't bother Freja as much, but the woman found the house seemingly empty without her protector. The day she emerged into the cold world, his face was the first she ever saw. His name was the first word she spoke, and he had given her one of her own. And lately, as he was being called to leave the house which had been her only world for the past few days, Freja found his absence unbearable. Like a babe left without its mother for too long, the dragonspawn threw a tantrum.

With babies, these usually involved loud bawling and rolling around, but with Freja it largely involved upending a few pieces of furniture and tossing a handmaiden or two out the window. She was very strong for her size, her limbs held power that belied their lack of girth, and it showed when she fractured a cast iron pot in half with her bare hands. After she was done venting, and after the frightened maids fled the house, Freja sat down amidst the mess she made and picked up a book to read, as if nothing happened.

Bran returned to find his house in shambles, after receiving news about the woman's outbursts. Upon seeing him at the door, Freja jumped up and ran to him, throwing her arms around his body out of pure joy. The man did not return the sentiment, as he did not approve of her destruction of his home. He firmly grasped her arms and pushed her off of him, pointing to the mess she created in his absence.

Quietly, he inquired of her, "Freja, did you do this?"

Freja, unaware of her fault, nodded.

Slowly, Bran's voice grew hard. "Why?"

Gradually, the woman started to take note of his growing ire. Yet still, she did not know what she did wrong. She looked down at her toes and answered, "I...I don't know."

Bran's lips pulled taut into a thin line, and he roughly seized her by the chin. The suddenness of his action surprised Freja, and she looked up to see his open palm coming her way. Bran's slap was not born from malice, otherwise it would've struck her harder. Nevertheless, the fact that her protector hit her was enough to shatter her spirit, and Freja started to cry.

Bran would have none of it. He would have the woman behave herself, human or no, she was going to be part of Clan Tuirseach and she needed to know restraint. "Don't lie to me, Freja!" Bran said. "You know exactly why you did this."

Freja dropped to her knees and put a hand on the sore spot on her cheek. The sting from the slap had gone, but the memory of the hurt was still there. Her tears drew little sympathy from the man, for that was not what he sought from her. He needed her to know the wrong she did, he would've done her a disservice if he let it slide now.

"I will ask again, and I expect a better answer- you're smart enough to know." He said as he knelt down beside her, "Why did you trash my house?"

Freja's lips quivered as she confessed, wailing loudly as she put her face in her hands as if to cover her shame. "I wanted you home!" She stopped as the hiccups started to choke her, "I don't like being alone!"

Bran sighed and rubbed at the back of his neck in frustration. Dealing with his lionesses helped him get this far, but having to raise this dragonspawn proved to be something he had very little experience in. Right now, he was fumbling in the dark, with only his past experiences with his younger siblings to guide him. He waited until the tears stopped before pulling Freja close, "Do you know why I hit you?"

Freja sniffed, "N-No, and I don't like it."

"Of course not, nobody likes to get hit, but you deserved it." Bran said to her.

"I did?"

"Yes." Her protector replied, "You don't go about making a mess, throwing people out of windows and expect to not get punished. This is not just your house, Freja, it is also mine. As for my maids, you cannot just go around tossing them about, do you hear me?"

Freja understood what he meant for her to see and was, thankfully, apologetic. "I'm sorry, Bran."

"You should be." Bran said as he hugged her tight to his chest, "But I forgive you." The mess could be fixed, what mattered then was that Freja understood there were consequences to her actions. From what he could tell from her reaction, he couldn't have gotten the message across any better than that.

"Don't leave me alone again, Bran."

"Look, Freja..." Bran rubbed her shoulder, pulling her to face him. "Why don't you and I make a deal?"

"A deal?"

"Yes, I do something for you and you do something for me in return." He explained, "I promise not to leave you alone, and you promise to behave yourself."

"But, how do I behave myself?"

"Don't worry, I will teach you." Bran assured her, "But you have to promise me, alright?"

"Mhm."

After she did, Bran pushed for Freja to help him clean up the mess she made. Together, they righted the upended furniture, tossed away the broken pottery and settled in before the fireplace where Freja loved to hang around with. Spending time with the woman did not sprout awkward feelings within Bran's heart, for he saw in her a mere ward needing a proper guardian rather than just any woman calling for a protector. It was customary for islanders to take in orphans from comrades who died in raids, if they were deemed able to provide for them. Freja was no exception to this custom, so Bran's adjustment into the role of her guardian was more or less easy.

When she was to retire for the afternoon, Bran took a moment to inspect the broken pot sitting in the yard outside. One of the maids told him what happened, and he didn't believe it at first. Breaking cast iron with one's bare hands was no easy feat, and Bran wondered if he was going the right direction raising his ward as just another lady.

He thought, perhaps, she'd serve better as a warmaiden. It would, after all, improve her disposition and allow her to stay at his side more often.

Geralt arrived at the outskirts of Cintra the same day as Vandal and his fellow refugees, just in time to see the undead onslaught at the city walls. Cintra's walls and gates have been fortified, and her army tasked to make passage of refugees safe, pitting them to do battle against their otherworldly foes. Following the defeat of the Faehunter and the loss of so many good men in a single day, King Dagorad spared no expense bolstering his capital's defenses as well as in his appeal for aid to his allies in the north.

The witcher pulled on the reins and had Roach stand at the top of the hill to watch the battle unfold. The Cintran Royal Army had men, all supplied with the best armor and weapons that money could buy. They had numbers, but the enemy had what they sorely lacked- magic, and devastating to boot. The undead army, from what Geralt could see, was unlike the mere shamblers he'd grown accustomed to in his long career as a monster-hunter. Their assault on Cintra had form, a simple strategy but effective when put in the hands of the undying.

"Greetings, Geralt! What a coincidence, us meeting here." Vandal remarked as he stood next to the witcher. He and the other refugees ascended the hill and stopped short at the sight of the carnage ahead. Understandably, they were hesitant to pursue their goal of seeking aid in its walls while battles raged outside, with nothing but those walls of stone and timber to keep them out.

"Seing as how there's only one road leading west, I'd be surprised if we didn't run into each other." Geralt returned the greeting.

"What are we going to do now?" The former mayor of Amendale bemoaned their situation, turning angrily at Enris and the mercenaries. "We should never have left Amendale!"

"Quiet, you old fool!" The taller man growled, "A city is better fortified than a mere town! Would you prefer your walls of wood to that of stone? Would you rather be defended by mere militia as opposed to the mighty men of Cintra?" His words carried over to the caravan, showing his determination to seeing the journey through without backing down.

"We are going to the city, with or without you! Decide now what you will, I and my men- however what's left of them- will enter Cintra."

"Good plan." Geralt sneered, "I'm sure they'll have plenty of room for you too."

Enris ignored the witcher, "Better in there than suffer the elements out here." He motioned for his men to move onward, heading for the kingsmen encampment outside Cintra where most of the army was garrisoned. The undead army had no siege engines, no cavalry, only light and heavy infantry with their magically gifted units. They largely concentrated their attacks on the south wall, with the battle ending largely at a stalemate, each side withdrawing after clashing at the outer perimeter.

Corpses piled in the trenches by the hundreds. The stalemate would not last long, however, as the undead seemed to replenish their losses by the hour.

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