Author's Note: This one's been a long time in the making, but I finally finished it after two years floating around in my brain. It's basically an AU take on the Skellige questline, but omitting the Ciri plot. There's a looooot of whump in this one so be prepared, lol. But a lot of story too, I like to think. I will be posting a chapter a week, probably on Fridays. Please let me know what you think of it! Any comments/constructive criticism welcome and appreciated! I hope you enjoy it!

UPDATE 12/10/21: The full story is now up!

Chapter One

It was a calm, beautiful day. An excellent one for sailing, Geralt thought as his small ship sliced through the placid sea, a pleasant breeze filling his sails and lungs, the salt spray cooling his face. Geralt had always enjoyed sailing. The peace of it. The solitude.

His heading was southwest, to the island of Undvik. A place where he knew that peace would end, though perhaps not the solitude. The island had been abandoned long ago, courtesy of an ice giant that had decimated Clan Tordarroch that had once lived there.

Funnily enough, Geralt wasn't going to the island to kill the giant, at least not directly.

Several weeks ago, an old friend of Geralt's, Jarl Crach an Craite, had contacted Geralt, asking him to come to Skellige. King Bran had died and according to clan tradition, a new leader was to be elected. In the interim, Crach had been named acting ruler, as elections could go on for months at a time.

Until he had arrived, Geralt had assumed that Crach was seeking the permanent crown himself. He soon came to realize, however, that Crach had no interest in keeping the crown and it was his two children who were vying to be ruler. A fact that Geralt had come to learn only after a long, insufferable feast.


"Can't you just tell me why you called me here?" Geralt asked Crach when he turned up at Kaer Trolde, letting out an exasperated sigh, the festivities already kicking off around them.

Crach clapped Geralt on the back. "All in good time, my friend. Let us enjoy this feast while it lasts!"

"I was hoping to avoid that," Geralt muttered as Crach sauntered away. Grabbing himself a flagon of ale, Geralt wandered over to the extravagant buffet laid out across several tables. No point in letting such good food go to waste.

"Geralt!" said a voice behind him. "I thought I saw you arrive earlier."

Geralt turned to see Gudrik, one of Crach's captains of the guard and a man Geralt had become good friends with on his trips to Skellige. He was dressed in full plate armor, a halberd standing upright in his hand and an axe at his hip. He was clearly on duty.

Smiling and grasping the man's forearm, Geralt replied, "Gudrik! It's good to see you, my friend."

Gudrik leaned his halberd against his shoulder, shifting his weight to rest against it. "What brings you to Skellige? It's been a long time."

"Crach asked me to come. Though he won't tell me why until after the feast, apparently."

"Hah, I'm sure you're thrilled about that," Gudrik chuckled.

Geralt glared back. "You know how I feel about parties."

"Oh I remember. But just think about it this way. Free food and free ale! As much as you want. Surely that's worth braving the crowds?"

Geralt raised his flagon, giving half a smirk. "It certainly helps."

"Well at least you get to enjoy it. You're not on duty." Gudrik grabbed up his halberd and straightened. "Speaking of which, I better get back to it. I'm not really supposed to be talking."

"We'll talk some other time, then," Geralt answered, dipping his head.

Gudrik nodded in response. "I'm sure you have plenty of exciting tales to share." He looked up and a look of guilt and fear crossed his face. When Geralt followed his gaze, he saw that Crach was coming back around. "I'll see you soon, Geralt." Gudrik walked away, calling over his shoulder, "I know how you feel about feasts, but do try to enjoy yourself. For my sake."

Shaking his head and smiling, Geralt turned back to the delicacies displayed in front him.

It wasn't a total loss, the evening. The food was delicious and at least Skelligers weren't the stuffy sort. Raucous laughter shook the halls and it wasn't uncommon for a few brawls to break out amidst the drinking. Before long (and after a few tankards of ale) Geralt found himself enjoying the company of the sturdy islanders. It was then that he bumped into Cerys, Crach's daughter.

"There you are, Geralt!" she called out to him.

He didn't immediately recognize her, she had been so young when he had last seen her. But the family resemblance held true well enough for him to piece together who she was. He nodded in greeting. "Cerys."

She smiled. "It's good to see you."

"And you."

Beckoning Geralt over, Cerys sat down at a table full of rowdy young men, gesturing to an empty seat next to her. Geralt obliged and joined them.

"I was just telling these boys that women can do anything as well as any man," Cerys informed Geralt, glaring pointedly, but good-naturedly, across the table to each of the three other young men sitting there.

A wild-eyed man across from Geralt huffed. "Not likely. Am I right, witcher?"

"You clearly haven't met the Lodge of Sorceresses," Geralt quipped. He then stuck a thumb toward Cerys. "And I certainly wouldn't mess with this one here."

Cerys had always been driven. Constantly in the shadow of her older brother, Cerys had had to work ever harder to prove herself. And she had the will to do it, too. Smart, cunning, and not a bad hand with a blade, Cerys was someone Geralt always knew would succeed in whatever she set her mind to.

A satisfied grin stretched Cerys' face at Geralt's words, much to the chagrin of the man that had spoken. He clearly wasn't going to back down and spoke again.

"How about a race, then? First one to the top of the mountain wins."

The grin on Cerys' face only grew. "I'm in." She turned to Geralt. "Geralt?"

"Why not?" he shrugged.

Out into the chilly night they schlepped, their breath pluming out in front of them. On swift feet, Geralt and Cerys easily pulled away from the initial pack and, though Geralt won, it had been a close race between them. Cerys was gracious in defeat, much more so than the other three, at least, and she had enough tact to smooth things over with more rounds of her father's finest ale once they bundled back into the dining hall.

The rest of the night passed in such fashion, with much drinking, feasting, and trying to outdo each other with tales of dangerous quests and vicious monsters. Though the others were competent contenders for the first two activities, none could compete with Geralt on the third. Belly full of good food and ale, Geralt, for once, was happy to recount some of his more daring adventures.

When the time came for the candidates for the crown to put their names forth, Geralt was hardly surprised when Cerys stepped forward, though by the reaction in the room, he was the only one. In addition to a few others Geralt didn't recognize, Crach entered on behalf of his son, who was already away on his mission.

Part of the tradition of crowning a new king was to perform some heroic feat, Geralt learned, the most daring of which would go a long way to earn that person the title. Hjalmar, Crach's son, had left a few days before on his mission. Cerys, she told Geralt later that night, was planning to leave a few days hence.

Shortly after the feast wrapped up, Crach called Geralt aside and finally explained his reason for summoning Geralt.

"I need you to look after them," he said. "Look after my children as they undertake these tasks."

A confused look crossed Geralt's face. "Is that allowed? Are they not supposed to undertake these tasks alone?"

Crach waved a hand dismissively. "No, no, no. Any candidate is allowed to bring a crew with them. It is perfectly within the norm to have help. And even if it were not," Crach added quietly, "I would ask it all the same. Please keep them safe."

Geralt gave a solemn nod.

"Thank you, friend." Crach clasped arms with Geralt. "I owe you."

After expounding on the tasks each of his children had set out to do and a bit more catching up between them, Geralt and Crach eventually retired in the early hours of the morning.


And so it was that Geralt had set out the next day in a boat furnished by Crach, his head pounding a little more than he cared to admit, heading to the isle of Undvik.

Geralt had decided to find Hjalmar first as he had left several days prior and could already have picked up the trail of the ice giant plaguing the island. Hjalmar, foolishly, in Geralt's opinion, chose as his task to defeat the ice giant and render Undvik habitable once more.

Giants were no laughing matter. Even witchers were reluctant to take on a contract involving one. More than one of the witcher order had lost their lives to the creatures. As Hjalmar had already left, Geralt had kept these facts to himself when he had spoken to Crach.

Now, a day later, as the island drew closer, so too did the feeling of unease settling across Geralt's chest. He hoped Hjalmar had yet to find the giant. It was a large island after all. Even a sizeable crew could take weeks to scout the entire thing.

Geralt shook his head. There was no point in speculating. He would find what he would find.

The sun was shining high above the land before him when Geralt reached the island, a favorable wind lending him a speed that had reduced his expected journey considerably. As he pulled up to the ramshackle dock on the northern side of the island, Geralt was able to parse together a few early clues.

Across the quay was moored a large Skelligen ship—Hjalmar's no doubt, judging by the An Craite emblems decorating the sides. Hjalmar had made landfall safely, then. There was no one was aboard, nor could Geralt hear anyone in the vicinity. They had already moved further inland. And Geralt could glean nothing more until he got closer.

Once he had tied up his boat and leapt ashore, Geralt was able to fully take in the town before him. Or lack thereof.

The giant's decimation of Undvik was practically a Skelligen legend and even outside of the isles, many bards would recount the tale. Geralt had heard it several times in his travels, but this was the first time he had ever laid eyes on the destruction himself.

He had seen wars leave a place more intact.

The docks on which he stood were rotten and moldy, the boards soft beneath his feet. Many planks had long since succumb to the ocean and fallen away leaving large gaps in the decking. His eyes roving upward toward the town, Geralt thought it looked as if a tornado had come through. Roofs were splintered and ripped from their houses. Buildings were shredded. The ground itself was littered with so much debris that Geralt had a hard time determining whether there was dirt or cobblestone underneath.

On top of all that, nature had started staking its claim over the town. Trees grew from houses, nets of vines stretched over wooden frames, and a carpet of lichen and grass covered everything it could.

Geralt felt a flicker of pity for Clan Tordarroch.

After nimbly picking his way to the shoreline, Geralt made his way over the Skelligen ship. The area around the ship had been trampled by many pairs of boots. Crach had told Geralt that Hjalmar had brought a party with him to assist in hunting the giant. By the looks of the trail, they had wasted no time in setting out.

At least the trail will be easy to follow, Geralt thought to himself as he tracked the party southwest.

The going was easy for the first few hours. The terrain sloped upwards, but it was mostly brush and grasslands. Skelligers weren't exactly known for their stealth so a group of them had left a path so wide, it bordered on comical. In fact, their passage was making Geralt's trip easier by having cleared the way.

By now, Geralt could tell where they were headed—up into the mountains. So Hjalmar wasn't as dull as he seemed. The mountains were exactly where Geralt would have looked. Giants generally liked to hide out in caves where they could hunker down and strike out at anything that passed by.

The mountains that loomed over Geralt were enormous and stretched on as far as Geralt could see in either direction.

Great.

Any cave that was large enough to house a giant would have to be part of a massive network. Geralt guessed he could spend days underground in the mountains before him. And tracking would become immeasurably harder in the dark, rocky environment of the caves.

Grumbling, Geralt doubled his pace. Something about this place didn't sit right with him and the fact that he couldn't tell why only made him more uneasy.

Just as the last light of the day dimmed into moonlight, Geralt smelled it.

Blood. A lot of it.

Turning the corner around a large boulder, Geralt beheld a gruesome scene. White wolves were strewn about, slices cutting them from stem to stern. Geralt counted ten. Even more paw prints headed away from the battle giving Geralt reason to believe there were more in the pack that had fled. In the middle of the incident were three pools of blood. Drag marks led from the pools off to the side where three identical cairn graves had been arranged, a shield placed carefully atop each one.

They had come so far in search of a giant only to be killed by a regular pack of wolves.

Respectfully, Geralt removed just enough of the rocks on the graves to check the identities of those who had died. None of them were Hjalmar. Geralt expected as much. After all, if Hjalmar had died, the others surely would have turned back.

After replacing the stones, it took a moment for Geralt to pick up the trail from the scattered mess around him, but eventually he found it and set off once more, this time due south.

Over the hours, grassy hills gave way to rocky fields which gave way to switchbacks up into the mountains proper. Only moonlight guided Geralt now and a harsh wind gusted in from the north. Geralt sniffed the air experimentally.

"Storm's brewing," he muttered to himself.

It wasn't long before Geralt was hunched against the wind, a downpour imminent. Finding any trace of Hjalmar was becoming more and more difficult. Luckily for Geralt, it didn't matter much. There was only one path anyway. It wound ever upward, higher and higher into the mountains. Finally it flattened out onto a wide ledge and Geralt stopped.

A crevice in the rock face led left into the mountain while the path continued further on and crooked out of sight. Now Geralt faced a dilemma. There was no trail. There hadn't been for quite some time. He had been following the path out of the assumption that Hjalmar had continued on. He very much doubted that they would have turned back to find another. But Geralt had still made an assumption and now there was no way of knowing which way Hjalmar had gone.

The crevice on Geralt's left was much too small for a giant. Geralt himself would find it a tight fit. Yet he had a feeling that Hjalmar would have gone in there regardless, knowing that the giant had to be hiding somewhere inside the mountain. Besides, the hole could lead to a dead end and then Geralt could return to the outer path. As if he needed any more prodding, the first bout of rain was starting to fall and Geralt happily squeezed through the opening before he was drenched.

Beyond the light from the entrance, it was pitch black inside. Knowing what prey Hjalmar sought, Geralt came prepared. Witcher brews and decoctions were an essential part of a witcher's kit. A witcher who prepares lives to see another day, Vesemir had always said. The boys at the School of the Wolf had always mocked Vesemir behind his back about it, Geralt included, but the words had stuck. Now Geralt selected a Cat potion from the few he carried, unstoppering the top and downing it in one swig. He gritted his teeth as the potion took effect. Witcher brews might be useful, but they certainly weren't pleasant.

It took a moment, but the room brightened before Geralt's eyes as if someone had gone around the edges lighting torches on the wall. The room in which Geralt found himself was small, devoid of any meaningful features, and quickly turned a corner beyond his field of view.

There was nothing for it but to keep going.

The antechamber narrowed into a passage that wound down to Geralt's left. It kept shrinking and shrinking to the point where Geralt could reach up and touch the stone ceiling. The passage dwindled even more and Geralt was ready to turn back, giving it up as a dead end, when he spotted something.

There was soot on the wall, just above his head and to his left. Soot from torches held aloft.

Hjalmar had come through here.

Ducking down into the narrower confines, Geralt kept going, his fervor returning at the sight of a trail. It was nearly a mile later that the passageway opened back up, the wider air bringing with it more than just a sense of relief.

The air was musty and old, likely never having been touched by the wind. Just above that note, however, was the faintest hint of smoke. A few more turns towards that smell and the cave opened up onto a landing.

Geralt stopped in his tracks.

An immense cavern yawned open before Geralt, its sharp, calcified teeth reaching from floor and ceiling alike. Its breath was still and close and even Geralt shuddered to think what must live down in those depths, giants aside.

His prediction had been right. The cave network was huge. From his vantage point on a landing high up one of the walls, Geralt could see dozens of passages heading off in every direction. It was a humbling sight.

But Geralt only marveled at the view for a moment because immediately to his right was a small campsite. Ten messy bedrolls were laid out around an unlit campfire. Against the wall, laden packs were propped up, their contents spilling out into the makeshift campsite. Hjalmar and his company had set up a sort of base from which they could explore the cave. A smart move, considering how many pathways there were to explore.

Investigating, Geralt placed his hand over the charred remains of the fire. They were stone cold. The group hadn't been back for some time and, given the hour, that didn't bode well. Geralt cast around for any indication of which way they had headed. A thin ledge led down into the cave. It was the only way forward, so Geralt took it and descended the thirty feet to the cave floor.

Now that he was closer, Geralt could see that there were small mushrooms dotting the floor, the faintest blue glow emanating from them. They grew all along the edges of the paths, popping up amongst stalagmites and the creases between rocks.

Scanning the fungi, Geralt noticed a dimming to the light on his left. On closer inspection, he found that the mushrooms had been knocked over. Following that path with his eyes, Geralt could see that several of the mushrooms were pointing away from him and several were pointing back toward him. They had marked their paths.

Geralt had never given Hjalmar much credit beyond brawn, but he obviously had some of his sister's wit. And that made Geralt's job incredibly easier. Not only could he tell which way they had gone, but he wouldn't be wasting time on pathways that Hjalmar had abandoned.

It only took a minute for Geralt to find the newest trail and he trotted off in that direction. Despite the branching tunnels through varying sizes of caverns, Hjalmar's trail held true and soon enough, Geralt didn't even need it.

The trail let out into a tunnel maybe twenty feet tall and just as wide, its floor worn smooth and cleared of debris.

A giant traveled through here, and regularly.

The question of whether to head left or right was answered by the smell invading Geralt's senses. The tunnel to the right reeked of death, of rotting corpses.

Geralt swore as he started running toward the smell, the stench of it strong enough to lead him through the last set of twists and turns before he found the giant's lair. Breathing hard, Geralt skidded to a stop at the end of the tunnel.

A shaft of moonlight drifting in from high above illuminated a massive cave, the top of which was lost even to Geralt's keen eyes. Outlining the room were piles and piles of debris stacked twenty feet high, made mostly of branches and thatching, but adorned with everything from weapons and tools to bird cages and children's toys.

Geralt's heart sank as he entered.

In the center of the room was the giant—dead. And around it were scattered what remained of Hjalmar and his party.

Breathing a heavy sigh, Geralt ambled over to a body he perceived to be Hjalmar. It was leaned up against a thick pillar, its bloody chest caved in. When Geralt straightened the body to see its face, he could feel the crunching of bones all along the spine and rib cage. The back of the skull was caved in as well and the face was so bloodied that Geralt could hardly make out any of the features. But there was no mistaking the cut of the beard, the insignia clasped on the body's chest, or the axe clutched in its hand.

It was Hjalmar.

Geralt turned his head and heaved a growl of frustration. He had come too late. And judging by the body, by less than a day.

At least he had killed the giant, Geralt thought, rising and swiveling to the giant's corpse. He strode over, curiosity getting the better of him. The closer he got, the further from the truth Geralt found himself.

The giant was rotting. Much more so than Hjalmar. It looked to be dead for several days, maybe a week. But if the giant had been dead, who had killed Hjalmar? Geralt had assumed the wounds were from the giant's fist slamming Hjalmar into the wall. What else had that kind of strength?

Then there was the giant. The backs of its ankles were sliced clean through—a maneuver to debilitate it, to bring it down to a human level. Circling around to the front of it, Geralt found hacks and slashes all along its sides and arms and, although it was hard to make out past the flesh sagging from its bones, its hands were blackened, as if burned. Judging by the amount of blood, the killing blow was a slash across the throat. It was a quick, clean, and efficient kill. In fact, it's how Geralt would have gone about it.

A witcher, then.

Confused and desperate for answers, Geralt investigated the other bodies around him. Next to Hjalmar laid a man who had similar wounds, though his chest wasn't nearly as concave. It looked as though he had been flung backwards, opened his head up on a rock, and bled out. The other bodies, which Geralt had ignored at first, only left him with more questions. They hadn't been killed by bludgeoning, they had been sliced open by swords.

"What the hell happened here?" Geralt said aloud, his mind frantically trying to piece together the puzzle.

"The same thing that's going to happen to you, I'm afraid," a voice echoed through the cave.

In one swift motion, Geralt drew his sword and turned, cursing himself for letting his guard down. Before him, standing in front of the tunnel through which Geralt had entered, stood a man in a hooded cloak, his face hidden in shadow. Two swords poked out over his right shoulder.

The witcher.

"Geralt," the witcher said, almost in surprise as Geralt had turned to face him. The man threw back his hood, his yellow eyes near-glowing in the dim light.

Long, dark hair crowned the man's head. It was thinning and unkempt, lending its owner a wild look in keeping with his well-worn clothes. They looked to have been nice at one point, but had since been lived in for far too long without repair. The swords, however, were gleaming. A witcher never neglected his swords.

Gleaming like his swords, the man's cat eyes were weary and harsh. An overgrown beard lined his jaw, as patchy and messy as his hair. Then there was his face. Geralt didn't know the man, yet he still had an inkling that his face had been distorted. It was too long, too drawn, like some sorcerer had warped his frame.

Geralt squinted in response. "Do I know you?"

The witcher paused a moment. "I know you." His head tilted to the side. "But who of our order does not know the great Geralt of Rivia? I had no idea I would have the honor of finding you here." As the man spoke, more men filed into the cave behind him, spreading out to either side.

Despite the seemingly laudatory words, Geralt didn't trust the man for one second. He held his sword firmly at the ready. The men streaming in fanned out in an arc toward Geralt. Most looked like Skelligers. There were ten in all including the witcher, though, as Geralt looked more closely, some of the other men had double swords as well. The situation was getting worse by the second.

Geralt started backing up slowly, using his peripheral vision to keep an eye on all of the men entering and to search for some way out. Baffled by the circumstance he currently found himself in, Geralt stalled, replying to the witcher, "I'm here for a friend to kill the giant." A partial truth. "I didn't realize Undvik was inhabited by men as well."

"Only recently," countered the witcher with a half smile.

The semicircle of men around Geralt advanced, the witcher at the top of the arc. Not wanting them to get too close or to allow them to surround him, Geralt retreated further into the cavern. The tension in the room was rising, Geralt could feel it in his bones. He surreptitiously cast Quen as a precaution. But there was still hope he could talk his way out. He just had to convince them that he was no threat to whatever was going on here.

Geralt nodded toward the giant. "It seems you did my job for me." He lowered his sword ever so slightly in a mock show of friendliness. "I'm not one to take another man's prize so I'll leave the trophy for you to claim and be on my way."

An agonizing second of silence, then, "I don't think so."

The witcher stretched forth his hand and a blast of Aard larger than anything Geralt had ever seen erupted forth, shoving bodies and detritus aside in its wake. There was no time to react. The force barreled into Geralt and had he not cast Quen earlier, the blow may very well have killed him on the spot. As it was, the breath was knocked thoroughly from his lungs, a few ribs cracked under the pressure, and Geralt was thrown backward through the air. He slammed into one of the giant's trash piles and spiraled off of it, coming to a stop on the far side of it.

Had there been any breath in his body, Geralt would have groaned at the pain pounding his chest. All he could do was grind his teeth as he struggled to pull his feet underneath him and air back into his lungs. On the bright side, he had landed out of view of the men, granting him a precious few seconds. It only took a moment for Geralt to gather himself and it was a good thing too.

Footsteps echoed through the cave, slow and deliberate. The witcher had no reason to believe Geralt had survived the blast.

Finding his feet, Geralt cast a quick glance around him. Luck granted him another boon.

Just behind him was another tunnel. It was half covered by debris, being too small for the giant to have used, but it was enough. Sucking in his first glorious breaths, Geralt crossed over to the entrance, sheathing his sword along the way, and scrabbled at the accumulation there to clear a path.

The footsteps quickened as the scrap hit the floor. Hastily, Geralt tore at the pile until there was an opening large enough for him to squeeze through. The fit was so tight, he had to turn sideways to make it. He spared one last look back into the cavern only to lock eyes with the witcher, shock and anger flaring up in the latter's face at seeing Geralt alive and escaping. Geralt needed no more prodding. He squeezed himself through the gap, scratching his face along the sides in his haste. Throwing himself out the other side into the tunnel, Geralt sprinted away as fast as he could.

A blast boomed behind him, part of the pile of debris blowing out at Geralt and pelting him in the back. He held up his hands to shield his head and kept running, taking the first offshoot in the tunnel he could find. Another boom echoed almost immediately after the first, but Geralt was out of sight of the entrance by then.

Things were bleak. After a few minutes, Geralt was lost in the warren of branching paths, every turn sparking fear in Geralt's heart that he would hit a dead end. If the others trapped him there, he wouldn't stand a chance. And he was painfully aware that the others knew these caves much better than he. They could be flanking to cut him off for all he knew. There was nothing he could do but keep moving forward and try to find a way out.

Geralt ran for who knew how long, the sounds of his feet hitting the rock drowning out any chance of hearing his pursuers. He dared not stop to find out where they were.

Long since losing any sense of direction, Geralt simply kept following his feet, though he was quickly becoming discouraged. At this point, the men didn't even need to find him. Geralt could wander these caves until he died from starvation, his body one of many lost in these depths and his and Hjalmar's story dying with it. Then Geralt smelled it.

A tinge of sea salt freshened the air.

Rejuvenated, Geralt followed the scent until a warm light grew up ahead. Having been down under the mountain, Geralt had lost track of time as well. It must have been dawn already.

He raced for the opening, bursting through into the sunlight, and skidding to a halt to catch his breath.

Only, it wasn't sunlight. What Geralt had seen was the light from multiple fires, his eyes so used to the darkness that it had seemed much brighter.

Geralt had entered another sizeable cave. The ceiling was much lower, but there was an opening to Geralt's right that looked out to the lightning riddled clouds above and the roiling sea far below. The opening was at least fifty feet wide, a veritable hole in the mountainside.

Scattered to the left were tents and campfires and bedrolls, many occupied. The smoke from the fires flowed up the gentle slope of the ceiling to the opening where it dissipated into the night.

Geralt's sudden intrusion sparked great interest among those who were awake. They jumped to their feet and grabbed weapons, a few that didn't have weapons handy merely crowding in behind, shouting to their brethren to wake up.

Geralt hadn't found an exit. He had found his pursuers' camp.

"Shit." Geralt drew his own sword and held it at the ready, backing toward the tunnel once more.

Things only got worse.

The sound of footsteps was growing from down the tunnel. Whether they had managed to track Geralt through the tunnels or they were returning to their base, Geralt didn't know. Either way, he was in deep trouble.

Geralt had no choice but to put his back to the outer opening as the witcher and some of his retinue emerged from the tunnel, a satisfied grin etching the man's face.

The witcher waved a hand at his men to stand down and turned his gaze back to Geralt. "You're crafty, I'll give you that." He strode around to his left until he was directly in front of Geralt with Geralt's back to the opening in the cliffside. "I may have been rash in trying to kill you. You would be much more useful working with us. We could use you on our side."

There was no point in replying. They both knew Geralt wouldn't join them.

At Geralt's lack of response, the witcher contorted his hand. "Join us."

The strangest sensation crept over Geralt. He saw the witcher's lips move, but the sound slurred and stretched through time. Geralt's mind blanked, his vision tunneling until everything went black except for the witcher. He couldn't think. He couldn't move. A voice inside Geralt's head kept repeating the same words.

Join us.

Join us.

The words matched up with the witcher's moving lips in that same bizarre time warp that Geralt couldn't make any sense of. His body was going slack, his sword dropping to his side, the tip resting on the ground.

Join them, his brain thought fuzzily.

Geralt took a step forward.

Join them.

Another.

Join th—

Geralt's steps faltered. Somewhere in the depths of his brain was another voice. One that fought against the fog clouding his mind. He made to move again, but pulled himself back once more, like he had a rope tied around each wrist and two people were tugging him in opposite directions.

The witcher's lips moved again, a slight look of consternation on his face the only sign that he acknowledged Geralt's fumbling. But before the words could ring in Geralt's mind, Geralt's own voice sounded internally.

No.

The witcher recoiled a bit, taking a breath to speak again.

No!

Geralt's sword twitched in his hand. The witcher's lip curled. He stomped toward Geralt, fury written on his face.

"NOOO!"

This time Geralt shouted the word as the world popped back into place. He swung his sword upward to fend off the approaching witcher, who was no more than a few feet away. Surprised, the witcher flung up a shield of Quen at the last second. Though forced to take a few steps back, he was unharmed.

Now that Geralt's mind was clear, he immediately recognized the effects of an Axii spell. When he was younger, he and his fellow witchers in training would often pass the time practicing Axii on each other. He, Lambert, and Eskel got into quite a bit of trouble with their pranks on each other, each trying to get the other to do ever more ridiculous or dangerous acts. Lambert, especially, loved to torment Geralt with the sign. But back then it was only ever a suggestive voice, like an instinct that guided him to do something and made it seem like the only correct choice. It had never been the all-consuming magic Geralt had just experienced.

Of course, their juvenile attacks on each other also gave them a chance to learn to fend off the magic. By the time they had become fully fledged witchers, none of them could so much as get the others to scratch their nose.

Geralt had never been so grateful for their unwitting foresight.

The other witcher regained his composure, straightening himself, but making no move toward Geralt. Everyone around them seemed taken aback at Geralt having fended off the Axii. A few of them stepped forward, their swords raising. The witcher held them back with an upheld hand.

"Who are you?" Geralt asked incredulously.

The witcher seemed unsure for a moment, then smiled. "Call me Ralen." He made a mock bow and slowly started toward Geralt. "A humble witcher much as you are—"

Geralt backed away in accordance with Ralen's steps, sword raising fractionally.

"—but with power you could never dream of possessing." Ralen stopped his advance, the circle of men closing in behind him. He and Geralt now faced each other in the middle of the semicircle. "Unless," Ralen teased, "you join us."

Geralt's eyes narrowed. "What are you talking about?"

A smirk crooked Ralen's mouth. "I have here," he said, reaching into an inside shirt pocket, "a little concoction given to me by an alchemist I met in Toussaint." He pulled out a small vial full of a clear liquid. It would have been virtually indistinguishable from water were it not for the slight sheen twirling through it like veins of pearlescent fluid. Suddenly, Ralen turned and called out. "Kadrin! A demonstration please."

One of the witchers in the circle, this one with red hair, stepped forward and stuck forth his hand. Geralt wheeled, ready to fend off an attack, but the man merely sent a blast of Igni blazing past Geralt and out the opening behind him where it was quickly quenched by the sheets of rain pouring down. The blast was much larger than anything Geralt had ever produced. That being said, it didn't seem as powerful as what Geralt imagined Ralen could summon, based on what he had displayed earlier. Disconcerted, Geralt turned his attention back to Ralen.

Holding the vial up to eye level, Ralen stared at it as he swirled its contents. "It affects everyone a bit differently, this, but one thing is for certain." He met Geralt's gaze. "Drink this and you will have power you have never known before. Who knows? You may even be more powerful than me." Ralen held the vial out toward Geralt. "What do you say?"

"No, thanks," Geralt answered glibly. It wasn't even an option. He didn't trust anything about whatever it was that was going on here. He wanted no part of it.

A scowl darkened Ralen's face. "Let me make your options very clear. Join us, and gain power previously unknown to men of our kind… or die."

Geralt didn't have an answer this time. He wasn't going to join them, yet escape seemed impossible. Even without Ralen's power, Geralt was vastly outnumbered. He could never win that fight. Still, he found himself glancing around him, weighing each man's worth in battle, looking for a weak point in the circle. If he could just break through—

"Very well."

Geralt's eyes snapped back to Ralen who stowed the vial back inside his pocket and drew his sword. He must have sensed Geralt's intent. There was no need for Geralt to respond now.

Faster than Geralt had seen any man move, Ralen closed the distance between them, his sword swinging up from the side. Geralt deflected and twirled out of reflex alone, bringing his sword back to the ready as Ralen struck again. This time, there was no time to move. Geralt took the blow on his sword, his arms ringing with the impact. He ducked out to the side and let Ralen's blade slide down his own, using the momentum to spin and strike back. Ralen parried and feinted. Geralt, being the expert swordsman that he was, didn't fall for the feint, instead striking where Ralen had left himself open. It didn't matter in the end. Ralen was too fast and dodged backwards.

He held back a moment. "I'd forgotten what it was like to match blades with another witcher." Ralen twirled his sword once in his hand, then brought it up to the ready. "It'll be nice having someone who can fight for more than a few seconds."

When Ralen charged, the fight truly began. Though it wasn't a fight so much as Geralt surviving Ralen's onslaught. The man was too fast, too powerful. Skilled as Geralt was, he couldn't match it. All he could do was let his instincts guide him, the seconds ticking down until either they or his body failed him.

Time and time again, Ralen came at Geralt and Geralt barely had time to defend himself let alone mount an offensive. That first feint was the only time Geralt had actually struck back.

Ralen's blade was a gleaming blur. At this point, Geralt wasn't sure if he was slowing or Ralen was speeding up. Either way, things were looking bleak. Then came a stroke of luck. Ralen swung across Geralt horizontally and immediately spun and brought his sword down for an overhead strike. It was a move he had performed twice already, albeit disguised by other exchanges before or after. Regardless, Geralt was not one to miss such a thing and he was ready for it this time. He stepped in close and caught Ralen's wrist with his left hand, his right already swinging in to strike.

But Ralen hadn't made a mistake. It was a trap.

Stepping in closer still, Ralen placed his left palm on Geralt's right arm, just below the shoulder. Before Geralt could register what was happening, a blast of Aard wrenched his arm from its socket, the extra force sending him flying backward. He pirouetted back toward the opening in the cave wall, his sword lost from his slackened grip.

Geralt crumpled to a heap a few feet from what he could now see was a sheer cliff face several hundred feet above the frothing sea below. Pain lanced through him, sharp and acrid, as he struggled to his knees, his right arm hanging limply by his side. The cracked ribs he sported from his earlier encounter with Ralen ground inside him, now fully broken and joined by a few others. He gritted his teeth and grunted at the feeling. He was lucky he had cast a preemptive shield around himself at the beginning of the duel. Otherwise, he might have been killed outright. Ralen, being a witcher, may well have known that which is likely why he went for the debilitating move instead.

All of this information flashed inside Geralt's mind in the second it took him to come to one knee and finally raise his head. Grimacing and out of breath, Geralt looked up to see Ralen standing ten feet away, not a scratch on him.

"Who are you?" Geralt repeated his earlier question, breath stilting.

Ralen's eyes hardened. "It doesn't matter now. We won't meet again."

With that, he raised his hand and sent a torrent of flame straight for Geralt.

Willing every scrap of strength he had into the shield, Geralt threw out his left hand in answer and cast Quen. The wall of fire crashed into Geralt's shield, engulfed it in a swirling inferno. Geralt couldn't see anything past the violent flickering of the flames. Couldn't hear anything over the deafening roar. The force of the assault shoved Geralt back a few inches and sent the loose rubble around him flying.

It didn't end there.

The fire kept coming, the heat so intense even the barrier couldn't keep it from seeping through. Geralt felt like he was in an oven. He knew the flames hadn't breached his shield yet, but his outstretched hand felt like it was on fire. In fact, he could see his fingers beginning to blister, his forearm turning red behind it. He cried out in pain and effort, the cost of the sign he was forced to cast quickly draining him.

Geralt dared a scan around him in a desperate attempt to find a way out of this. All he saw were the hungry eyes of the onlookers surrounding him. How many of them had followed Ralen willingly? How many had he bewitched? Either way, Geralt would find no quarter there.

He couldn't take this much longer. His shield was failing. It sputtered around Geralt, tongues of flames flitting through it. Geralt was going to be burned alive.

Fighting Ralen, fighting his way out, was now out of the question.

There was only one option left.

"Enough, I yield!" Geralt called. Still the fire came and Geralt's shield was on the verge of collapse. "I yield! I'll join you!" he called louder.

Mercifully, the heat lessened and died. As the flames flickered and disappeared, Ralen came back into view, his eyes suspicious, but his hand lowered.

The coolness that swept over Geralt felt like diving into an oasis after traversing the desert. Retracting his scorched hand, Geralt let the dregs of his shield drop. Pain wracked every inch of his body as he strove to stand. It wasn't just the injuries he had sustained, it was the exhaustion the Quen had brought about that made the anguish so all-encompassing. He righted himself as best he could, staggering back a few steps and hunching over to favor the broken ribs and dangling arm. Sweat poured down Geralt and he panted and ground his teeth through the pain, but he forced himself to meet Ralen's eyes.

Ralen lifted his eyebrows expectantly. "What did you say?"

Geralt took a few heaving breaths before responding. "You win," he began, losing his balance and swaying back another step. His heel ended up practically on the edge of the abyss. Another deep breath. "I'll join—"

Without warning, Geralt turned and jumped over the edge.

It was his only way out. He had simply needed time to get there. And he had known just the ruse to buy it. Ralen clearly wanted him in his ranks, so he played to that weakness. A few careful staggers to get him closer to his goal and a few deep breaths to recover some strength. Then it was all or nothing. Geralt would either escape to freedom. Or die trying.

Geralt felt the shockwave of another blast of Aard whooshing overhead as he plummeted toward the black water below. Then came a flash of heat. Glancing upward, Geralt saw Ralen at the edge of the cliff casting Igni down toward him. Ralen's attempt was fruitless. Even his flames couldn't reach Geralt in the downpour.

That didn't mean Geralt was out of danger. A jump from such a height could be lethal, even for a witcher. Geralt did the only thing he could with the vestiges of his strength and cast Quen on himself once more, streamlining himself as best he could as he neared the water.

He took a deep breath.

With the force of an avalanche, the churning waves leapt up to meet him, Geralt's shield snapping in an instant.

It was quickly followed by Geralt's leg.

But Geralt barely had any time to register the pain before the biting cold and the impenetrable darkness swallowed him whole.

There was no time to ponder whether he had made the right choice. Whether he would live to see another day.

As soon as Geralt's head crashed into that unforgiving sea, he knew no more.