A Song of Magics and Sorceries

Book I

A Melody of Change

Jon I

A Dance With Fate

"Do you feel that, Jon?"

"I do not."

"Brother?"

Jon froze, watching as the rare, hairless creature, a Nug, his only reprieve from the all-encompassing boredom after hours of rough riding, peeked its long-eared head from underneath the arms of a bush, then finally scurried off, never to be seen again.

He fought down the annoyance brewing underneath from Solass' carelessly raised voice.

"What is it?"

Sat atop their steeds, the two Witchers rode alongside the banks of the Last River, slowly cutting their way Southwest. Ash Spruce, crowned with their newly blossoming bounties, lined their immediate right, not more than a stone throw away from the precariously loose and waterlogged path they presently trudged upon. The clear waters of the Last River occupied their left, as it had for several days now, full of colorful fish and small, odd-shaped creatures.

Shifting, Solas, arms outstretched and fingers spread wide, smiled as a gentle wind suddenly blew in from behind. "It is pleasant and beautiful," he said. "Around us, the very lands, trees, and stones dance to the tune spun by the wind's wiles, presenting us with a soft, melodic thrum as the realm grants us the honor of hearing its final embrace."

"Final embrace?" Jon asked with an edge to his voice, a hand immediately dropping to his covered weapon strapped to his saddle, memories resurfacing of previous ambushes. "Are we in danger, Solas?"

"Do not seek the sword when offered an arm in friendship, Jon," the not-much-older half-blood quickly admonished after a short, hearty chuckle. "This is no matter for concern—quite the opposite. The spirits, compassionate and loving by nature, have awoken from their slumber, likely due to our presence in their lands, and seek to make themselves known by bidding us farewell and pleasant travels. Nothing more, nothing less."

Jon looked to Solas with no small amount of doubt but, in the end, chose the most straightforward path; to heed his words. However, his hand did not relinquish its hold upon his weapon's hilt for many more moments.

One could never be too careful, as Master Vessimir always said.

"What does this… feeling feel like?" Jon couldn't help but ask a short time later, having just passed an old, rotting trunk by the road.

"As a mother's embrace and a father's smile made into one," he answered. "Like sitting in front of the magical hearths in the Hall of Heroes back in Kaer Morhen while our brothers stand around us, happy and in good spirits."

Jon could not relate to the former comparison, but he could imagine. As for the latter, that did indeed sound pleasant. The Old Gods knew he much preferred to be currently experiencing their brother's unique breed of insanity than riding through the thawing lands of the furthest North.

It was all incredibly tiring, dirty, and uncomfortable, but mostly tiring.

"One day, your core will open," Solas suddenly said, having not moved a muscle after many minutes of silent riding. "I can already see it, my brother."

Jon swiveled quickly, equally surprised and angered by the sudden change to a topic he much rather not speak of.

"Do not," Jon warned. "I do not wish to speak of this."

His brother continued anyway, ignorant of the nasty glare aimed his way. "There is no doubt it will happen, only when." The wind began picking up, lifting the odd leaf and sending it crashing into their steeds or person. "It is unavoidable," he stated, his tone confident. "An explosion of repressed magic and sorceries, unleashed at last."

This is all unprecedented, seemingly impossible till this very day.

The boy is unnatural, a vile freak of all things sacred. He must be purged at once!

I'm sorry, my boy.

The memories of those cursed days came flooding back. And he found them equally painful now as when he was a child.

"You do not know what you speak of," Jon unintentionally whispered so as not to be heard.

"Do I not, brother?" Solas, at last, opened his eyes. Orange, cat-like slitted eyes stared into his violet, unblinking. "Do not think me so daft as to speak without reason," he scoffed. "Unlike those so-called experts drawn to Kaer Morhen when news of your unprecedented severing was spread, I am not blind, deaf, nor stupid. They, so deeply enthralled with their tests and experiments, were blind to their surroundings, to what your presence does to the realm."

"My presence?"

"They call for you," he stated. "The spirits, the winds, and streams, every plant and tree. Always. But never more so when we walk among the lands of my people, such as we are now. It is Intense. Like an unrelenting fire raging before you, always warm but never unpleasant."

Jon looked around again, unconvinced and, deep down, perhaps with the tiniest hints of hope.

"From your face, I can tell you do not believe my words. It is understandable. You do not feel the things I do; you do not share the same senses afforded to me by my mother's lineage. Regardless, you will one day see. I know it. The realm knows it."

Jon felt his fingers tighten around his reins. Annoyance and anger simmered under his skin, ready to burst out and burn Solas for his thoughtless words.

However, he did not allow it to do so.

"Do not speak any further, Solas. And I do mean it," Roach shifted nervously underneath. "You know nothing of the realities of what those accursed potions have done to me."

He took a deep breath, calming his emotions. "I have… come to accept my lot in life, the bad and the good, and, even if it is not what I would have preferred, that is what the Gods have afforded me," he continued. "My lack of talent is of no issue, not anymore. My blade remains sharp, and my feet are quick. That is enough."

…

"Wait and watch, Brother, you will see."

"As you say, brother," Jon called to the lagging form of black furs and lightly padded clothing now some three paces behind him, his words a bit curter than he had intended. "As you say."

Hours came and went, with not a word spoken between them. However, there was no awkwardness or lingering tension. They were better than that, or at least Jon thought as much. Years on the path had built brothers out of them, countless monsters and creatures had made them more than that, and no mere argument could ever sever their bond.

Slosh, Slosh, Slosh,

Roach shook her head in annoyance as her hooves dipped knuckle deep into a particularly treacherous section of muddy ground. The silent beast, well-trained and of better stock, dutifully kept pace even as the condition worsened the longer they went.

"Not much left, girl," Jon spoke affectionately, hand patting and rubbing the mane of his ever-present companion to the creature's evident pleasure.

His words were quickly proved truthful.

Soon, the surrounding trees began thinning, presenting the pair with an unopposed visage of the large valley resting far below the hill they were slowly descending.

The rapid water of the Last River to their left snaked its way down the hill until it slowed down the center of the valley, splitting the middle evenly into two. And at the center, surrounded by large plots of cleared land and, for now, empty fields, Sweethill stood erected on either side of the calm waters, connected by a large wooden bridge.

From where they stood, everything appeared well. Or at least compared to the reports they had been led to believe. No homes were damaged or razed, the waters were clear rather than sickly green and clouds were not pelting the surroundings with thunder. Had they been lied to?

Unlikely. The Umbers, lords of Sweethill and the surrounding lands, were no liars.

Still, Jon was not without skepticism.

Regardless, they would arrive in an hour or two if the path did not worsen more than it already was, and then they could begin investigating the strange reports.

Deep in his thoughts, Jon almost missed Solas's voice speak. Almost.

"Jon."

"Yes, Solas?"

"Wanted to know your thoughts, prod your mind, and, if possible, try something," Solas said after turning to face behind him, to face him.

In the late morning light, his small, sharp features appeared unnaturally pale, and his blue-tinged lips looked particularly bruised for the time of day, a single shade off from pitch. He looked ill and frail, more so than usual.

"There is nothing there, merely thoughts on what lays before us. None good, I assure you. But if you wish, try your… something. It bothers me not," Jon said, looking away towards the increasingly quickening rapids and their descending path into the valley below. "If nothing else, it will keep my mind busy as we get closer."

"Here," Solas said, steering his horse closer, an odd, rounded stone between his palms. "This… This stone was given to me years ago as payment after a contract on a Wrath Demon. I have deduced it to be magical in nature and its power immense; however, I have failed to unravel its secrets. Spells, rituals, even blood magic, there is nothing I have not tried, all to no avail. But I have one final theory, one final gamble."

"Interesting tale, but your point?"

"You." The stone, a forearm in width and divided in half across its length by a thick, engraved leather strap, was pressed onto his hands before words of complaint or denial could be spoken. "You who no longer has a connection to the fade, you who presently walk upon the once sacred lands of my people, and you who carry the blood of renowned Sorcerers and Sorceresses amongst your own. You are my point; you might just be what is needed."

"We both know this will serve no purpose," Jon said, fixing his gaze on his brother's orange, cat-like eyes. "If you, a renowned expert in these matters, have not come up with a solution, how could I hope to provide something of note?"

"Do not think I do this lightly." Reaching forwards, Solas took hold of both reins and tightly pulled both steeds to a halt. "Now, hold it. Hold it and clear your mind."

Jon shook his head but did as instructed.

Well-versed in meditation as he was, it did not take long for his mind to clear. Even then, he waited a few minutes more. The way he saw it, there was no harm in humoring his brother; gods above knew how much he had put up with him over the years. It was the least he could do. Their previous conversation notwithstanding.

But, eventually, Jon did open his eyes, and… nothing had changed.

He was not remotely surprised.

"I do not like saying it, brother, but I told you so," he looked upwards to look at Solas's slightly taller figure. "Magic and I do not mix, never have, never will."

Solas sucked in a breath, mouth open, incoherent words sticking to his throat.

"Your eyes…" he whispered, almost hesitantly.

Jon watched as thickly gloved fingers slowly began reaching forwards until they firmly grasped his jaw.

"By the Old Gods!" his brother suddenly yelled excitedly. "They glow! They glow! They glow!"

Jon did not like the odd look in his brother's eyes.

Ever more so as the coppery taste of blood began flooding his mouth, oddly and unexplainably intermixed with something spicy, followed by the burning of his throat, the aching of his body, and the blurring of his vision.

That was when hammers started to strike his skull.

A blaze of pain flooded him, more intense than any before. It was sickening. It was devastating. It broke him.

The stone fell from his hands with a resounding, wet slosh.

The hammering of his brain slowed, then disappeared. The hundreds of white specks swimming and bouncing in his vision trickled into obscurity, granting him sight of his new position within the mud below and to the side of his horse. The stone was a few inches from his outstretched fingers, sporting hairline cracks and glowing streaks.

"... Jon!"

His brother leaned over him, the sun's blinding rays peeking through his blonde curls. "Jon, my brother, are you alright? Can you hear me?"

His brother's voice sounded like the faintest whisper to his still-ringing ears. Typical coarse and cold words were instead pleasant and warm. His orange turned green and slits into a cross. Something began dulling the pain, the breathtaking throb.

Then, it was gone. All of it and everything. Sight and sound, thoughts and words. Nothing but darkness, darkness, and the biting cold of something pressing against him.

It was unnatural in a way he could not adequately explain.

Sticky and slick.

Constantly shifting and writhing, but equally motionless and static.

Jon shuddered violently, curling his arms and legs uptight, but the young Witcher was given no respite. There was no escaping this; he could feel it in his soul. Whatever held him, held him in its cold embrace, was never letting him go.

This was where his story ended, where he would meet the Gods, wherever this was. And it scared him, no, it terrified him.

There was so much left to do, to prove. His father was wrong; he was not a useless bastard. He would prove him wrong. He would leave his mark upon the world so deep and entrenched in history that none would ever belittle his name. He would prove them wrong.

He would prove it to himself.

But he was beginning to feel tired as whatever surrounded him took its due.

Voices, beautiful and serene, called to him, whispering sweet nothing into his ears. None will ever harm you here, my Prince. Just close your eyes, and find peace. Soon, it will all be better, they promised. We offer hearth and home. Be blanketed by darkness and ice, embrace them; become them, as all those before you have done. Embrace us; become us, as all those after you will do.

A single crack took root, he could feel it, and his will siphoned and trickled away. And he was okay with it.

Peace.

That is what he felt even as the hold on him tightened.

Soon, it will all be better, he thought. It will… better.

…

I can hear music, he thought suddenly, warmth replacing cold. A tower surrounded by sand… There is music. Lute and harp. And voices… They speak softly, repeating the same strange words over and over… I can understand… One Snake and One Hawk… Daughter of the Rhoyne and Daughter of the Fade… One Dragon and One Monster… Birthed from Flames and Birthed from Curse… To be united by the Prince Who Was Promised… Destined to rid the world of… Ice and Blight.

For a moment, the darkness disappeared, and a woman stood before him, a sad smile on her weathered face. A dress, long and glorious, glowed like the moon. Upon her head, a crown of blue roses, Winter roses, adorned and interwoven with perfectly braided brown locks. Her thin lips moved, but no words came out. She retreated with a sad smile, unshed tears clinging to the corner of her eyes.

"My… Boy"

Then he knew no more.

-x 1 x

"Solas…"

The voice escaping from his throat sounded strange. It was deep, raspy, and weak. Nothing like it should.

Jon tried moving, but something clung to his skin, stopping his limbs and chest from abiding. His lungs began to burn, aching for breath, pressure building in his head, and still, they would not rise.

Hands black and hard as iron, and cold as iron too, grasped the collar of his shirt, just below the bronze clasp of his cloak, and pulled his form upwards, upwards and away from the choking substance.

"Master Witcher," a voice he did not recognize spoke into his ear. "Calm down. Breathe."

Jon moved to the voice's origin but could not see any distinct shapes, much less a face. However, someone was there. The breath against his cheek had to belong to someone—twice fold for the damp fingers currently unbuckling his jacket.

"Any better?"

He did not answer, could not answer.

"Be at peace, Master Witcher," the voice spoke again. "Your brother, that is what you call each other, correct? Anyways, he should be returning any moment now; he did not travel far."

Jon began picking up Solas's strange scent amongst the cacophony of intermixed smells, slowly approaching from behind. There were many, all different, for each held distinctly unique mixtures. Some he could tell apart quickly, cattle and dogs the easiest. Others, not quite so. One unknown scent belonged to whoever stood beside him. It, whoever it was, did not carry a combination of scents he was familiar with. However, he was leaning towards a woman, for she smelled of flowers, herbs, and, oddly, ice, among many others.

An arm snaked underneath his nape, lifting it. "Here," she said as something pressed firmly against his lips. "Drink."

The cool sensation of liquid flooded his parched mouth, washing away the lingering taste of coppery blood. Mouthful after mouthful, he drank and then drank some more until, at last, the container was left without a single drop.

"More," he croaked out.

There was a brief pause before more water was poured into his mouth, followed by a hearty chuckle.

"You'll run me dry of ale, Master Witcher," she joked. "If you like it so, perhaps we can arrange our contract to be paid in mead?"

"I am afraid we do not take mead for payment, M'lady," Solas spoke to his left, having arrived without either notice. "Though, I must say, for a man of a single, particular taste, my brother seems particularly fond of yours."

"Of course," she answered. "We pride ourselves on our honey; our village is known throughout the North for it. Speaking of which, will you save my sister, Master Witcher? Our home?"

A pitiful moan of protest escaped Jon as cold fingers gripped his head roughly, retching him away from the now-empty container. Thankfully, the comfortable warmth of his brother's magic soon began coursing through his body, dulling the pain he was experiencing.

"Aye," Solas answered. "It is why we have come so soon after the first thaw."

"Oh, thank you, Master Witcher," she exclaimed. "The Gods bless you and your order!"

"They are not needed but thank you for your blessings. Now, if you could, please allow us some privacy. My brother and I need to speak of the situation before us. And, as I believe, your people will soon be on the move."

"I- yes. You are right. I wish you luck, both of you. And thank you." The rustling of cloth and the patter of feet spoke of her departure soon after.

Silence followed for a few minutes; neither party knew how to begin their much-needed conversation. Only the sounds of ever-growingly distant voices and protests from many beasts of burden accompanying said voices filled their surroundings.

Solas was the first to crack, likely his guilt forcing him to act, or at least Jon thought as much. "How are you feeling, Jon?"

"Fuck you," was his instant reply.

"Humorous, but I did not ask that," Solas's voice dropped closer, equally dropping the sarcastic lisp usually woven into his gruff, unapologetic words. "Truly, how do you feel?"

"Like I fell from the Grey Tower back in Kaer Morhen." A grunt escaped him as Jon attempted to shift his body upwards. "My body is on fire, my mind a scattered mess, and, worst of all, my sight is failing me."

"Well, the pain should recede shortly; I have given you two elixirs during the hours you spent asleep," he said. "As for your sight… that is more complicated. Though, I suspected it has something to do with the ominous glowing."

"Glowing?"

"Aye."

"Color?"

"Back by the river, white, then turned a haunting violet an hour ago. Perhaps a shade or two darker than they were before."

"That is not all," Solas continued. "They… I do not know how to describe it properly, but white dots are scattered about your iris, constantly moving and shifting. If I had to place a word to it, they look almost as if dancing."

"You have gone mad, brother," Jon denied. "Either you have drunk too much of your foul concoction this morning or hit your head. I find both far easier to believe than my eyes, supposedly, dancing."

"By the Gods, both Old and New, I speak the truth."

Jon looked in his brother's direction, shocked. His entire disposition to his brother's words changed, for his brother had never evoked the Gods in their many years riding together. Meaning he was serious, deadly serious. And it scared Jon.

How will this affect me? My goals? His mind raced. Will I be blind for the rest of my days?

Many questions were at the cusp of his lips, and his brother, one of the leading experts on healing arts in their order, would, in his mind, undoubtedly have the answers, but they proved unneeded as his sight returned, if slowly.

It began from the top of his sight and was progressively traveling down. Things began clearing like a curtain coming down, and all previous blobs were now easily distinguishable shapes. However, he expected things to be different, perhaps sharper, or something similar. Or, Gods forbid, worse. Instead, everything was as before. He was thankful but would lie if he said he had not hoped for a better outcome.

"There," Solas said, pulling his now easily distinguishable arms back. "You should not be experiencing pain nor struggle to see. Correct?"

Jon nodded as he lifted himself to be propped against the tree behind him. Looking at his surroundings, lingering families carrying baskets of foodstuff and personal belongings filled the immediate vicinity. All stood in varying states of despair and unkemptness, and more than a few sported injuries of not insignificant worry.

Jon's concerns over his health were instantly pushed away, the safety and well-being of those around him taking the forefront and attention of his thoughts.

"Are these people from Sweethill?" he asked.

"Aye," his brother answered. "I spoke to a few of them while you slept and heard some strange things," a huff of annoyance escaped him as he looked in their direction. "Some spoke of large, horned human-like creatures pouring from the forests in hordes during the dead of night, others of snakes as tall as houses swallowing cows and smaller livestock in single mouthfuls, but, by far the most common, of heavily armed human-like monsters atop demonic steeds descending from the moon."

"Determining any sense of happenings with so many varying statements is proving difficult," he continued. "However, two details were spoken by all; all incidents happened the previous morning, and Sweethill stood no longer."

"Destroyed?"

"In its entirely, aye."

Was the village they had seen atop the hill not Sweethill?

"You find it strange too, do you not?" Solas asked before taking a deep breath and dropping to his bottom. "According to them, nearly the entirety of the valley had been rendered inhospitable. But did we not overlook the valley?" he sarcastically asked, then answered his question. "If you ask me, it looked fine."

"I remember…"

Jon's mind drifted to places unknown. He remembered the darkness and the cold, the suffocating feeling of being held against something, the tower in the sand, and the voices and their song. Most of all, he remembered the woman.

Was all of it a dream?

No, it can not be, he denied. It felt real. I am sure of it. But why can I not remember what the voices said? Or the woman's face?

"...Jon!"

"What?"

"Are you okay, brother?" Solas asked. "I called your name for several minutes."

Jon looked into his brother's narrowed eyes, worry evident. "I- I am fine," he answered. "Simply thinking."

"You are a terrible liar, you know. Still, we shall speak of this later. Can you get up?"

Jon rose.

"Our steeds are not far," he stated. "Roach, while beautiful, has given me nothing short of a childish temper ever since you fell. She needs to see you. Preferably before she uproots the trunk she is tied to and comes to find you herself."

Jon could not help the smile splitting his lips.

"Aye, I hear you."

x1x

Sometime later, the pair rode into the southern side of the deserted village, armed and wary.

Split in two by the softly flowing waters of the Last River, SweetHills was a sprawling collection of wooden lodges and huts, most sporting extensive, fenced-in gardens. However, once steadily built houses mainly lay in disarray, toppled, or otherwise. Jon suspected four in five was ruined and effectively past any viable reparation.

It was a shame, he found; they made some damn good mead.

Arriving on the banks of the river after following the main road, a few paces to the right of the large bridge connecting both sides of Sweethill, they dismounted.

"I don't like this, Solas," Jon freely admitted, clutching his weapon tighter.

The half-blood remained silent with his eyes closed. Soon, the rustling of their medallions against their clothing overtook the overbearing silence of the relatively open clearing they stood in. His brother had a plan, it seemed.

"Three," he called out, his voice deep to the point it sounded like two people were speaking as one. "Two on the other side and one here. None seem to know we are here, too busy rummaging to notice."

"Looters, bandits, or Monsters?"

"Unsure." Solas opened his eyes and met his gaze, orange on violet. "They do not feel magical. It could be humans or weaker creatures, but I can not see more than their general location. The realm and fade are… oddly unforthcoming."

Jon looked to the other side of the river, playing with his brother's words in his mind.

The opposite side had far fewer homes than the one they had arrived through. Although, from the telltale signs of the village leatherworks at the furthest away edge of the village outskirts, even if the smell had not yet reached his nose, he had a pretty good idea why that was. Indeed, if what his brother could sense were monsters, that is where they would be. The stench of rotting flesh was a treat not many would pass up on, after all.

"I'll take the other side, check the tannery and outskirts before moving inwards," Jon announced while unbuckling his potion satchel from Roache's rump. "We will meet back here at sundown… that should grant us three hours to survey the area and, Gods willing, maybe find hints as to what happened."

Solas nodded and moved to remove his equipment from his own bags. As for him, Jon unclasped and deposited his fur cloak and the coin purse he carried with him at all times into a secured pocket on Roach, for he did not wish his movement hampered or the jingling of coins to alert his target as he moved. Finally, he took his two other weapons, slotting them into the holster on his lower back.

The more heavily armed Solas took a few moments longer than him to finish his preparations, but the moment he was done, they departed after the briefest of nods.

His strides were short but firm, moving with no sound through backstreets on his approach to the tannery. Thankfully, the Old Gods had blessed him with favorable winds, his scent blown in the opposite direction and away from his unsuspecting targets. Both things together, they would never know of him until it was far too late.

Jon spotted the tannery in all its vileness. Tens of tanning pits had been dug into the earth; some still held hides devoid of fur floating amongst its acidic waters. Several tables also held half-worked furs and discarded knives. Further back, beside the remains of what was once the workman's shop, racks of skins were set out to dry underneath a shoddily built roof.

Hunched over a collection of piled membrane and flesh removed from the many surrounding furs, a pale creature feasted, shoving handful after handful into its concerningly large mouth. Several rows of bone protrusions lined the length of its deformed back, barbed and oozing black liquid. Arm-sized claws, undoubtedly sharp and littered with disease, shot forth from its six digits on each of its four uncanny limbs.

Jon could not see the creature's face in its entirety, but from experience and past runnings, he knew what lay before him; an Alghoul, specifically of the Greater variant based on its looming size.

Reaching for one of his knives, he softly pulled it free and held it while reaching into his potion satchel strapped to his upper thigh. Grazing a finger over the caps of the small glass vials, he passed several until finding the rough texture with three vertical lines; necrophage oil.

Pulling the lid off the Necrophage Oil, four drops were administered to either side of the arm-sized blade and spread with two fingers. He considered applying the foul substance to his sword but decided against it. Even for a Greater Alghoul, dangerous and intelligent, brute force from his expertly crafted blade would suffice.

He began his approach, careful to still his heart lest he draw the monster's attention prematurely with the sounds of his heartbeat.

That was until he stood five paces away. There was no point in hiding one's presence at the said range. So he did not. The knife was sent hurling, embedding into the back of its rear, right hough, directly behind its knee.

The Alghoul let off an ear-splittingly loud screech. Jon had been aware it would do such a thing; it was a common enough tactic to force their opponents to keep away, so he was not overly bothered. Even still, the screech had been the loudest he had the displeasure of hearing over the years.

Advancing, he encroached until he stood in front of the creature, its towering mass looming half a man taller than him, and his blade held at the beginning stage of the Dance.

Always mindful of his opponent, Jon spotted the creature's apparent sway as it tried to remain upright, even as the trickle of blood running down its leg grew in intensity as the oil worked to prevent coagulation. In one fell swoop, Jon had effectively crippled the creature.

Jon's deduction was instantly proven incorrect.

Jon felt, more than saw, the absurdly fast movement of an extremity raise, swing, then raise again. The stench of death crashed against his nose, the arm carrying it coming no less than an inch from said nose as he leaned back. While unexpected, dangerously so, years of training and experience quickly took hold of his action thereafter.

Crouching, jumping, twisting, and twirling like the best of mummers, he did it all to avoid the unrelenting barrage of black-clawed strikes. All the while, stones and debris littered the grounds below, but his footing never faltered.

Patiently, he continued their dance, awaiting a clear opportunity to strike back, but as seconds ticked by and the Alghouls showed no sign of slowing, he chose to make his own.

Allowing a lithe arm to pass past him, an action he would never allow typically, Jon planted his feet as firmly as the tight dirt would allow, raised his arms above his head, and swung downwards. The sword's pale blade caught the sun's light as it traveled to its target, digging its razor-sharp edge half a finger's length into its sickly-looking arm but stopping bruskly and loudly upon contact with its bones.

The Alghoul's human-like face turned his way, cheeks, nose, and brows scrunched in agony. It was quickly replaced, however.

Jon, firmly planted underneath the looming mass, watched as the creature's body oozed black steam from every orifice on its disgusting body. Knowing what this meant, Jon abandoned his blade and took several steps away.

The Alghoul's previously human facial structure began shifting and expanding, forcing flesh and bones to form in what looked like a wolf's snout with sickening, vile pops. Once black, surrounded by white, its eyes turned an all-encompassing bloody crimson with the tiniest speck of silver at its core. The numerous teeth already present, elongated, and sprouted three more rows of identical sharpness above and below.

Next came its previously thin body. Like inflated sausage intestines, all parts grew to disgusting proportions, bubbling and shifting, before disappearing and leaving behind taut muscles of insane proportions and apparent mass. The flesh in its arm, previously split with his blade, began fraying into thousands of bloody little strings. Then, like worms, they reached forward and joined at the other side, sealing his sword within its flesh, all in two breaths and without leaving a hint to mark the previously present laceration.

It was visceral; it was unnatural.

It was impossible.

No creature, Alghoul, Ghoul, or otherwise, should be capable of transformations with such speed.

Jon pushed away the memory of the impossibility before him from his thoughts. It would do him no good to lose his concentration, more so now.

Instead, he watched the embedded short sword he had thrown clatter uselessly onto the ground, expelled by some unknown means, and missing its steel blade, leaving only the short, leather-woven handle.

That… is not good.

Having abandoned his primary blade and had his secondary melted down, he freed his last remaining weapon from his lower back. The weapon, a parrying dagger by definition, was half an arm long, three inches shorter than his melted sword, and holding a triangular blade by a short, one-handed handle. It was not much, but it would have to do.

The slightest twitches on its hind leg spoke of its intentions moments before it came barreling his way with twice the previously displayed speed. However, he was ready. Awaiting the last possible second, Jon lept to the right so as not to cause the creature to change its course of action. It did not go as well as he had expected.

The landing was particularly painful, having a stone embedded into his lower back. Worse, however, were the three claws that had slashed open his mail-covered, padded coat, spilling its contents, but thankfully not cutting the flesh underneath.

He was undeterred.

Righting up, the young witcher spun and turned to face his opponent. The creature, having landed in a heap due to its sudden swipe mid-stride, was slower to rise. The moment to strike was upon him.

His mind raced.

Severing the tendons could immobilize it and offer a long enough window to land the killing blow; the difficulty lay with doing it for all four limbs faster than it could regenerate.

Stab the blade through any red zone, whether the creature's heart, nape, or core, and drive it in using its momentum against it. Feasible, but he would have to take the chance after a lounge and destabilize it enough for it to land on his weapon.

Pry open its mouth-

A silver gleam caught his eyes.

That works too.

Jon launched himself into a sprint. Four strides in, his blade was once more sent hurling through the air, followed by a slightly less loud screech. Seven strides in, he sidestepped the creature's left arm and slid underneath, grasping the now-freed weapon he discarded within its flesh in his hand. Exiting behind the beast, to its evident surprise, the Alghoul never saw the blade pierce its lower back, exactly where its spine met its hip.

Jon watched as the creature lurched forwards, then fell face first, all strength leaving his now useless hind legs. A wheeze-like, pitiful sound escaped its dangerous maws. Meanwhile, the many boney protrusions lining its back began flexing outwards and inwards, seeking to harm and discourage the still unmoving Witcher behind it.

Careful to avoid all manners of damage to his person, namely the still flailing arms, Jon approached until standing within striking range of the Alghoul's head. Cold eyes stared back, rage and hatred filling them with fire, even as a single streak of watery substance escaped them.

Jon did not hesitate.

His sword pierced its skull with a single swift movement and bloody squelch. Jon stood there, watching, waiting.

Three breaths.

For three long and unflinching breaths, the creature maintained its eyes upon his.

And only as its eyes dulled was the deed finally finished, and Jon turned away.

A deep, exhausted breath escaped his lips as he looked to the clear sky above. May the Gods bless you with a better existence in the next life, earthly one.

"You- You killed it," a soft feminine voice spoke from his left.

A woman, no, an Elf, stood a handful of paces away, tightly clutching a blanketed item to her chest. She wore a dress patterned by flowers upon a greenfield, once undoubtedly beautiful, now littered by rips, tears, and stains. A large bruise marred her pale cheek, spreading from the bottom of her eye to the top of her lip.

"Are you a resident of Sweethill…" Jon asked, approaching.

"Yes, Master Witcher," she answered, her voice hoarse and weak. "I have lived here all my life, along with my sisters and brothers. We… They…" The poor woman fell to her knees and broke into tears. "Those monsters… they killed… they…"

"I understand," Jon interjected. "What is your name?'

"Alysia. Alysia Olluest"

Jon dropped down to his haunches, face only a few inches from hers. "Alysia, then. I need you to accompany me. My brother and I have come to help in whatever way we can. However, we need to keep you and…" Jon looked to the blanket still pressed to her chest. "Your child away from any possible danger as well."

She did not answer, her person too wracked by whimpers. Nevertheless, Jon slowly and carefully guided her to her feet and began the trek back to the bridge from where he had departed not half an hour earlier. Their progress was slow, partly due to her slow pace and her petance to seemingly avoid parts of their path devoid of objects. He found it strange but chose not to question her.

Soon, however, they reached the bridge, and to his surprise, Solas was already waiting there but had not noticed them.

Standing beside his stead, his brother busied himself desperately drinking from a vial containing red liquid, a health potion. Gulp after gulp, he drank the entirety of the life-saving liquid, something only reserved for the direst of injuries. His actions worried Jon more as he spotted Solas holding an amputated finger against a bloody hand.

Stopping shy of reaching his side, Jon took a second to look at his person thoroughly. His red, studded jacket was gone, leaving him with only his mail shirt and grey gambeson. Five, two-inch wide lacerations split said mail from his right shoulder to left hip, still leaking copious amounts of blood. And, his already horribly scarred face had gained another above and below his right eye. However, it did not look deep.

The draining of an entire health potion now made sense.

"Solas," he called his name before placing his hand on his shoulder. "You look like shit, brother."

"Feel like shit, too," was his gruff reply.

Fiddling with his shirt, Jon quickly removed his hand as Solas removed both layers of now useless protection, pulling them over his head, then dropping them unceremoniously on the floor. Moments later, his previously injured hand, now with a reattached finger, was pressing disinfectant paste over his slowly disappearing cuts over his chest.

"I hope you fared better than I, brother," he said. "For I found one hell of an Alghoul. The bastard was unlike anything I have ever seen. Stronger. Faster. Uglier too. Almost ran me through a few times."

Jon raised his eyebrow, not that Solas could see as he was still busy applying paste. "Aye," he confirmed. "Ran into one of them too."

"Of course you did," he sarcastically said. "I still have a few potions; take them."

Jon looked to the saddlebag bulging with all manners of concoctions, a trove the usually demure half-blood would hesitate to offer if not a dire enough situation was not at hand. "I do not need them, but I will take one; she or the baby might need them."

Solas, having just finished, finally looked behind him at the mention of Alysia and her child. His face scrunched up in confusion. However, it was soon replaced by a tired smile. Three steps later, Solas stood over the scared-looking woman.

Words in their shared tongue were said, Jon only picking up the rare one amongst the quickly spoken back and forward. While incredibly beautiful, the Elvish tongue, or the Old tongue as it was more commonly known, was complex and intricate, and Jon, even after the many years riding with Solas, had not learned more than a few words. So instead, he focused on easier things, namely rearming himself.

Pulling out another pair of weapons, identical to those from earlier, from the sheathes on Roache's rump, he slotted them back into their place on his lower back.

Next came replacing his ruined armor. Like Solas, both padded jackets were rendered useless, same for the mail lining the in-between. It was a good thing both always carried another set on them.

Donning the first layer, the inner, colorless gambeson, Jon tightened the many strings holding the garment closed at the center of his chest. The piece was long and thick, reaching just shy of his wrists, and comprised of fifteen layers of thick, draconic hide, tightly sewn and glued together for rigidity and surrounded by a thin layer of wool for comfort.

Pushing his hands through first, followed by his head, the mail shirt slid onto his shoulders. At the far extremity of the arms, four pins set into the gambeson below lodged themselves into yellowed rings, settling snugly. While not as heavy or thick as most others, every ring of the mail was painstakingly imbued with runes by their smiths in Kaer Morhen. Thanks to their weight and strength, these enchantments made them ideal for battling monsters.

On the other hand, it made purchasing it expensive, incredibly so.

A very thin layer of regular steel mail lined the upper part of the outer jacket, extending outwards from his neck to both shoulders and down to the bottom of his pectorals. Where the mail ended, the red and black stripes of the padded garment began—reaching halfway down his arms and down to his pelvis. All the while, six buckles forced the entire piece closed, with another two on either arm for the same purpose.

Stepping away, he approached the grim-faced Solas and confused-looking Alysia.

"Is there something wrong?" he asked as he stood between them.

"Aye, plenty," his brother informed him. "Tell me, Jon, did you happen to spot any bodies? Blood? Sign of conflict? Anything?"

Jon recalled both walks through the town but came up blank. The streets and paths, mostly dirt and occasionally packed gravel, were pristine, without evidence of any significant happening. As for blood or bodies, none. Jon would be hard-pressed to find anything wrong with the small village if it were not for the ruined buildings.

"I did not, no."

"That is impossible!" Alysia heatedly denied. "They… Those things spared no one. No man or woman, not the elderly, not even the… the children. All were struck down or taken."

Solas looked at her questioningly and asked, "Taken? How?"

She nodded, looked at her child, and clutched him closer to her chest. "It was early morning then. I was busy helping feed the animals when the sky darkened, and thunder struck our homes. I hid in the barn, below the hay, but the door, I had forgotten to close the door." Fresh tears poured from her crystal blue eyes, streaking like daggers down her dirt-covered face. "I saw it all. Those things atop their steeds, walking on the clouds as it were the ground. Their hounds appearing from blue portals, ravaging and undying. Their ice magic, strong enough to swallow an entire home."

Suddenly, a gust swept from the west, but she continued, "People ran. But they could not outrun them. They begged and pleaded, and those things laughed."

Jon shivered, for the winds picked up, instantly plunging the surroundings into temperatures even the harshest Winter storms would struggle to match. And with them, they carried the darkest clouds he had ever seen.

"I heard as blades of ice pierced them," she said no louder than a whisper. "I heard them die."

All jumped in surprise as thunder crashed into the bridge, destroying it and sending the remnants into the previously calm, now raging waters below.

A weak, pitiful chuckle escaped the woman. "They have returned," she said. "They have come for me."

Then, the world was plunged into darkness and ice.