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The years that followed Princess Pavetta's fifteenth birthday celebration were eventful for the half-brothers Averon and Reyncourt. As expected, the Church of Eternal Fire demanded that Queen Calanthe hand over her knight to be tried and executed for the murder of their Hierarch. But having prepared well in advance of the mob forming at her palace gates, clever Calanthe used the evidence gathered by the commander of her queensguard to publicly decry the crimes committed by the cult's priesthood, which also resulted in a divided populace. For all their rage against the man, the bones of Branddhurst's victims were difficult to ignore. A formal trial, under the state, saw the knight justified for his actions and condemned the Hierarch for his. An investigation further humiliated the Church as dozens of other priests were found guilty of the same crimes.

Half of the cityfolk supported Reyncourt's actions, the other half remained in denial. Alas, paradox and contradiction was the nature of humans. Reyncourt was excommunicated and forbidden to set foot on any temple, church or cathedral of the Eternal Fire- a small price to pay to see justice done. For his trouble, Reyncourt was honored by the queen. Averon, on the other hand, was soundly chastised for dereliction of duty at the eve of her daughter's wedding. Though his cause was just, no commander of hers was to act without her leave, especially one day into his new job. Nevertheless, Calanthe didn't overlook his swift actions to protect her family during the brawl in the party. She needed to trust her people, and Averon at the same time upheld and broke her trust. The dilemma was solved only through the advice of her Lord Protector, who commended the Myrmidon for his loyalty.

A den of vipers had been burned out in their city. That was a win, no matter how it was done. And there was always room for redemption. Needless to say, Averon would have to spend the rest of the years proving to a scrutinizing Calanthe that he was worthy of that second chance.

Fulfilling his promise to Fenne, Reyncourt brought her to his home in New Amendale. As paramour, she enjoyed the benefits afforded to her by Reyncourt's station. Never again would she have to sell herself to the ruffians of the slums, nor labor in the menial tasks women of the countryside were wont to do. She would be adorned in expensive silks, carry nothing but fans in her delicate fingers, and be waited on by servants. Reyncourt spoiled her rotten, and for this he was adored. His house was no castle, but it was an impressive manor for its size. The rest of land was reserved for the stables, the farm and the smithies. With knightly charity, he extended his fortunes towards many of his former comrades in the Legion. Emberheart soldiers, bound by camaraderie, worked his fields and smithies. Those with skill established their trade at Amendale. Still revered as a child of the saint, Reyncourt received many gifts from the locals. They didn't make him a rich man, for the knight was ever eager to give generously to the poor. His wealth wasn't measured in coin, but in investment. New Amendale flourished with the traffic of pilgrims flocking to see the bastard son of St. Vandal. It didn't matter to the common folk that Reyncourt was excommunicated, as far as they were concerned, he was above reproach and the Church was in error.

That didn't mean he was without enemies. Sandy's words proved true, regardless of how careful he was distancing himself from his humble origins. The nobles of Cintra were a jealous lot, and there was no end to their schemes to destroy this young upstart who had the favor of the people.

The queensguard, under Averon's leadership, grew from a small force of bodyguards to a brotherhood large enough to rival the City Watch. They replaced the guards of the palace entirely, and were never far away from the royal family. Even when Princess Pavetta went away with Lord Urcheon, Calanthe sent a detachment of her best to watch over her. It would prove inadequate, for the lord had his own plans. The babe born from their union, Cirilla, was left motherless after Pavetta disappeared at sea. Presumed dead, her absence broke the queen's heart and the realm wept with her.

It was said that she found the strength to move on because of Ciri, who embodied her mother's spirit. Calanthe found comfort in the arms of Eist Tuirseach of Skellige, whom she married for reasons beyond political alliances.

As for Lord Urcheon, the man shed his moniker along with his Cintran colors. He would later emerge in the Nilfgaardian golden city, to take his rightful place on the throne of the Empire. Without a wife or heirs, he set his ambitious gaze north. While the Cintrans enjoyed a time of peace, the blackclads began preparations for war.

Somewhere In Brokilon

Averon looked back at the carnage that had befallen him and his guardsmen. The bodies of the queensguard littered the roots and boughs of the ancient trees, torn apart and crushed by the woodland guardians that called that forest home. They were trees that walked like men, named in a language that predated the kingdoms of man. They easily towered above the Cintrans and swept them away. Killing the guardians proved costly, and it was only through the Myrmidon's skill that he managed to weather the blows better than anyone. His black spear, the edge of which held true even against the mightiest dragonscales, pierced the pulsing root hearts that gave them life. The giants fell, but so did his loyal guardsmen.

Now, he was alone.

The man's lips pulled into a thin tight line as he searched desperately for any survivors, but to no avail. He was caught right in the thick of the dryads' homeland, surrounded by dangers long forgotten and an invisible storm of arrows waiting to be unleashed from every turn. All of this, because Princess Cirilla chose to run away than to meet her suitors. Averon cursed the girl for her foolishness. She could've run anywhere else, but no, she had to go to Brokilon Forest of all places! The man considered going after her, but stopped when he realized that he'd already gone too far into the forest. Some magic was hiding the path he and the company of guardsmen had taken before. There was no going back. All he could do now was forge onwards, and hope that he could get out of Brokilon alive.

As for Ciri, to hell with her. Averon had plenty to live for, he wasn't about to lose everything for that stupid princess.

"If she's lucky, the dryads just might turn her into one of them." He muttered out loud. "Too bad they don't do the same to men."

The sun seemed to set quickly in the forest, even though it felt like a few hours since noon. Averon held his shield closer to his chest and kept his iron hide on. The black spear, he gripped with tense fingers. The magics emanating from the very soil were spinning the sky quicker in Brokilon, among other things. When he began to feel the first pangs of hunger, Averon grit his teeth and tried not to look at the exotic fruits hanging from the nearby vines. When he felt thirsty, he refused to look at the water springing from each laughing brook he passed. The forest was beautiful, ethereal and otherworldly, but everything there was created to kill or bewitch. Anyone who bit into those fruits, or drank from the waters of Brokilon, was said to go mad or lose their memories. Averon had been around some of the curios hawked from highly reputed rare objects shops, and the waters of that forest worked as advertised.

If he wasn't so thirsty, the Myrmidon would've saved some of those droplets in his empty waterskin. One could never know how useful it could be in the future.

His boots trampled upon soft soil, hard rock, then brittle bones. The unfortunate parties that came before him had left their dead where they lay. Rusted weapons, crumbling armor, and dryad arrows stuck to their bodies as warning signs. Averon didn't know if he was on the right path, but he wasn't going in circles. Not yet, at least. His keen eyes spied a few silhouetted forms in the high boughs of the trees, easily mistakeable for arching branches or random leaf patterns. But branches didn't move like the way he saw those shadows move, nor did they possess a certain feminine form. He knew the dryads were there, and they were watching him.

He watched them back, expecting the storm of arrows to fall at any moment. Surprisingly, the dryads let him pass. Averon didn't think it a kindness, they were probably letting him wander around till he wasted away, as part of some kind of game to them. Humans were frail creatures to the immortal dryads, despite their volatile nature. Averon couldn't help but smile at the irony. He'd seen that same brand of cruelty in non-humans as well. The arrogance of non-humans to think something separates the races from one another besides their superficial features was mindboggling to the Myrmidon.

"You think I'm going to die here, like all the rest of these poor souls!" Averon declared in a loud voice, "Think again!"

An arrow found its way to the upper half of his shield as an answer. There was no sound, save for the immediate impact of dryad metal piercing human steel. Dryad arrows don't whistle like most arrows do, making it almost impossible for anyone to know where they would come from. Alarmed now, Averon quickened his pace and kept his shield raised. More arrows struck him, but didn't pierce his skin. They kept bouncing and skidding across the curvature of his shoulders, neck and body. In the gentle brush of swaying trees, he could hear the hushed chatter of the greenskins conversing among themselves.

Darkness came and went, Averon still couldn't find his way out of the forest. He didn't know it, but weeks had already passed since his encounter with the giants. For the first time, Averon had to depend on the unknowable strengths his father's burning blood had to sustain himself. When hunger and thirst should've killed him, his body fed on the life-giving fluid that coursed through his veins. It was a painful process, but it was all his body needed to keep going. But going where, he still had no idea. As time went on in fluctuating currents, Averon began to think that he was indeed going to die in Brokilon.

Exhausted, he sat down by a riverbank and tried to think of happier times. Back home, he had a place within his mother's lofty borough manor. Lyra, his half-sister, would bake him a delicious meat pie. The girl loved to cook, and since the marchioness had more than enough coin to supply her hobbies, Lyra explored all the gastronomical ventures her young mind could think of. Rey and his lovely woman, Fenne, would greet him with the finest wines. Right then, as he rested in the middle of hostile territory, Averon found himself wanting more than anything to taste that pie and drink some proper non-magical water. Sighing deeply, Averon closed his eyes and leaned heavily on his spear. He didn't see the shadows for a while, so he assumed that the dryads had already left him alone. Although, he still had the suspicion that they were watching him somewhere.

"Fuck this." The Myrmidon growled. He stood up and crossed the river.

Suddenly, a piercing scream cut through the air, jolting the drowsy golem awake from his drunken stupor. He thought it was his mind playing tricks on him, after going for so long in the wilds without much to see or hear. The sounds of battle drew him out of the river and back into the thick of the woods. Averon advanced cautiously and crouched low in the underbrush.

There, in the middle of a clearing, was a lone dryad. Her sisters-in-arms lay dead all around in a grim facsimile of all the victims they'd struck down, including Averon's own men. Their enemies were humans, Kerackian cutthroats to be exact, who were in the employ of the Kerackian crown. What they were doing so far from home, the Myrmidon could only speculate. They were probably lost, just like him, and had the misfortune of stumbling across a dryad guardian party. But they proved lucky enough to survive the battle.

That one dryad survivor, not so much.

Averon began to rise from the bushes to meet the Kerackians, relieved to finally see some semblance of human civilization, but stopped when he saw to his horror what the men were doing to the dryads. With curved blades, they started to brutally clip off fingers and scalp the fallen- some of them were still alive when it happened! The Kerackians went from one dryad to another, a few of them even dragged off the screaming survivor and nailed her hands to a tree. They stripped off the loose flap of handwoven cloth that hung from her hips and started to unbuckle their trousers. Hate and lust burned bright in their bloodshot eyes, and the men chattered excitedly about the horrible things they were going to do to her. Their leader, a bloodied woman with closely cropped brown hair, looked on with amusement. She wiped the blood from her sword, which shimmered with unearthly energies, and gave orders for their camp to be pitched.

She was the one who first saw Averon emerge from the woods, but was too late to warn her men when the Myrmidon hurled his spear.

Averon didn't quite know why he did it. He even considered walking away from it all. The dryads weren't his friends, they were friends with no one. They were responsible for killing his queensguard, and so many others throughout the years. He owed them nothing, except blood and steel. These Kerackians were probably doing the same thing. But to desecrate the corpses, and violate the survivors? Averon had his moments, but that brand of cruelty wasn't something he could abide with. The Kerackians were no better than animals, and perhaps they deserved to have the dryads' ire.

One thing was certain, Averon had chosen to kill and someone was going to die. At least in this battle, he was fighting enemies he could see.

The spear sailed through the air and landed a proper hit, impaling one cutthroat through his back and out of his chest. The thin piece of iron covering him did little to stop the black spear from entering his body, and he dropped to the ground with his trousers around his ankles. The terrified dryad craned her neck to see, succeeding only halfway as the nails kept her hands locked in place. Averon drew his sword from under his shield and approached the Kerackians, who rushed the lumbering iron golem.

The Myrmidon bashed his shield into one man's face, the rims connecting to his eyes and smashing them into pulp. He collapsed in a heap, screaming hysterically as his whole world was a ball of pain and darkness. Averon allowed the Kerackians to surround him, keeping each opponent that faced him head on to smash against his shield, leaving them open for his sword to stab. One by one, they fell to the Myrmidon's blade. He repeated this tactic until only the Kerackian woman was left. She proved to be difficult, having some measure of skill apart from her menfolk. When Averon attempted to draw her in, she merely danced around and hammered against his shield. The woman baited Averon to open his guard, then ran him through.

The sword, bolstered by sorcery, pierced his hide as though it was just flesh. Startled, Averon stared at the blade lodged halfway through his abdomen. Bright molten blood spilled in trickles, then rivers as the woman twisted the sword hatefully. There was a smile on her cruel face as she watched him grimace in untold agony. Averon growled and took advantage of the Kerackian's moment of triumph. He seized her by the wrist and severed it with a downwards chop of the sword.

She didn't get the chance to scream. Averon swung sideways and lopped her head clean off.

As the corpse fell to the side like a dead tree, the Myrmidon slowly pulled out the magical sword from his body. Weakened, somewhat, Averon fell to his knees and gasped for breath. It was the first in a long time since someone pierced his skin, much less gut him. It became apparent to the Myrmidon that when it came to magic, he was as vulnerable as the next man.

"FUCK!" He thundered, his voice scaring off a few flocks of Brokilon birds.

Averon gripped his sword and pressed his shield close so his hand could hold his wound. Compared to Reyncourt, he wasn't healing at all that quickly and he bled profusely. Stumbling towards the trembling dryad, he paused to look at her. Here stood one of his enemies, who toyed with him as he wasted away wandering the forest. She didn't look all that menacing up close. The dryad's green skin glistened with sweat and blood. Tears flowed freely from her frightened eyes, and she shook with silent sobs. The dryads were beautiful, more beautiful than the womenfolk of the human race. Like the prettiest flowers, they had the sharpest thorns.

Her fingers flexed and waned as the pain of her nailed hands lanced through her shaky limbs. She fully expected him to take her as those vile men would have, or simply end her where she stood. But instead of hatred, the bleeding golem of iron looked upon her with pity. Averon would never wish that upon his worst enemy. He removed the nails from her hands and took the young dryad away from the battlefield. The dryad followed him, showing an atypical trust that only a few souls in all of the Continent could've known. Averon traveled a few paces, only to collapse onto the forest floor. His wound refused to close up and he was close to losing his senses.

"It appears that I'm at your mercy..." He rasped painfully. The dryad, still perplexed at the Myrmidon's actions, followed the better half of her instincts and caught him as he fell back into her arms.

Moments passed, the pair wasn't alone for long. Averon's blurring gaze took in the shadowed faces of other dryads come to take their fallen. Faint whispered words were exchanged, but he knew not what they said. Soon, the Myrmidon's consciousness slipped and he knew nothing.

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