After five days of slowly trodding through Velen's wretched marshes, as much as Geralt hated cities in general, seeing Vizima's walls felt like a welcome change. It wasn't perfect by any means, and it still stank, but it was less depressing than the swamps.
Despite the superior hygiene of the Niflgaardians, nothing could remove the smell of piss deeply impregnated into the walls of main streets and back alleys alike. Fortunately, they'd not spend much time in the city at large. Their target was the palace – the temporary seat of the Emperor of Nilfgaard, from which he supervised the invasion of his forces into the Northern Realms.
Once they were past the castle guards and led inside, they were greeted by the same chamberlain who received him and Yen and made sure he knew proper court etiquette, a Nilfgaardian servant named Mererid. Unfortunately, the man hadn't changed a bit and still lacked all sense of humour, not to mention that he couldn't tell the difference between not knowing something and not being willing to abide by it. Same as last time, Geralt found himself shoved into a bath – not that he minded, he was getting a bit ripe after such a long ride with no proper lodgings. Cledwyn the barber also made his presence felt and settled next to his bath while servant girls tended to his cleanliness, making sure he was presentable enough to stand before the Deithwen Addan yn Carn aep Morvudd –The White Flame Dancing on the Barrows of his Enemies - Imperator of Nilfgaard, King of Cintra, Lord of Metinna, Ebbing and Gemmera, Sovereign of Nazair and Vicovaro, or how Geralt had first known him - Duny, the Urcheon of Erlenwald and Ciri's father.
The emperor was now a far cry from where he started, and Geralt had to hand it to the man, few were as ruthless - or as efficient in reaching their goals - as he was. He had turned a meagre kingdom into a prosperous, ever-expanding Empire all feared. But his ambitions didn't end there. He fancied himself the future saviour of all in the realm, even if that meant forcing his daughter into an incestuous marriage and fathering her an heir. It was something Geralt struggled to put aside each time they were face to face, lest he might feel the urge to shorten him by a head. To this day, he wasn't sure what changed the emperor's mind when his goal was in the grasp of his hand. Some might have said it was fear of word getting out that they were related, others say a daughter's tears melted his heart, and many might even suggest the fake Cirilla had captured his heart against all odds.
With Cledwyn's sharp razor at his throat, removing all traces of his two-week beard, he pondered over the answer to this question once again.
Mererid coughed to get his attention and Geralt turned an intrigued eye to him, his eyebrow hinting up.
"I trust the gentleman has learned how to bow properly since his last visit," Mererid's pretentious voice drawled.
"That bowing business again?" Geralt asked, surprised at the man's perseverance. One would think he would have learnt from past mistakes. "Perhaps you should refresh my memory, chamberlain. What was it, again? Right foot in front, left hand behind my back and the right one behind my head?"
"No, no, no! Leg extended, hand flat, head down, chin to chest... Like this." To Geralt's amusement, he proceeded to demonstrate the proper bowing technique.
Cledwyn wiped the last of the foam, and Geralt ran a hand over his now smooth face. He had to hand it to the Nilfgaardians, they knew how to give a man a proper close shave.
Mererid tapped his foot impatiently, looking at him with pursed lips.
"Anything I can help you with?" Geralt taunted, knowing full well what the chamberlain expected.
"Perhaps the gentleman would like to demonstrate his bow before meeting with the White Flame Dancing on the Barrows of his Enemies, our beloved Imperial Majesty Emperor Emhyr var..."
Geralt held out a hand to stop him. If he heard that long-winded title one more time, he'd slap someone once for every word in the damned thing.
"You'll put me to sleep if you continue speaking." He got up from his stool, just a towel wrapped around his hips. "Leg extended, hand flat, head down, chin to chest..." Mererid nodded approvingly, but Geralt couldn't help himself from adding a little something of this own. "... make a fist with the middle finger pointing up." He grinned at the chamberlain, who scowled at him.
"No, no, no! That is not..."
"Relax, will you? I'm just messing with you, but it seems you still haven't grown a sense of humour in these last few months."
The man still frowned at him, worried for his own skin. If Geralt failed to bow correctly, he'd be the one to receive the punishment in his stead. So, as much as Geralt enjoyed making him sweat, at the end of the day, he'd bow to Emhyr out of pity for the servant, rather than a concern for courtesy.
"Now, where are my clothes? I have an emperor to meet with."
"Immediately," Mererid replied and left the room, only to come back a few minutes later with a black doublet, matching tailored pants, and a pair of what the Nilfgaardians would call shoes, but looked more like women's slippers with their detailed embroidery.
"Nah-huh! Not wearing that. Get me my armour!"
"That is not possible. It is being mended as we speak and your clothes are being washed. The gentleman cannot see the emperor dressed as a sellsword."
"This gentleman will see the emperor in a towel or nothing at all if you don't bring him a normal-looking pair of trousers, a shirt and boots. And no embroidery on any of them. Is that understood?"
Mererid's eyes narrowed, but having dealt with the stubborn witcher previously, he knew better than to question the validity of the threat. He left the room again and returned with a clean white shirt, black trousers and boots, all smelling of mint and cloves.
Geralt crinkled his nose as he dressed and followed the chamberlain down the corridors from his room into the hall preceding the imperial audience chamber. Ciri was standing in front of the heavy oak doors with metal inlay. Her demeanour was as sour as Geralt expected since she was accompanied by a lady-in-waiting who was fussing around her much in the same way Mererid fussed around him.
"Perhaps the lady would reconsider changing into more... appropriate attire, more fitting for a lady of her standing."
"Absolutely not! I'll wear what I wish! End of discussion."
The woman made to open her mouth again, but thought better upon seeing Ciri's annoyed look, and instead straightened the back of Ciri's white blouse, trying to tuck it better into the waistband of her trousers.
"Stop that! There's nothing wrong with my clothes," Ciri replied, moving out of reach of the woman's hands, looking peeved.
The woman huffed and shot a critical glance over Geralt's clothes, then raised an eyebrow to Mererid. "You haven't had better luck, I see."
Ciri smiled at Geralt and took in his appearance before shooting the woman a mean glance. "Like father, like daughter."
Geralt clapped a hand over her shoulder and smiled. "Time to face him. You ready?"
She nodded, and they pushed past the doors and into the imposing hall.
The emperor was sitting on the throne of the former King of Temeria, surrounded by advisors, nobles and servants, each with a purpose and a task. On the walls, banners depicting the Nilfgaardian crest - the golden imperial sun over a black background – were hung all along the length of the chamber at even intervals. Large coloured glass windows depicting historical scenes filtered the light, casting beautiful patterns on the worn marble floors.
Upon seeing them, the emperor beckoned them closer with a subtle gesture.
The chamberlain walked ahead of them, leading the way.
"Your Imperial Majesty, Geralt of Rivia and..."
"Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Queen of Cintra, Princess of Brugge and Dutchess of Sodden, heiress to Inis An Skellig, and suzeraine of Attre and Abb Yarra," the Emperor himself finished introducing Ciri to the room. His subjects – and hers by extension – kneeled as was customary before one of such high ranking.
"Welcome daughter," he said before turning to Geralt. "I didn't expect you to keep your word, witcher. You've earned the reward I promised. It'll be paid in full by the end of the day."
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ciri looking at him, distressed.
"I've no need of your reward. I only brought your daughter here because she wishes to speak to you. It was her choice and hers alone. My only role here is to support her," he said, before shooting a glance at her. She smiled back and briefly squeezed his hand.
"In that case, allow me to gift you with a purebred Nilfgaardian stallion as a sign of imperial gratitude for your selflessness. It'll await you in the stables." His hand slapped over the armrest and his voice boomed into the silent great hall. "Now, I wish to speak to my daughter. Alone."
All the servants and nobles gathered themselves from their kneeling positions and scurried out of the room in an organized fashion.
As much as he wanted to coddle her, she needed to stake her own claim and stand on her own two feet if the emperor was to take her seriously. Geralt threw Ciri a reassuring look, trying to convey through it all the trust he had in her and his enduring support. He left the room, following the rest, only to be met by General Morvran Voorhis, waiting for him outside – he had been one of the imperial advisors in the room.
"Ah, Geralt, can I tempt you with a game of cards?" he asked with a friendly smile.
"General." Geralt nodded in acknowledgement. "Didn't take you for a Gwent player."
"I don't know a single self-respecting military leader who isn't a Gwent player. And I think of myself as respectable, don't you agree?"
"I don't disagree. Let me get my deck from my room."
"Shall we meet in the mess hall? It'll be time for lunch soon enough."
Geralt agreed and within a quarter of an hour, he was sitting at a table across from Nilfgaard's Great General, two decks of cards between them. They took turns laying out attack units, spies, heroes and everything in-between. Before long, the general was leading by a comfortable margin, taking the first game.
"Don't feel too bad, witcher. We all have our fortes. Gwent just isn't one of yours," Morvran teased while shuffling his cards in preparation for a new game.
"I feel no worse for wear, I assure you. This is just a means to pass the time while others greater than us decide the fate of the Continent behind closed doors," Geralt replied while running a finger over the cards in his hand, stopping over a dragon. He'd save that one for later.
The new game began and both laid down cards in turn.
"What is there to decide? The Emperor will make his daughter an offer no one could refuse. Once the war is over, she'll be sitting on the throne and he'll be happily retired with the other Cirilla somewhere in Vicovaro."
"You sound awfully sure of that, yet Ciri hasn't agreed to anything yet and Radovid is still a painful thorn in the emperor's side. Things are far from being as clear cut as you make them out to be."
Geralt laid a scorch card, rendering Morvran's attack toothless and claiming the victory for his own.
"Well played," the general said. "Care for a drink to go with these cards?"
"Trying to get me drunk in the hopes that it'll give you an advantage?" Geralt asked with a sly smile.
"Any tactic is valid as long as it yields results."
"Piece of advice, if Ciri ever agrees to the Emperor's proposal and you find yourself to be her general... Don't say things like that in her presence."
"If I find myself to be so lucky, I'll have nothing but her best interests at heart."
They continued to play for hours. Each time one gained the advantage, the other would catch up. They were well-matched and equally skilled in dismantling the other's tactics, so neither could stay ahead of the other for long. Many times the winner was decided by luck of the draw, when one simply had the good fortune of having more spies at their disposal.
The evening was drawing near, and the sun was waning. Servants moved through the hall, going from table to table, lighting candles and torches along the way. Two of them brought them their meal, setting it aside their cards.
By now they were both relaxed, Geralt stretched out his long legs along the wooden bench, leaning into the backrest in a comfortable position. Gwent had its own kind of special magic, for time seemed to become irrelevant while playing. He snickered and threw down a fog card, disabling the General's ranged units. With only one card left in his hand, Morvran cursed in Nilfgaardian and folded.
"That makes us even," Geralt stated.
The General's eyes darted behind the witcher's back and a small smile bloomed on his face. He stood from the table and bowed respectfully. Geralt didn't need to turn to know it was Ciri. He'd know her light footsteps anywhere, although her stride held an uncharacteristic gravitas to it.
One look at her face and he could tell she wasn't altogether happy, but this was neither the time nor the place to discuss the reasons.
"Dinner?" he asked instead. She nodded without a word, and he switched to a more dignified pose so she could sit beside him. Another servant hurried over with a platter of food for her.
The general and Geralt concluded their Gwent sparring match at a draw with a promise of a rematch upon the next favourable occasion, then each tended to their own plate in silence. The general was the first to go through his meal, with the efficiency of one used to not wasting time on menial tasks. He stood and took his leave with another bow aimed at Ciri. She didn't give him more than an absent nod, her mind still on a different matter.
Geralt didn't try to coax any information out of her, and they both kept silent until they were back in his quarters.
"You're not curious what he wanted?" she eventually asked out of her own accord.
"I am. Sure. But you know I'd never pressure you to tell me if you don't wish to discuss it."
"He wants to publicly name me his successor. All the court knows his wife is a pretender to the throne of Cintra, and no one seems to mind." The words just blurted out of her as if she needed to share the weight of them with someone else. "But there's political pressure for him to step down, and he left me with the impression that is also what he wishes. That would make me Empress. Even if the fake Cirilla bears him an heir, they'll still be second in line to the throne... After me." She sighed but didn't look any easier of heart.
"That's what he wants, but what do you want?"
She huffed and anxiously paced the room from one side to the other and back again, opening her mouth and closing it again, her arms gesturing to the sides as if she was making a grand speech, but no words came out. His eyes followed her patiently, holding no judgement.
She stopped and looked at him. "I haven't decided!" Then resumed pacing. "I've wanted to be a witcher for as long as I can remember, to slay beasts and help keep people safe, but... Seeing the effects of the war just made me see that men are the greatest beasts, the most terrible threat to their own kind. Wouldn't I be able to do more good from a position of power instead of roaming from village to village killing leshens and ghouls?"
"Perhaps. If you wished to."
"Don't I have a duty to try? Would I be selfish to shy away and tend to myself instead? Wouldn't this be a small sacrifice of my personal wants for the greater good?"
She stood frozen in place, staring at him, hopeful, waiting.
"You're looking for an answer from me?" he asked with raised eyebrows. She nodded, so he drew in a breath and spoke. "If you'd asked me before the Rivian Pogrom, before I lost my memory, I'd have told you to let the world burn if that made you happy. Most of the people in it aren't worth the dirt collected on the soles of their feet, and they'd gladly let you or any other suffer if that eased their own life."
"And now?" she asked.
"Now..." The words rushed through his mind and out of his mouth, and even he couldn't believe what he was saying. Still, it felt right somehow. "Now I think I've started to believe in something greater."
"Destiny?"
"You know how I hate that word." He sighed and shook his head. "I believe you were born into your unique position for a reason and you'd make an excellent ruler. After everything you've been through, you've seen how life looks all over the Continent. You know what the everyday struggle feels like and you'd actually care for the people, for their needs. Not just the imperial coffers." His hand reached out for her shoulder. "I was robbed of making any choice the day I stepped foot into Kaer Morhen. For me, it was a witcher's life or nothing at all. Unlike me, you have other options, so please don't think I'm trying to pressure you into anything. In the end, this is your choice and yours alone. You can be an empress, a witcher, a juggler or whatever else you decide. I'll always be by your side, no matter what."
She smiled and leaned into his chest, arms wrapped around his back.
After they'd spoken about her choice, he hadn't seen Ciri the next day. Each time he'd gone to her rooms, he'd been told she was busy meeting with the Emperor and his trusted advisors. He walked around the palace in search of something to occupy his time. Perhaps a game of Gwent, but the General was unavailable and Geralt assumed he was one of the advisors meeting with Ciri.
Wandering aimlessly through the corridors, he happened upon the armoury and thought it must be chance. He grabbed a wooden sword and went to find a place to train in silence, away from curious eyes.
After visiting a few rooms and finding them all occupied by others, he moved his search to the gardens. In the end, he stopped in an inner courtyard, walled off from the rest of the palace, with no windows overlooking it. It wasn't large, but it was perfect for what he needed. He swung the wooden sword in his hand, drawing a full circle before taking the first stance.
Hours passed before he stopped moving from one drill to the next. Sweat was dripping off him, yet he didn't feel tired. He felt bored. Drills were a drag compared to an actual fight, but with no other option in sight, they were better than nothing. In moments like these, he sorely missed Criss and her constructs. He swung the sword again and forced himself to forget. Thinking of her only brought him anguish, and he constantly worried that his sudden departure might be the straw that broke the camel's back. If she left him because of this… He wasn't sure what he'd do. Another pirouette, another lunge, another thrust of his sword. He tried to keep his focus on the drills. However, the shadows were growing longer and his stomach growled low. It was time to wash up and grab some food.
He returned to his room and asked that a bath be drawn for him. Soon, servants brought bucket after bucket of hot water, until they filled the tub that laid in the corner of his room, behind a privacy screen. Steam rose lazily from the surface of the water when the last bucket was poured. He undressed, discarding the sweat-soaked shirt and trousers, and sank into the tub with a pleased sigh. Soon, the door opened and two sets of light footsteps approached. He turned, curious who it could be. Two servant girls bowed shallowly, wearing wide smiles, their arms were laden with bath products.
"I don't remember asking for help," he said with a raised eyebrow as they bracketed him and laid their fragrant supplies next to his tub.
"The gentleman has requested a bath, no?" one of them asked in a melodious voice with a thick Nilfgaardian accent.
"Yes, but..."
Before he could say any more, the girl was wetting the washcloth and imbibing it with bath oil, her pale green eyes on the material. The next moment, she was already running it over a shoulder and down his arm. The other one took up position behind him and untied his hair, her fingers running through the length to comb it out.
"I thought this treatment was reserved for meetings with the emperor."
"Not necessarily. We serve at his Imperial Majesty's pleasure and his Imperial Majesty wishes for the gentleman to be treated as a cherished guest, no attention spared," the girl tending to his hair replied.
As her hands tilted his head back so water wouldn't get in his eyes when she poured it over his hair, he saw she had pretty hazel eyes and pale freckles dotted her cheeks. Her hair was tied back in a low bun, only stray blond strands framed her face.
"Close your eyes, please," she asked in a thin voice.
He did as she asked and her fingers massaged fragrant oil into his scalp. Last time servants had been sent to bathe him, they had been thorough, but efficient, his cleanliness their only purpose. Now it felt like he was being pampered, not cleaned. She took her time, applying enough pressure to get his blood flowing without feeling like she was scrubbing him clean. The girl with the washcloth was just as delicate as the other one. Her fingers pressed into his muscles, untangling the tense knots he didn't know he had, so he relaxed into their hands and drifted into a lazy daze.
The wood tub turned into a tiled small pool, its edges curved inward for comfort. Two bright suns shone behind him, outside the large glass panes and across from him sat his magical little nymph, in her element - half-submerged under the soapy water. Her lips curled up into a demure smile as her hands swept over her chest and under her breasts, lifting them above the water's surface.
"You like what you see?" she asked in a honeyed voice, while her index and thumb pinched a perfect nipple.
Her smile widened and her hand moved to her other breast, pinching her other nipple in the same way until it too was hardened under the attention. He gazed at her, hypnotised by the lustful thoughts that ran through his mind.
"Tell me what you're thinking, witcher," she demanded in her sultry voice. Once again, she pressed her breasts together with a dirty grin on her face. "What fantasy would you have me fulfil?" she asked as she scooted closer to him, her hands running now up his calves underwater. He sighed. Oh, how he had missed her touch! It had been far too long since he had last felt her coiled around him, willing and wanting. Her fingers travelled up his legs, past his knees, over his thighs, to his hips. She drew herself closer to him, draping herself over his chest, her mouth close to his, her hand wrapped around his cock. Another sly smile, then she nuzzled at his neck, kissing up the side of his throat to his ear. He moaned.
"Does the gentleman like this?" a melodious voice whispered softly next to his skin before warm lips suckled on his earlobe.
Gentleman? Fuck! He had fallen asleep and with a start, he opened his eyes to see the girl with the washcloth bent over the tub, bodice half unlaced showing off her pert tits, her hands exploring his body underwater, while the other one caressed his scarred chest, mouth nibbling at the crook of his neck. For the briefest moment, he contemplated pulling her bodice off and taking a rosy nipple into his mouth, letting her stroke him until he came in her hand. Then he hated himself for even taking the idea into consideration. She wasn't the one he had been dreaming of. The one he had promised he'd be faithful to.
With a firm hand, he removed the girl's fingers from his crotch and untangled himself from the other's embrace. They looked at him with curious eyes.
"I could use my mouth if the gentleman prefers," one suggested.
"Or you could use any other part of our bodies you wish. Just tell us what you like," the other added while unlacing and removing her bodice with sure fingers.
"We're here to please the gentleman."
He stopped her hands from further removing any more clothing items.
"No. Please keep your clothes on. I don't wish to use any part of either of you. I simply wanted a bath."
The girls stared at each other, then at him, as if he'd spoken in some foreign language they didn't understand. He handed her the bodice.
"Please get dressed and leave."
"Did we offend the gentleman?"
"Not at all. You're both very... nice. I'm just not looking for that kind of company." Seeing them still looking confused, he added an explanation. "There's a woman waiting for me..."
Understanding finally dawned in their eyes, and they began dressing while he laid back in the tub.
"Your lady is lucky to have such a devoted suitor."
He doubted she'd agree if she knew what thoughts crossed his mind when he had their hands on him.
Finally, they left him to his - now luke-warm – bath and his self-loathing. He had been a few strokes away from letting those girls into his bed. Was Ciri right about him? He shook his head, chasing the thought away. He hadn't ever been the cheating type, no matter what Ciri thought. And he wasn't about to start now, not when he had someone who genuinely loved him. Trusted him. He'd not betray her.
After their successful prison breakout, Yennefer and Margarita walled themselves in a room at the Chameleon, rarely leaving it for anything. Criss had no idea what they were up to. Whenever she'd visit to check on Margarita's health, they'd be pouring over some map or tinkering with a strange contraption with lenses and precious stones. Eventually, her curiosity got the best of her and she asked what they were doing.
"Building a megascope. We need to contact Triss, see if she's any further along Phillipa's trail," Margarita replied.
So this was the device that allowed them to communicate over great distances and Geralt had likened it to a telephone. Her curiosity was peaked.
"Need any help?"
"I don't suppose you have a diamond about this large?" Yennefer asked, showing her the size of her thumbnail.
"No, unfortunately. But I could get one for you if..."
"No, no. I'll get one from Vivaldi tomorrow," Yennefer cut her off.
"I forgot. You don't like to owe anyone," Criss replied with a roll of her eyes. Yennefer's pride was the stuff of legends and not even helping save her friend from prison put a dent in it.
"I don't. Not even you." Yennefer dismissed her with a wave. "If that's all you wanted, then please kindly leave us to our work."
Criss pretended to be looking for something on the floor.
"Did you lose something?" Yennefer asked, irritated.
"I was looking for your manners, but I can't find them. Seems you've lost them somewhere along the way from Oxenfurt to here."
Yennefer's eyes narrowed. "I did say please."
"Yes, you did say it, but much in the same way you'd shoo away a nosy servant." She turned on her heels and strutted towards the door. "Good luck building your megascope. If you decide you need my help, you know where to find me," she said over her shoulder.
She walked out without a second glance. It was about time for her to learn more about this world's history – as much as could be learned from books, at least. She needed to get to the antique book store she'd spotted in Hierarch's Square, but first, she planned to check on the doctor at Vilmerius Hospital.
Von Gratz greeted her with a sigh of relief.
"I'd thought something happened to you." He coughed, realizing his fussing might attract attention. "Those products you brought were very efficient. The hospital wishes to contract your provider's services permanently, if possible."
"Same quantities as last time would suffice?" she asked in her most professional tone.
"I wouldn't mind if you could bring a little more. The first shipment lasted for five days."
"I'll let them know and hopefully they'll be able to fill your order in a couple of days."
He glanced around the room, then turned to her again. "Can you stay and give us a hand like last time?"
"I can't." She regretted the words even before they left her mouth. "Maybe when I come back in a few days."
She left the hospital feeling guilty, but she needed to tend to the main reason she was here – helping Ciri.
The book shop, fittingly called Books and Scrolls, was empty aside from the owner, a man with oddly framed glasses who was completely absorbed by a thick book – presumably a new acquisition. She drew his attention with a polite greeting and asked if his shop carried any historical treaties.
"The older, the better," she specified.
"Any preference for a region?" he asked while climbing the stepladder to reach the top shelves.
"No. It can be any of the kingdoms, as long as it goes back as far as possible."
"How far back are we talking about? The first war? Kovir's proclamation of independence? Falka's rebellion?"
She wanted to answer "the Conjunction of spheres", but thought for a moment how it would be wiser to rephrase her interest into something more Eternal Fire-friendly. Who knew where the bookshop keeper's loyalties lay?
"How about the first confrontations between elves and men? Old stories and myths maybe? I heard there's a prophecy foretelling of the Aen Seidhe's fall."
"Yes, Ithlinne's prophecy. It's well known. I have a few books detailing the mythos surrounding the Elder people. All very interesting reads for those fond of history."
His fingers traced over the thick hardcovers of the books, pulling out one here and there and neatly stacking them until they formed a tall pile on the table next to the ladder. She glanced over the titles: "Ragnarok and the Naglafar", "Ice Queen", "Prophecies and Myths", "The First Landing: Triumph of Man", "The First Cities".
"I'll take all of them," she told him.
The shopkeeper wrapped them in neat parcels, and she deposited all of them in the weaved basket she now carried as part of her disguise each time she walked around the city.
After another quick stop at the herbalist to place her new order, she returned to her room at the Chameleon to pour over the books.
It was her turn to shut herself in her room. Disappointingly, the first two books turned out to be more folklore than anything. A collection of fairytales holding vague references to the Wild Hunt's forages into the Continent. It told her nothing she didn't already know, but it gave her a little more insight into the fears of the common men. Elves of old were portrayed as terrifying wraiths, set on carnage and destruction. Their dark armour and blood-red capes were the attributes of the harbingers of death, come to take the unworthy to their realm, while their ship was the sign that the end of days was nigh. No surprise there was rarely anyone bold enough to stand against them. Perhaps the Aen Elle even had a hand in the planting of these tales as a tactic to soften the opposition.
She read on until it was almost dusk. Setting the book down, she fetched some candles and, with a flick of her fingers, lit the first one. She turned another page and sighed. It felt like she was going nowhere with her theoretical research. The dimeritium cuffs still laid on the desk, untouched since she had placed them there. Perhaps it was time for something more practical, just to make her feel like she was making some advancement.
"Let's see what can be done with these," she said to herself.
With a movement of her hand, she cast a kinetic spell, lifting the pair of handcuffs off the wooden surface. So the object itself as a whole was sensitive to magic, just like any other. Her hand guided the item through the air until it lay in front of her. She tried a slew of spells of different categories. The item resisted all damaging ordinary magic. It couldn't be broken by direct magical force.
Her next step was to place the metal against her skin to see the effect it would have on her physiology. It felt cool to the touch, much like any other metal would feel. She drew on the force around her and it responded as it normally would to her will, except the area of skin surrounding the dimeritium was less reactive, refusing to be imbibed with the magical energy she summoned. Switching from one force to another, she tested to check for differences. They all reacted a bit differently, but none could break through the barrier the metal represented. Even when she caught on strands of light and her skin became translucent across her body, that circular patch of skin under the metal remained dark. It was the same as the rest of the magic she had tried before.
She focused more intensely on that small area of skin, willing the light to break the barrier, and with immense strain, it moved a few millimetres inward. For the amount of power it took, it was a feeble result. She placed the cuff around her wrist and instantly regretted the decision. It felt like her palm went numb, cut off from the flow of energy in her body. She could cast with her other hand, but the one bound by the dimeritium was useless. Without a second thought, she took off the cuff and replaced it on the table, unsettled by the effect it had on her.
At least for the moment, the books were safer.