Chapter 5: Trial of the Grasses
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The crisp morning air filled Harry's lungs as he focused on his outstretched hand, fingers slightly curled in the familiar gesture Geralt had taught him. His muscles tensed as the energy swirled in his chest, building, waiting for release. But today was different. Today, he wasn't just casting a Sign—he was combining it with his own magic, pushing the boundaries of what had ever been attempted.
"Focus," Geralt said, standing beside him with arms crossed. His sharp golden eyes didn't waver as he watched Harry prepare. "Don't let one power overpower the other. They need to work together."
Harry nodded, his brow furrowing in concentration. The Aard Sign had always come naturally to him—its raw, explosive force a perfect match for the kind of magic Harry was used to. But now, as he wove in the fire of Igni, his own magic hummed in his veins, creating a complex dance of energy that he struggled to maintain.
"Steady..." Geralt warned.
Harry exhaled slowly, his focus intensifying. He felt the distinct pull of each force—the telekinetic blast of Aard, the fiery surge of Igni, and the familiar tingle of his own magic. Each wanted to dominate, but Harry fought to balance them, to merge them without losing control.
Then, in a single motion, he released it.
A deafening explosion rocked the training yard, sending snow and debris flying in all directions. The practice dummies, lined up a good twenty meters away, were obliterated—wooden limbs and fragments scattered across the ground. The force of the blast knocked Harry back a few steps, his heart racing as he steadied himself.
For a moment, the world was silent.
Then Geralt let out a low whistle, the only acknowledgment of what Harry had just done.
"Well," he said, his tone more impressed than usual, "that's a start."
Harry grinned, wiping the sweat from his brow. The energy coursing through him was like nothing he had ever felt before—wild, untamed, but exhilarating. Combining the Signs with his own magic wasn't just possible; it was powerful.
"How did that feel?" Geralt asked, walking over to inspect the damage. The dummies were completely obliterated, as if they had been hit with a small bomb.
"Intense," Harry admitted, his pulse still racing. "It's like... I can feel the magic trying to break apart, but if I can hold it together..."
Geralt nodded thoughtfully. "You'll need to keep practicing. Combining two Signs is one thing. Combining Signs with wizard magic is another. But if you can do it consistently..." He trailed off, the unspoken words hanging between them: you'll be unstoppable.
Harry felt a surge of pride but tempered it with the knowledge that this was only the beginning. He had grown stronger, faster, more capable than he ever could have imagined when he first arrived in this world. But there was still more to learn, more to master.
Geralt studied him for a moment, his sharp gaze assessing. "You've come far, Harry. Faster than anyone I've trained."
Harry blinked, caught off guard by the rare compliment. Geralt wasn't one to dole out praise easily, and that made the words carry even more weight.
"But," Geralt continued, his tone growing more serious, "there's still one thing left. Something every Witcher has to face."
Harry's heart skipped a beat. He knew what Geralt was about to say—he had heard Vesemir and the others mention it in passing, though never directly to him.
"The Trial of the grasses."
The words hung heavy in the air, colder than the morning wind. Harry had heard rumors about the trial—whispers of the pain, the transformation, the danger. It was the final test for Witcher apprentices, the thing that separated them from the rest of the world. But it was also the most dangerous. The mortality rate was high, even for those who had been trained their entire lives for it.
Harry swallowed hard, his pulse quickening. He had faced death before—he had stood before Voldemort himself, knowing he could die at any moment. But this... this was different. This was a choice. A decision that would change him forever, if it didn't kill him first.
"I won't force you to take it," Geralt said, his voice softer than usual. "Most boys who undergo the trial don't survive. It's painful—excruciatingly so. And there's no going back once you start."
Harry met Geralt's gaze, his green eyes steady. He knew what was at stake. He knew the risks. But he had come too far to back down now.
"I'll do it," Harry said firmly, his voice unwavering.
For a moment, Geralt said nothing, just studying Harry with that same intense gaze. Then, slowly, he nodded. "I thought you might say that."
The next few days were a blur of preparation. Vesemir and Geralt gathered the necessary ingredients for the trial, each one more dangerous than the last. Forktail spinal fluid, manticore poison glands, and the tongue of an albino bruxae—ingredients that spoke of monsters Harry had only read about in books, creatures that stalked the dark corners of this world.
But it wasn't just the ingredients that were dangerous. The potions themselves—Mother's Tears, Wildrye Juice, and Speargrass Sap—were designed to break down the body, to make it malleable for the transformation that would follow. It wasn't just a physical change—it was magical, alchemical, something that had never been attempted with someone like Harry.
When the night of the trial finally arrived, Harry stood in the heart of Kaer Morhen's laboratory, surrounded by the faint glow of candles and the quiet presence of Vesemir and Geralt. The air was thick with the scent of herbs and potions, the kind of smell that sent a chill down Harry's spine.
"You're sure about this?" Vesemir asked, his voice low as he handed Harry a small vial containing the first of the potions. "Once we start, there's no stopping."
Harry nodded, his grip tightening around the vial. "I'm sure."
Vesemir exchanged a glance with Geralt, then gave a curt nod. "Drink."
Harry raised the vial to his lips, the liquid inside a dark, murky green. It smelled faintly of decay, and for a brief moment, Harry hesitated. But then, with a deep breath, he tipped the vial back and swallowed.
The potion burned as it slid down his throat, a wave of heat spreading through his chest and stomach. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, the pain began.
It started as a dull ache, deep in his bones, but it quickly intensified, spreading like wildfire through every part of his body. Harry gritted his teeth, his hands trembling as he fought to stay upright. His vision blurred, and he could feel his muscles tightening, contracting, as if they were being pulled apart and stitched back together.
"Hold on," Geralt's voice cut through the haze, steady and calm.
Harry gasped, his body shaking as the second vial was handed to him. He barely registered the taste as he drank, the pain overwhelming everything else. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat sending a fresh wave of agony through him. It felt as though his blood was boiling, his veins twisting and writhing beneath his skin.
His vision darkened, the world spinning around him, but he forced himself to stay conscious. He had survived worse. He had to survive this.
The third and final potion was placed in his hand. Vesemir's voice was distant, but firm. "This is the last one. Drink."
Harry's hand shook as he brought the vial to his lips, his entire body screaming in protest. But he drank, the liquid thick and bitter, coating his throat as he swallowed it down.
The pain reached its peak. It was unbearable, unlike anything he had ever felt before. His muscles seized, his lungs burning as he struggled to breathe. His bones felt like they were breaking and reforming all at once, his skin stretched tight over his frame.
And then, as quickly as it had begun, the pain faded.
Harry collapsed to the floor, gasping for breath, his entire body trembling with exhaustion. His skin was slick with sweat, his muscles weak and unresponsive. But he was alive.
Barely.
He felt Geralt's hand on his shoulder, grounding him, pulling him back from the brink. "You did it," Geralt said quietly. "You survived."
Harry blinked up at him, his vision slowly clearing. His body felt different—stronger, but somehow... colder. His emotions, the fiery determination and fear that had driven him through the trial, felt dulled, muted. He could still feel them, but they were distant, as if separated by a wall of ice.
He had survived. But he was changed.
Weeks passed in a blur of recovery. Harry's body healed, adapting to the changes the potions had wrought. His muscles were leaner, stronger. His reflexes sharper. But more than that, he could feel the difference in his mind. His emotions, once so sharp and vibrant, were now a dull echo. He could still feel, but it was different. More controlled. More... calculated.
It was as if a part of him had been stripped away, leaving behind something colder, more focused. He wasn't sure if he liked it, but he couldn't deny the power that came with it.
By the time he was fully recovered, Harry stood taller, his frame more muscular, his features sharper. He was nearing his seventeenth birthday, and he looked every bit the part of a young Witcher. His black hair, now streaked with more strands of white, fell in a wild mess around his face, and his green eyes—once so full of life—now held the same hard edge that Geralt's did.
"You're ready," Geralt said one evening as they stood on the battlements, overlooking the snow-covered mountains. "You've completed your training. You've survived the Trial of the Grasses. There's nothing more I can teach you about being a Witcher."
Harry nodded, though he felt a sense of unease settling in his chest. He had come so far, but there was still something missing. His magic—the wizard magic he had been born with—was still powerful, but it was untamed. He needed guidance, someone who could help him refine it, so it wouldn't stagnate.
"Which is why," Geralt continued, "I think it's time you had a proper sorceress to help you with your magic."
Harry looked up, surprised. "A sorceress?"
Geralt nodded, his expression thoughtful. "I can't teach you much more when it comes to magic. Witchers know the basics, but you... you need more than that. You've got the power of a wizard inside you, and if you don't develop it, you'll never reach your full potential."
Harry's mind raced. A sorceress? He hadn't expected that. The thought of working with someone who truly understood magic was both exciting and daunting. He knew he still had much to learn, and the idea of unlocking even more of his potential was thrilling.
"Who?" Harry asked, curious.
Geralt's gaze shifted toward the horizon, his expression unreadable. "There are two I have in mind. One is Triss Merigold—an old friend of mine. The other is Yennefer of Vengerberg. Both are powerful, experienced sorceresses. But I'm not sure which one will be available."
Harry's curiosity piqued at the mention of the two names. He knew nothing of these women, but the way Geralt spoke of them, he could tell they were forces to be reckoned with.
"I'll send word," Geralt said, his tone final. "We'll see who can help."
And with that, an air of mystery settled over the fortress. Harry couldn't help but wonder who would come to train him. Either way, he knew one thing for certain: his journey was far from over.
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