The Witcher: Chimera
Chapter 21: Orianna and Return to Velen
…
The sun hung high in the clear Toussaint sky as Veylan approached the outskirts of the infested vineyard, his modified crossbow slung across his back and his equipment meticulously prepared. This was the fourth vineyard this week that had called for his expertise in dealing with an Archespore infestation, and this one promised to be just as challenging as the rest. Veylan was accustomed to multitasking, and his current string of contracts reflected the sheer scope of his efficiency.
Veylan crouched behind a cluster of rocks, observing the twisted, weed-like forms of the Archespores swaying gently in the breeze. Their vibrantly yet sickly colored stalks glistened menacingly, hinting at the deadly spores they could unleash at a moment's notice or just plain lash out if he got too close. He calmly loaded syringe-bolts into his modified crossbow, each one filled with a specially adjusted paralysis elixir designed to work on their plant-like anatomy.
With practiced precision, Veylan lined up his shots from a safe distance. Each bolt flew true, embedding itself into the main stalk of the Archespores. One by one, the monstrous plants stiffened, their aggressive movements ceasing as the concoction took effect. He had figured out through trial and error that targeting the base of the stalk was the key to safely paralyzing them while keeping them alive for study.
As the last Archespore stiffened, Veylan rose and signaled the scholars and vineyard workhands waiting nearby. "The area's clear. You can start uprooting them now—carefully. They're still alive, so make sure the containment carts are properly reinforced."
The workers moved in cautiously, their movements efficient but wary. They began uprooting the frozen Archespores and loading them into reinforced carts designed to keep the monstrous plants from reactivating prematurely. Veylan watched for a moment, satisfied that the task was in good hands, before making his way to his next contract.
…
The next stop took him to a series of kikimora nests situated in a swampy region. These creatures, insectoid and highly aggressive, had been terrorizing nearby villages and needed to be dealt with. Veylan activated his kikimora genes, a trait from his monstrous lineage that allowed him to mask his presence among them. Moving silently through the muck, he approached their nests.
Inside, the air was thick with the smell of decay and the clicking sounds of the kikimoras. Veylan worked systematically, injecting his paralysis concoction into the bloodstreams of the various kikimora types. One by one, the creatures fell into a stiff but alive state, their bodies paralyzed but their organs still functioning. He collected a few of their eggs, carefully placing them into jars for safe transport, and destroyed the remaining nests to prevent further infestations.
Once he was certain the area was secure, Veylan signaled the scholars and workhands waiting nearby. They moved in quickly, loading the paralyzed kikimoras into carts for transport to research facilities. "Be mindful of the larger ones," Veylan instructed. "Their legs are stronger, even when paralyzed. Make sure they're secured properly."
…
Midway through the day, Veylan encountered an albino wyvern terrorizing travelers on a remote trail. The creature was a rare find, and Veylan saw an opportunity to capture it alive. Using a combination of traps and his paralysis concoction, he managed to immobilize the wyvern after a grueling skirmish. The massive creature was carefully loaded onto a reinforced cart, its wings strapped tightly to prevent any accidental flapping once it awoke.
Nearby, three feral trolls had made a habit of attacking and eating unwary travelers. These weren't the talkative type, and Veylan had no choice but to subdue them. Using his superior agility and his modified equipment, he paralyzed the trolls after a fierce battle and ensured their transport to research facilities where they could be studied.
…
As midday approached, Veylan faced his final and most dangerous contract of the day: three dracolizards. These massive, reptilian creatures had been spotted near a farmer's field, devouring livestock and posing a threat to the locals.
Veylan set a clever trap, using a dead cow carcass as bait. He infused the carcass with his paralysis concoction and left it in the open. As expected, the dracolizards descended upon the carcass, tearing into it with voracious hunger. The concoction worked swiftly, paralyzing the creatures one by one. The largest dracolizard froze mid-motion, its body stiff as stone but still standing upright, its chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.
Scholars arrived shortly after, their excitement all over their expressions as they prepared the creatures for transport. "This will be a breakthrough in our understanding of these beasts," one of them said, shaking Veylan's hand fervently. "Your work is nothing short of extraordinary."
As Veylan wiped the sweat from his brow, he took a moment to survey the scene. The paralyzed monsters, the bustling scholars, and the securely loaded carts were all signs of a day well spent. He had fulfilled multiple contracts, secured rare and valuable specimens for research, and ensured the safety of the local populace.
As the sun hovered high above Toussaint, casting its warm glow across the castle grounds, Veylan took a moment to steady himself after the long morning of dangerous hunts and careful specimen capture. The scholars and workhands busily loaded the rare creatures onto their carts, all under his watchful eye. The sight of the secured creatures, paralyzed archespores, subdued kikimoras, and even a stiffly upright dracolizard, was a testament to his expertise and ingenuity.
"Good work today," Veylan muttered to himself, wiping the sweat from his brow. He turned to one of the scholars, a young man whose awe was apparent in his wide eyes. "Make sure everything is properly secured for transport. The School of the Wolf will want these specimens intact for study."
The scholar nodded eagerly, his face flushed with excitement. "Of course, Master Veylan. Thank you... for everything."
With the scene under control, Veylan exhaled deeply, thinking about his next task. The day was far from over, and there was much to do before his stay in Toussaint drew to a close.
The afternoon brought an unexpected development. A message arrived at the castle, summoning Veylan to a private chamber where Dettlaff, Regis, and Duchess Anna Henrietta were already assembled. Waiting for them was Maric van Breznik, Veylan's higher vampire grandfather, accompanied by an imposing yet eerily calm presence—Veylan's great-grandfather, the Unseen Elder himself.
As Veylan entered the room, his sharp senses detected a shift in the air, something ancient and heavy, and his breath caught when he noticed a silver-haired elven woman forming from the mist beside them. Her beauty was ethereal, her presence commanding yet tender. Veylan blinked, his heart racing as faint memories stirred—memories of a distant, soothing voice and a protective embrace.
"Veylan," the woman said softly, her voice lilting like a melody. Her piercing blue eyes studied him warmly. "It's been so long. You may not remember me, but I'm Sylvaeris, your mother."
The words hit Veylan like a hammer. He stood rooted in place, emotions surging as he struggled to process this revelation. Sylvaeris stepped closer, her gaze unwavering as she reached out to touch his face. "You've grown into someone extraordinary. I am so proud of you, my son."
Veylan's throat tightened. "Mother..." The word felt foreign on his tongue, yet it carried a weight he hadn't realized he was missing.
Before the moment could linger, Maric's calm yet authoritative voice cut through the silence. "We have urgent business to discuss, and it concerns Dettlaff and Regis as well."
The gathering took their seats, the Unseen Elder remaining a silent yet watchful figure. Maric continued, his voice grave. "It has come to our attention that Orianna has been feeding in secret at her orphanage. She has not acted cruelly, but it's clear she has become addicted to the blood she's been consuming. This cannot continue unchecked."
Dettlaff's face hardened, his crimson eyes narrowing. "Orianna? Feeding in Toussaint? She risks exposing us all."
The Unseen Elder finally spoke, his voice carrying the weight of centuries. "That is why this must be handled delicately. You three, Dettlaff, Regis, and Veylan, must resolve this before her actions ignite a panic in Toussaint. Discretion is paramount."
Veylan nodded, already calculating the best course of action. "Understood. I'll ensure it's done quietly."
As they rose to leave, Sylvaeris gently placed a hand on Veylan's arm, her touch warm and grounding. "Before you go, my son, know that I'm here for you. I've waited so long to see you, and now that I have... I am truly looking forward to meeting my grandson."
Her gaze flickered to Erynn, who stood nearby with a glowing smile, her hands resting on her growing belly. Erynn returned Sylvaeris's smile, her expression warm and welcoming. "And I look forward to introducing him to his grandmother."
The moment felt surreal but comforting. Veylan gave his mother a small nod before leading the others out of the chamber. The task ahead was daunting, but with his family, both by blood and by bond, at his side, he knew they would succeed.
The group traveled discreetly toward Orianna's orphanage as the sun dipped lower in the sky, their minds focused on the delicate situation at hand. Veylan remained silent for most of the journey, his thoughts drifting between the mission and the recent revelations about his lineage.
As they approached the orphanage, he glanced at Dettlaff and Regis. "Remember, we handle this carefully. The goal is to ensure she stops without causing unnecessary harm or drawing attention."
Both vampires nodded, their expressions serious. The Unseen Elder's instructions were clear, failure was not an option
As the trio neared the orphanage, it became apparent that something unnatural was housed here, due in no small part to all their higher vampire perceptions. Veylan reined in Nimrael, dismounting with practiced ease. The evening sun illuminated ornate structure, the faint laughter of children carrying on the breeze, contrasting sharply with the somber task ahead.
Dettlaff exhaled deeply, his crimson eyes flicking toward Veylan. "Let me speak to her first. She deserves to hear this from someone she trusts."
Veylan nodded without hesitation, his piercing gaze steady. "I trust you, Dettlaff. You know her better than I ever could, and you've more than earned the right to handle this your way."
The words carried weight, more than just an acknowledgment of Dettlaff's past deeds. It was trust, freely given, something Dettlaff had not often encountered in his long life. He inclined his head, gratitude flickering in his eyes. "Thank you, Veylan. I won't let you down."
As Dettlaff entered the orphanage, his form seemingly swallowed by the building's shadow, Regis and Veylan remained outside. Regis leaned casually against a tree, his sharp features softened in the waning light. He glanced at Veylan, who stood quietly, arms crossed as his gaze remained fixed on the door.
"You're putting a great deal of faith in him," Regis remarked, his tone neutral but edged with curiosity.
"I am," Veylan replied, his voice calm. "He's proven himself more times than I can count. And this isn't about me or my judgment, it's about him showing Orianna the path forward. He's the only one who can reach her without turning this into a disaster."
Regis tilted his head, a faint smile forming on his face. "Wise words, and true. Dettlaff has grown much since the darker days of his past. Your trust will mean a great deal to him."
The minutes stretched in silence, broken only by the occasional rustling of leaves and distant laughter of children. Veylan's keen ears picked up the faint sound of voices inside—Dettlaff's steady, measured tone and Orianna's sharper, more emotional replies. Though he couldn't make out the words, he recognized the cadence of understanding forming between them.
After a few moments, Dettlaff emerged from the orphanage, his expression composed but his shoulders heavy with the weight of the conversation. He gave a subtle nod, signaling that Orianna was ready.
"She's informed," Dettlaff said, his voice low but steady. "And she's willing to face the elders."
Veylan studied him closely, then offered a faint smile. "I knew you could handle it."
Dettlaff's lips twitched into a small, grateful smile of his own. "You've shown me trust when few others would. It's not something I take lightly."
The door creaked open behind him, and Orianna stepped out into the evening air. Her porcelain features were a mask of calm, though her crimson eyes betrayed a flicker of apprehension. She glanced at Veylan, her gaze lingering for a moment as if assessing him.
"So," Orianna said, her tone measured. "This is the Witcher who travels with you. The one who shares... unusual bloodlines." There was no hostility in her voice, only curiosity.
Veylan nodded respectfully. "Veylan. And this isn't about me. It's about ensuring that we resolve this quietly and respectfully."
Orianna's eyes flicked to Dettlaff, and her expression softened slightly. "If you trust him, Dettlaff, then I will as well."
Dettlaff stepped closer to her, speaking clearly. "The elders will listen, Orianna. But this must end. The children... they deserve better than to be pawns in this."
She lowered her head, guilt flickering across her face before she masked it again. "I know. That's why I'm willing to face them. Let's get this over with."
Regis straightened from the tree, his crimson eyes meeting Veylan's briefly before the group began their quiet journey to the designated meeting spot. Now came the really uncomfortable part… her having to face the elders."
…
An hour later, the forest clearing where the meeting was to take place came into view. The air itself seemed to hum with an energy, the kind that made even Veylan's enhanced senses tingle. The clearing was dominated by a grand, ancient stone table, its surface etched with arcane symbols that seemed to glimmer faintly in the moonlight. Around it stood five Unseen Elders, their towering, shadowed forms exuding an aura of overwhelming power. They didn't speak immediately, their inscrutable gazes fixed on the approaching group.
Veylan, Dettlaff, Regis, and Orianna entered the clearing in silence. Dettlaff walked beside Orianna, his expression a mask of calm despite the obvious tension in the air. Veylan and Regis followed a step behind, their presence a silent assurance that this situation would be handled delicately.
Two of the elders on the left, their forms slightly less imposing than Veylan's great-grandfather, but no less intimidating, cast sharp glances in Veylan's direction. Their disapproval was clear, their yellow eyes narrowing as they regarded him. It wasn't hostility per se, but there was a very real discomfort in their expressions, as if his very existence was an affront to their ancient traditions.
"Half-elf... Half-human," one of them muttered under his breath, his disdain barely hidden. "And carrying the blood of our kind alongside the 'other' bloods that flow through his veins. An abomination."
The other elder beside him nodded, his lips curling in faint distaste. "To mix the purity of an Unseen Elder's lineage with an elf, and then with a human... the arrogance to even allow such a creature to exist."
Veylan's sharp hearing caught every word, but he forced himself to remain composed. He had faced such prejudice before, both for his heritage and for what he represented. Still, the weight of their disdain felt heavier in this sacred place. His mother, Sylvaeris, stood beside him, her ethereal silver hair cascading like a waterfall. She placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, her touch grounding him.
"They fear what they do not understand," she whispered softly, her melodic voice carrying only to him. "Let their words slide off you, Veylan. You are far more than their assumptions."
Veylan nodded, his jaw tightening briefly before he focused on the task at hand. He allowed his gaze to drift over the gathering. Lesser vampires, bruxa, alps, katakans, and even a few ferals like fleders, stood at a respectful distance, watching the proceedings with a mix of curiosity and unease. Some whispered among themselves, their voices too faint even for his keen hearing. Their stares lingered on him, their expressions ranging from intrigue to outright suspicion.
He couldn't blame them entirely. His presence was an anomaly in their world. A witcher who carried not only the blood of humans and elves but also the potent and revered blood of both higher vampires and Unseen Elders not to mention the Kikamora, Leshen, Rock-Troll, Marr and all the other stuff he was mixed with. To many, he was a living contradiction, a walking paradox that defied their ancient laws and traditions.
Dettlaff and Orianna stopped just short of the stone table. The Unseen Elders' gazes turned to Orianna, scrutinizing her with an intensity that made her shift uncomfortably. She kept her head high, though, her dignity intact despite the weight of their judgment.
The center figure, Veylan's great-grandfather, finally spoke. His voice was a deep, resonant rumble that seemed to echo through the clearing itself. "Orianna, you stand before us accused of violating the sacred laws of our kind. You have fed where you should not, and you have placed the existence of our society at risk. Do you deny these charges?"
Orianna's voice trembled slightly but remained honest and clear. "I do not deny it. I... I allowed my addiction to blood to overwhelm my better judgment. But I have tried not to take any lives. I only sought to sustain myself."
One of the elders to the left scoffed. "Sustaining yourself by feeding on children, no less. Do you think that absolves you?"
Dettlaff took a step forward, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. "She has acknowledged her actions, and she stands here ready to face your judgment. But she is not beyond redemption."
The elder who had spoken narrowed his eyes but said nothing more. Veylan's great-grandfather raised a hand, silencing the murmurs that rippled through the gathered vampires. "We will hear all perspectives before rendering judgment."
This was Veylan's cue to wait. He turned to Sylvaeris, who stood with him just outside the circle. Her gaze was soft as she looked at him, pride shining in her silver eyes.
"I have watched you grow into someone I never dared to hope you would become," she said quietly, her voice full of warmth. "You've done what few could, bridged worlds that were never meant to coexist. And now, you've earned a place here, not just as my son but as someone whose voice carries weight."
Veylan hesitated for a moment before meeting her gaze. "Do you think they'll listen to me?"
"They'll listen," Sylvaeris said. "They may not like it, but they cannot deny what you've accomplished, nor the trust you've earned."
Her gaze flicked to Erynn who they picked up before arriving here, who stood nearby, her hand resting protectively over her growing belly. Sylvaeris smiled softly. "And soon, there will be a new chapter, a future that your son will inherit. I know he'll make us all proud."
Veylan felt a lump rise in his throat but managed a small smile. "Thank you, Mother. That means more than you know."
Their conversation was interrupted by the signal from the center elder. "Veylan, step forward."
Taking a deep breath, Veylan adjusted his posture and stepped into the circle, ready to speak not only for Orianna's redemption but for the trust he had placed in Dettlaff and Regis. The weight of centuries of tradition bore down on him, but he remained steady, knowing that his words could shape the future of this fragile peace
The elders turned their attention to Veylan. His great-grandfather, the Unseen Elder at the center of the table, spoke with deliberate authority. "Veylan, you have handled this matter with discretion and care. Your actions have spared our kind unnecessary scrutiny and possible destruction. Yet, as a Witcher, your code would demand a different approach. What is your opinion on this matter? Your words will bear weight as we come to a decision."
Veylan stepped forward, his expression calm but his mind racing as he carefully considered his words. The eyes of every vampire present, elders, lesser vampires, and even his mother—rested on him. He straightened his posture, meeting the gazes of the elders directly.
"I'll be honest," Veylan began, his voice steady but carrying the weight of his convictions. "As a Witcher, my training has always been clear, monsters that harm the innocent must be dealt with swiftly and decisively. By that measure, Orianna's actions would normally leave no room for discussion. Feeding on children, even without taking their lives, is unacceptable."
He paused, allowing his words to settle over the gathered vampires before continuing. "But I've also been taught to look beyond the surface. To seek understanding where others might see only black and white. Orianna's actions are the result of an addiction, one of the most powerful compulsions there is. Addiction doesn't excuse her choices, but it does explain them. And the fact that she has come here willingly, knowing the judgment she might face, shows a willingness to accept responsibility for what she has done."
Orianna lowered her head, her guilt plain for all to see. Veylan's great-grandfather leaned forward slightly, his fiery gaze focused entirely on Veylan.
"She is willing to change," Veylan continued, his tone firm but compassionate. "And that willingness is not something to dismiss lightly. She's made an effort to confront her actions, to seek redemption. That's not something that comes easily, especially for someone in her position. The choice before this council is whether she should be given the opportunity to prove herself truly responsible."
The clearing was silent, save for the faint rustling of leaves in the breeze. The elders exchanged glances, their expressions unreadable. Veylan stood tall, his heart pounding in his chest as he awaited their response. Finally, his great-grandfather spoke.
"Your words are well-considered, Veylan," the Unseen Elder said, his voice measured. "They reflect a balance of justice and mercy that is rare among your kind. We will deliberate."
The elders leaned toward one another, their voices low and indistinct as they discussed the matter. The gathered vampires watched with bated breath, their tension mirroring Veylan's own. After what felt like an eternity, the Unseen Elder raised his hand, signaling the end of their discussion.
"We have reached a decision," he announced, his voice echoing through the clearing. "Orianna, your actions have endangered the delicate balance we maintain with the world of mortals. However, your willingness to face this council and accept responsibility cannot be ignored."
He looked at each of the other elders in turn, and they gave their assent with a subtle nod. "We have decided to show mercy, under strict conditions. You are to cease drinking blood immediately and never again pursue its consumption, lest you relapse. To ensure this, Regis will act as your primary monitor, with occasional visits from Dettlaff, who will serve as an additional observer. I will receive regular updates on your progress."
The Unseen Elder's fiery gaze softened slightly as he addressed Orianna directly. "We are placing our trust in you, Orianna. Do not let us, or Veylan, down."
Orianna's head lifted slowly, her expression a mixture of relief and determination. "I won't," she said, her voice steady despite the emotion in her eyes. "I swear it."
Dettlaff stepped closer to her, his presence a quiet reassurance. Regis nodded subtly, his crimson eyes meeting hers in a silent promise to help her through the difficult path ahead. Veylan felt a flicker of hope as he watched the scene unfold. His great-grandfather's gaze met his briefly, and for the first time, Veylan thought he saw a trace of pride in the ancient vampire's expression.
The meeting concluded, the group began to disperse. Veylan remained for a moment longer, watching as Orianna, flanked by Dettlaff and Regis, walked away with a renewed sense of purpose. His mother approached him, her silver hair catching the light as she placed a hand on his shoulder.
"You've done well, my son," Sylvaeris said softly, her voice filled with warmth. "You've shown them the strength of your character and the wisdom of your heart. They'll remember this."
Veylan nodded, a faint smile touching his lips. "Let's hope it's enough."
As dawn broke over the rolling hills of Toussaint, Veylan stood near the caravan that was to take him, Lady Erynn, and their goods back to Velen. The morning light glinted off the polished wood of the carts and the rune-inscribed, woven meteorite iron and silver cables he carefully coiled and packed. His meticulous nature showed in every movement, from adjusting the straps on his satchel filled with alchemical ingredients to double-checking the contents of the carts.
Two of the carts were loaded with chests containing the significant amount of coin he had withdrawn from the bank. The funds, a result of his unique and daring captures, were destined for deposits in Novigrad and Oxenfurt, where they would be used to support the universities and institutions studying monsters. The last cart held Erynn, sitting comfortably with a cushion placed carefully to accommodate her growing baby bump. Her fiery red hair glowed in the soft morning light as she watched him with a fond smile, one hand resting on her belly.
"Are we ready?" Erynn asked, her voice light but filled with affection.
"Almost," Veylan replied, securing the final cable and adjusting the ornate dagger at his side that was as black as obsidian and was a gift from O'Dimm, Chernobog himself. His hands lingered briefly on the rings he wore, symbols of the many paths his life had taken. On his right hand rested the newly gifted ring bearing Dettlaff's clan seal, a symbol of the respect he had earned during his time in Toussaint. Alongside it sat the Skellige ring of Crach an Craite, the seal of kinship he had received in a moment of shared honor.
On his left hand, two more rings caught the light: the Ofeiri ring that bore the sigil of a cursed prince's house when he helped cure the prince from being trapped as a monstrous toad, and the ring from Gaunter O'Dimm, its dark material with ancient runes and symbols with the blood red stone in the center, the unassuming yet deeply powerful ring granted by the ancient entity Chernobog himself. Each piece told a story, a chapter in his life that he carried with him as both a reminder and a badge of survival.
As he helped Erynn into the cart and ensured she was comfortable, he paused to glance over the rest of the caravan. The university-bound specimens and resources had already been sent ahead by boat, and the remaining goods were carefully packed under his supervision. Nimrael, his trusty horse, snorted softly as if to remind him that it was time to depart.
Before climbing onto his saddle, Veylan adjusted his gear one last time, the weight of his weapons and tools a familiar presence. Erynn reached out to him, her hand warm as it grasped his.
"You've done a lot here, Veylan," she said, her green eyes reflecting the gratitude and pride she felt. "Toussaint will remember you."
"And I'll remember Toussaint," he replied, his voice carrying a hint of warmth despite his stoicism. "It's been a journey worth taking."
As the caravan began to move, the rings on his fingers caught the sunlight, glinting as they began their journey back home.
…
As the caravan crossed the Kaedweni border, the atmosphere was a mix of exhaustion and accomplishment. The journey had been long, but Veylan's task of transporting the rare live specimens had gone without a hitch. They arrived at the School of the Wolf's newly refurbished institute, where scholars and Witchers alike were already abuzz with anticipation.
The first cart to be unloaded carried the three dracolizards. Two of them, though still paralyzed, had slumped into natural resting positions, their massive frames sprawled across the cart floor. The third, the largest, remained eerily upright. Its body, stiff as a statue, loomed over the researchers, its lifelike stance sending chills down the spines of even seasoned monster hunters. Lambert muttered under his breath, "That thing looks like it's about to come to life and eat someone."
Next came the feral rock trolls, restrained in rune-inscribed demetrium chains. Despite their ferocity when captured, they now sat lethargically in their confinement. A group of scholars cautiously approached them, whispering about their unusual pigmentation and muscle density. Lambert, Eskel, and Geralt observed from a distance, exchanging incredulous glances.
"Three trolls alive and kicking," Eskel remarked, shaking his head. "The last time someone brought a live troll here, it ended up breaking half the workshop."
"That's because no one told the troll not to eat the tools," Lambert quipped. "I bet Veylan already gave them a talking-to."
Veylan stepped forward, calm as ever, adjusting the specially designed iron and meteorite netting that held the trolls. "These trolls won't be a problem as long as no one tries to feed them anything shiny. They're feral, not dimwitted."
The final cart carried the potted archespores. The sight of the monstrous plants, their stalks restrained in heavy, rune-inscribed pots, drew stunned silence from everyone present. The archespores radiated an eerie vitality, their vibrant, almost hypnotic petals giving them an otherworldly beauty. Geralt leaned in for a closer look, raising an eyebrow.
"Archespores. Alive," Geralt said flatly, his tone betraying a hint of disbelief. "You've outdone yourself, Veylan. No one's ever caught one of these without burning it to the ground."
"Let alone four," Lambert added, eyeing the writhing roots beneath the soil.
"They're for study," Veylan explained, stepping forward. "Their venom, their growth patterns, even the chemical compounds in their petals. There's a lot we can learn from them, if we're careful."
The scholars, barely containing their excitement, began unloading the archespores with great care, ensuring the pots remained sealed and stable.
Then came the spotted wight. Even Geralt, with his vast experience, couldn't help but pause as the paralyzed creature was unveiled. Its grotesque features and pale, almost translucent skin were chilling, but what struck everyone was the sheer rarity of the find. A spotted wight, perfectly preserved. The researchers buzzed with frantic energy, already setting up their tools and workstations for the dissection.
Over the next three days, the dissection process became the focal point of the institute. Thirty scholars from kingdoms across the Continent worked tirelessly in rows, each assigned to specific tasks. The creature was drained of its venom, a slow and methodical process that yielded vials upon vials of the potent substance. Every gland, organ, and tissue was preserved, analyzed, and documented. Illustrations of its anatomy filled the walls, and alchemical formulas derived from its bodily fluids were copied meticulously.
Veylan, watching from the sidelines, felt a sense of satisfaction. This discovery would ripple through the scientific and alchemical communities for years to come. Lambert approached him, arms crossed and a skeptical look on his face.
"You've got a knack for this, don't you?" Lambert said. "Catching things no one else even thinks to hunt."
Veylan smirked. "It's not just about the hunt, Lambert. It's about what we can learn."
Eskel chimed in, holding a scroll filled with notes he'd been copying down from the researchers. "This spotted wight is going to make you famous, Veylan. You'll be on the lips of every alchemist and scholar for the next decade."
Veylan shrugged, his gaze distant. "Fame doesn't matter. What matters is that the knowledge we gain here might save lives. Or at least, prevent unnecessary deaths."
Geralt, standing nearby, gave a rare nod of approval. "You've done good work, Veylan. Just don't let them put your name on a statue. Trust me, it gets annoying."
The remark drew a chuckle from Lambert and a small smile from Eskel. As the day progressed, Veylan took a moment to survey the scene, the bustling institute, the focused scholars, and the extraordinary specimens now being carefully studied. It was a testament to what could be achieved when Witchers went beyond just killing monsters.
…
As the caravan came to a halt outside Veylan and Erynn's cottage the familiar sight of home was a welcome reprieve. The air was crisp and fragrant with the scent of pine and distant rain. Veylan helped Erynn down from the cart, his hand resting protectively on her back as she adjusted her elven dress, her growing baby bump noticeable even beneath the fabric.
Before they could reach the door, the sound of laughter drifted through the air, light and warm. Veylan raised an eyebrow, his heightened senses already picking up familiar presences inside. Erynn noticed too and smiled, leaning slightly closer to him. "Looks like we have company."
As they opened the door, the warm glow of the hearth greeted them. Ravienne's bruxa mother, Alienne, and her human father, Marthas, were seated in the living room, their postures relaxed yet knowing. They looked up, their expressions immediately lighting up at the sight of Veylan and Erynn.
"Well, well," Alienne said, her voice melodic and teasing, "you two have returned just in time for some... interesting developments."
Marthas grinned and added, "Ravienne and Svanrige are in the other room. In her room, to be precise."
Veylan's eyebrow arched higher. "In her room?" he repeated, his tone laced with mock suspicion. Erynn chuckled softly at his reaction, already sensing where this was going.
Alienne and Marthas exchanged a knowing smile before Marthas leaned forward, gesturing with his hands. "Looks like our daughter's found her perfect match."
Alienne nodded, her elegant features glowing with a mix of pride and amusement. "Indeed, they're over there. In her room," she added, emphasizing the last part playfully.
Veylan tilted his head, glancing at Erynn, who was smiling warmly. "Well, this should be interesting," he said, his tone light with curiosity.
Alienne stood gracefully, motioning toward the doorway. "Go on, see for yourselves. I think you'll agree they make quite the pair."
Marthas rose as well, following his wife toward the door. Before stepping outside, he turned back, his grin widening. "And don't give them too much grief, Veylan. Young love deserves a little space."
Alienne added with a soft laugh, "Not too much, of course."
As Ravienne's parents stepped outside, Veylan and Erynn exchanged a glance. "Well," Erynn said, her voice full of gentle humor, "shall we?"
Together, they approached the side-doorway, the sound of faint laughter guiding them toward Ravienne's room. The door was slightly ajar, and through the opening, they could see the scene inside. Ravienne, her long raven-black hair cascading down her back, stood by the window, her posture relaxed yet elegant. There was a softness to her expression, a happiness rarely seen. Standing close to her, Svanrige cupped her face gently, his thumb brushing against her cheek as they shared a tender, lingering kiss.
When they finally pulled apart, their foreheads resting together, Ravienne whispered something that made Svanrige smile—a genuine, heartwarming smile that lit up his strong, Skellige features.
As they turned slightly, they caught sight of Veylan and Erynn standing in the doorway. Ravienne's crimson eyes widened momentarily, a faint blush coloring her pale cheeks, but she quickly composed herself. She stepped forward slightly, her hand still resting in Svanrige's.
"Master Veylan. Lady Erynn," Svanrige said, nodding respectfully, though his hand never left Ravienne's.
Ravienne's lips curved into a small, serene smile as she met their gazes. "You're back."
Veylan folded his arms, leaning casually against the doorframe. "And it seems we've walked into something."
Erynn laughed softly, stepping beside him. "It's good to see you happy, Ravienne," she said sincerely, her voice warm.
Ravienne's smile deepened, and she glanced at Svanrige before looking back at them. "I am. He makes me happy."
Veylan's smirk softened into something more genuine. "Well then," he said, his tone still teasing but with an undercurrent of approval, "you'd better treat her right, Svanrige."
The Skellige man straightened, his expression steady and full of quiet resolve. "You have my word, Master Veylan."
Erynn reached out, placing a hand on Ravienne's arm. "Come to the main space when you're ready. We'll prepare something to eat. It's been a long journey, and I think we all could use some rest."
Ravienne nodded, her gaze following them as they turned to leave. Just as Veylan and Erynn reached the doorframe, they heard Svanrige's soft voice. "Thank you," he said, his sincerity clear.
Veylan paused for a moment, nodding without turning back. "You're welcome," he replied simply before entering the main space with Erynn at his side. The soft hum of voices and laughter from the room behind them was a comforting sound as they prepared to settle back into the familiar rhythm of home.
…
Elsewhere in Velen…
In the shadowy corners of Novigrad, where Nilfgaardian patrols weren't as frequent. Ewald Borsodi paced the dimly lit room of a decrepit manor. The soft glow of lamplight cast sharp angles across his face, but the rage simmering beneath his calm exterior was written all over his scowl.
"Months… months of planning ruined," he hissed, slamming his fist against the desk. Papers fluttered to the floor, blueprints, correspondence, maps detailing trade routes. At the center of it all was a crumpled flier bearing Veylan's likeness.
The Witcher's interference had been relentless. It wasn't enough that Veylan had thwarted Ewald's attempt to retrieve the papers from the auction house. No, he had to go further. He'd dismantled the entire firearm deal with Magister Alzeth, working in tandem with Nilfgaard's spies and that damned Dijkstra. The trap had been perfectly laid, and Ewald's operation left in shambles.
The worst blow came from the arrests. Lord Ferid Drakovich, their primary money handler, now sat in a Nilfgaardian prison. Doctor Silas Veylor, the genius behind their alchemical advancements, was dead. And the flintlock rifles, with their incendiary and explosive rounds, had been seized and outlawed, labeled too dangerous to proliferate.
Ewald clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. Veylan wasn't just a Witcher. He was a force of nature, a thorn that burrowed deeper with every move.
Magister Alzeth, seated in the corner with her legs crossed, broke the silence. "Your tantrums are growing tiresome, Ewald. If you wish to reclaim even a fragment of your former power, I suggest we move beyond sulking."
Ewald glared at her. "You think this is sulking? My operation is in ruins, Alzeth. Or did you forget?"
Her crimson lips curled into a smirk. "I didn't forget. But unlike you, I don't dwell on failure. We adapt. We survive." She stood, brushing nonexistent dust from her elegant black robes. "And if I may be blunt, your obsession with that Witcher blinds you to opportunity."
"What opportunity?" Ewald growled. "Every path is blocked."
"Not every path," she countered. "You still have resources. Contacts. Perhaps it's time we stopped reacting to Veylan and started striking back."
Ewald narrowed his eyes. "What do you propose?"
…
Across the city, Veylan moved through Novigrad's cobblestone streets, his keen senses alert. Nilfgaard's occupation had brought order, but the criminal underworld still thrived in the shadows. Rumors of Ewald's regrouping had reached him, and he was determined to find the remnants of the operation before they could rebuild.
His contacts in the underworld had been whispering about movement, an attempted heist to reclaim confiscated firearms from a hidden Nilfgaardian depot. If true, it would be a bold and dangerous move, but it reeked of desperation.
That's when he intercepted the message.
It was subtle, a coded letter passed between two smugglers in the Fish Market. Veylan's Axii sign ensured their cooperation, and now he had a location: an abandoned warehouse near the city's edge, a staging ground for Ewald's next move.
The warehouse was dark, its windows boarded, but Veylan's heightened senses picked up movement within. Shadows flitted across the cracks in the boards, and the faint metallic tang of blood lingered in the air. He crouched behind a stack of barrels, his hand resting on the hilt of his silver sword. Something was off.
Suddenly, the door creaked open, and a figure emerged—a rogue mage, her hands crackling with restrained power. Magister Alzeth.
"I see you've been busy, Witcher," she called out, her voice carrying an edge of amusement. "But you've stumbled into the wrong place."
Veylan's instincts screamed at him to move, and not a moment too soon. Illusionary walls shimmered and vanished, revealing a dozen mercenaries armed with crossbows and swords. Above them, an alchemical trap—a series of vials rigged to release a paralyzing gas, hung precariously.
It was a trap.
Veylan's instincts screamed at him to move as Magister Alzeth raised her hands. A swirling orb of fire erupted from her palms and hurtled toward him. He threw himself into a roll, narrowly avoiding the blast as it scorched the barrels behind him, sending wood splinters flying.
The room erupted into chaos.
Mercenaries surged forward, crossbows firing bolts that Veylan deflected with his silver sword. His reflexes, honed to perfection by years of Witcher training and his monstrous enhancements, kept him one step ahead. But this wasn't a simple brawl, Magister Alzeth's magic lit the room in bursts of flame and lightning, forcing him to stay on the defensive.
"Do you know what I despise most about Witchers?" Alzeth taunted, her voice ringing over the clamor. "Your arrogance. Thinking you can meddle in things beyond your comprehension!"
Another fireball roared toward him, forcing him to leap behind a stack of crates for cover. He gritted his teeth, his mind racing. The room was quickly turning into a deathtrap. Smoke and heat swirled around him as the mercenaries advanced.
A bolt of lightning cracked through the air, striking the crates and blasting them apart. Veylan skidded backward, narrowly avoiding the shrapnel. He needed to think fast. Drawing a vial from his belt, he downed a dose of Thunderbolt, feeling the potion's effects surge through his veins. His movements became sharper, his strikes faster.
As the mercenaries closed in, Veylan activated his Marr abilities and mixed it with Aard to enhance it's effects. His pupils dilated, his senses sharpening to inhuman levels. With a guttural growl, he lashed out with a burst of telekinetic force, sending three mercenaries flying into the walls. Another lunged at him, but he sidestepped, using his pommel to knock the man unconscious.
But Alzeth wasn't about to let him gain the upper hand. She unleashed a wave of fire that forced him to retreat. The flames licked at his boots as he dashed across the room, ducking behind a pillar.
"You're fast, Witcher," Alzeth sneered. "But let's see how well you dance!"
She raised both hands, conjuring a storm of lightning bolts that struck the ground around him. Sparks flew as Veylan scrambled to avoid the onslaught. He raised a Quen shield just in time to block a direct hit, the impact sending him sliding backward.
Realizing he couldn't keep this up, Veylan tapped deeper into his monstrous side, his higher vampire half. His claws extended slightly, and his eyes turned pitch black mixed with red as he unleashed a roar that echoed through the warehouse. The sudden display of power caused the mercenaries to falter.
He used the opening to close the distance with Alzeth, deflecting another lightning bolt with his sword. Her eyes widened as he slashed at her, forcing her to raise a magical barrier. The impact of his blade against the shield sent shockwaves through the room.
"You're more than just a Witcher," she hissed, her tone laced with curiosity and malice. "No matter. You'll burn all the same!"
She thrust her hands forward, releasing a torrent of flame that engulfed the room. Veylan activated another potion, Golden Oriole, to protect himself from the fumes and heat. He dashed through the flames, his silver sword flashing as he aimed for her legs, hoping to disable her.
But Alzeth was prepared. With a flick of her wrist, she sent him flying into a wall with a telekinetic blast. He grunted as he hit the stone, the force momentarily knocking the wind out of him.
As Veylan struggled to his feet, he realized something was wrong. Alzeth wasn't trying to finish him off—she was preparing something bigger. Her hands glowed with an ominous red light, and the alchemical trap above began to hum.
"You've been a thorn in my side for too long, Witcher," she said, her voice steady despite the strain of her magic. "If I must die to rid the world of you, so be it!"
The realization hit him like a punch to the gut. She was going to blow the entire warehouse—herself included. The vials overhead began to crack, the volatile contents within reacting violently.
Veylan didn't hesitate. He activated his Axii sign, forcing one of the remaining mercenaries to stumble into Alzeth, disrupting her concentration. The explosion she intended to control triggered prematurely.
The room erupted in a deafening roar of fire and shrapnel. Veylan threw up a Quen shield, the protective barrier barely holding against the shockwave. He was hurled through the air, crashing through a wall and landing hard on the cobblestones outside.
When Veylan opened his eyes, the warehouse was a smoldering ruin. Flames licked at the sky, the acrid smell of burnt wood and alchemical compounds filling the air. He staggered to his feet, his body aching from the impact.
There was no sign of Alzeth or her mercenaries. The explosion had consumed everything within. He stood there for a moment, catching his breath as he surveyed the destruction.
Nilfgaardian soldiers arrived moments later, their expressions a mix of shock and awe as they took in the scene. One of the officers approached him.
"What happened here?" the officer demanded.
Veylan straightened slowly, his muscles protesting with every movement. He dusted soot from his armor, his voice steady despite the lingering pain. "Magister Alzeth," he began, his tone grim. "I had a lead that she was operating out of this warehouse. Turns out, it wasn't just a base, it was a trap."
The officer raised an eyebrow. "A trap?"
Veylan nodded, gesturing toward the smoldering ruin. "She was waiting for me. Illusionary walls, mercenaries hidden in the shadows, and enough alchemical traps to level this place twice over. When she realized she couldn't win, she made her choice."
"A suicide run?" the officer asked, his voice tinged with disbelief.
"Exactly." Veylan's jaw tightened. "She rigged the whole warehouse to blow. Alchemical vials, volatile compounds—she didn't care what it took to take me down with her. When I disrupted her concentration, it triggered everything prematurely."
The officer glanced back at the ruined warehouse, his expression unreadable. "And you're certain she's dead?"
"I wouldn't count on finding anything left to confirm it," Veylan replied. "The explosion consumed everything inside. But if she survived that… well, let's just say it's not likely."
The officer's lips pressed into a thin line. He took a step closer, his tone lowering. "Do you have any other leads? Anyone else tied to her operation?"
Veylan shook his head, though his mind was already racing. "Not yet. But Alzeth wasn't working alone. Someone financed her, supplied her. I'll find out who."
The officer gave a curt nod, gesturing to his men. "We'll secure the site. If you find anything else, Witcher, report it to the Nilfgaardian garrison immediately. We're not keen on letting rogue mages like her destabilize what order we've brought to these lands."
Veylan smirked faintly. "Of course. Always happy to help keep the peace."
Without another word, the officer turned back to his men, barking orders as they began their work. Veylan, however, slipped into the shadows, his mind already on the next step.
…
Veylan reached into his satchel and pulled out a few charred but legible notes, handing them to the Nilfgaardian officer. The parchment was smudged with soot, the ink faded in places, but the words were still decipherable.
"These are notes I intercepted before the explosion," Veylan explained. "And these two I found tucked away in a hidden compartment. They're cryptic, but there's a name repeated across all of them-'The Black Siren.'"
The officer seemed to perk up at that as he read over the notes. His eyes widened with recognition. "The Black Siren… That's no person, Witcher. It's a ship. Docked in Novigrad's harbor."
Veylan's amber eyes sharpened. "A ship? That would explain the urgency in these messages. They were planning to flee."
The officer snapped his fingers, calling his men closer. "That ship must be their escape route. If we move now, we might catch them before they set sail."
Veylan's mind raced, piecing the puzzle together. "If they're planning to leave tonight, it means they're tying up loose ends. Alzeth's associates must be on board, trying to make a clean getaway."
The officer hesitated for a moment before looking to Veylan. "Will you help us investigate?"
Veylan smirked faintly as he didn't hesitate for a second. "Wouldn't miss it for the world."
The docks of Novigrad were alive with activity, despite the late hour. Lanterns swayed in the breeze, casting flickering light over the cobblestone streets and rippling water. Veylan moved silently alongside the Nilfgaardian soldiers, his senses heightened as they approached The Black Siren.
The ship loomed in the distance, its sails half-raised, and its crew bustling to ready it for departure. They were seconds away from leaving.
"We're almost too late," the officer muttered, motioning for his men to flank the vessel.
Veylan scanned the scene, noting the heavily armed mercenaries patrolling the gangplank. He turned to the officer. "You and your men secure the dock. I'll take care of the ship."
The officer opened his mouth to protest but stopped himself, nodding instead. "Be careful."
Veylan slipped through the shadows, his movements as fluid as a cat's. His silver eyes locked onto the gangplank as two mercenaries paced back and forth. Without hesitation, he crouched low, drawing a specially modified crossbow from his back. With a soft click, two bolts zipped through the air, hitting the mercenaries square in the neck, leaving them unconscious but alive.
As he crept aboard the ship, shouts rang out from the docks. The Nilfgaardian soldiers had engaged the remaining crew onshore, creating the perfect distraction for Veylan to move unnoticed.
He made his way toward the captain's cabin, where the faint glow of lamplight spilled through the cracks. Inside, hushed voices argued in a panic.
"We're not waiting any longer! Raise the anchor!" one voice barked.
"We can't! The Witcher might still be out there!" another hissed.
Veylan smirked, kicking the door open with a resounding crash. The occupants—a mix of mercenaries and alchemists, whirled around, their faces pale.
"You're not going anywhere," Veylan said, drawing his silver sword with a sharp hiss.
The alchemists began fumbling with potions and concoctions, but Veylan was faster. A burst of Igni from his hand sent their table of supplies crashing to the floor, flames erupting and forcing them to retreat. The mercenaries lunged at him with steel, but Veylan ducked and wove through their attacks with supernatural speed, his blade finding its mark with precision. One by one, they fell, some unconscious, others disarmed and incapacitated.
As the Nilfgaardian soldiers rounded up the trembling alchemists, Veylan's sharp ears caught a faint creak, almost imperceptible, coming from the far side of the captain's cabin. He froze, his Witcher senses heightened, and turned toward the sound. His hand brushed against the wall, noticing an unusual hollow resonance as he tapped it lightly with his knuckles.
"Something's not right here," he muttered, narrowing his eyes. The grain of the wood looked seamless at first glance, but upon closer inspection, there was a barely noticeable seam running vertically down the panel.
He signaled the officer with a subtle gesture, pointing toward the wall. The officer frowned, catching on immediately. He gestured for his men to remain silent, their weapons drawn as they moved into position. Veylan unsheathed his steel blade with a soft hiss, his muscles tense as he searched for the hidden mechanism. His fingers brushed against a concealed latch, and with a quick twist, the panel clicked and slid open.
Before he could react, a smoke bomb exploded in the confined space, filling the room with a thick, choking cloud of acrid smoke. Veylan staggered back, coughing and shielding his eyes as the smoke stung them. Shadows danced within the haze, and he heard the rapid shuffle of feet.
"Damn it," Veylan growled, swinging his blade blindly as he tried to orient himself. A sudden weight slammed into him, and he grappled with a figure in the confined space. The assailant was wiry but strong, clawing and kicking to free himself. Veylan's grip tightened on the man's arm, his enhanced reflexes barely keeping up as they wrestled in the smoke-filled room.
The figure broke free momentarily, using the confusion to dash toward the staircase. Veylan coughed, stumbling after him. "He's trying to escape!" he shouted, his voice muffled by the smoke.
The guards outside, already alerted by the sound of the scuffle and the telltale scent of smoke wafting from the cabin, moved into action. Two soldiers positioned themselves at the top of the stairs, weapons ready. As the figure burst through the smoky haze, his silhouette barely visible, they struck with practiced precision. The flat of a sword caught the man square in the temple, and he crumpled to the deck with a dull thud.
Veylan emerged moments later, his sword still drawn, his face streaked with soot. He looked down at the unconscious figure, finally able to make out his face.
"Ewald Borsodi," Veylan muttered, his voice laced with both irritation and triumph. "Of course it's you."
The officer stepped forward, his expression grim as he took in the scene. "So, the infamous Ewald Borsodi was hiding in plain sight all along."
Veylan sheathed his blade, breathing heavily. "He must've been trying to flee with the rest of them. The hidden compartment in the cabin, he was likely lying in wait, hoping to make his move in the chaos."
The officer nodded, motioning for his men to restrain the unconscious man. "We'll take him into custody. He'll have a lot to answer for."
As the soldiers dragged Ewald away, Veylan turned back to the ruined cabin. The smoke was beginning to clear, revealing the mess left behind by the struggle. He knelt by the hidden compartment, examining its contents. Inside were stacks of documents, alchemical supplies, and a small, intricately designed box.
The officer joined him, peering over his shoulder. "What do you make of this?"
Veylan carefully opened the box, revealing a collection of strange vials and a folded map. He held up the map, scanning its markings. "Looks like these were their escape plans. Routes, safe houses… everything they needed to stay ahead of us."
The officer grunted in approval. "You've done more than we could've hoped for, Witcher. With this, we can dismantle what's left of their operation."
Veylan lingered in the ruined cabin, his instincts gnawing at him. Ewald Borsodi was a clever operator, and it was unlikely he'd left all his assets out in the open. The soldiers worked efficiently, but Veylan's enhanced senses were what ultimately led to the discovery of more hidden compartments.
He ran his hands along the walls, listening to the hollow sounds beneath the boards. After some time, his fingers brushed against an almost imperceptible seam. Using a knife, he pried the panel loose to reveal another cache. This one held a row of finely crafted flintlock rifles, their barrels gleaming in the dim light with intricate damascus steel patterns. Veylan's eyes narrowed as he realized the mechanisms were even more advanced than he expected.
"There's more," he muttered, moving to the next wall. Sure enough, another compartment was revealed, this one housing crates filled with more weapons: swords, daggers, and crossbows, all forged with damascus steel.
The officer overseeing the operation whistled low as he approached. "Well, I'll be damned. This man wasn't just planning an escape; he was arming an army."
Veylan nodded grimly. "And a well-equipped one at that. We'll need to move these weapons immediately. They can't stay here."
It took nearly an hour to load all the contraband onto wagons. The soldiers worked tirelessly, carefully packing the rifles, swords, and other weapons to ensure they wouldn't draw unwanted attention during the transport. Veylan supervised the operation, ensuring nothing was left behind.
The convoy made its way toward the central part of Novigrad under heavy guard. The weapons were far too valuable and dangerous to leave unprotected. Once they reached the city, they were taken to a secure facility hidden beneath the city, one of Djikstra's many secret workshops.
Djikstra was already waiting when the wagons arrived, his sharp eyes scanning the inventory. "Well, well, Witcher. You've outdone yourself this time. Damascus steel rifles, alchemical mechanisms... Ewald was playing a far bigger game than I thought."
Veylan crossed his arms. "The game's over now. These weapons can't be allowed to circulate. They'll destabilize everything Nilfgaard's trying to rebuild."
Djikstra smirked. "Relax, Witcher. I'm not planning on arming any rebels. These will be broken down, recycled into something far less threatening. No point in wasting good metal."
The next few days saw a flurry of activity in Djikstra's workshop. The rifles were carefully dismantled, their damascus steel barrels and mechanisms melted down and reforged into crossbows, armor, and swords. Each piece was crafted with care, ensuring that no trace of the original weapons remained.
Merchants from Novigrad eagerly snapped up the finished products, their eyes gleaming at the quality of the damascus steel. The rest of the recycled materials were shipped to Nilfgaard and Kaedwen, where they would be distributed to the School of the Wolf and the University of the Wolf for study and practical use.
Djikstra, ever the opportunist, ensured that a portion of the profits from the repurposed items flowed back into Novigrad's economy, strengthening the city's position as a hub of trade and craftsmanship.
As Veylan watched the last of the wagons leave for their destinations, he allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. The operation had been a success. The weapons were no longer a threat, and the resources had been put to good use.
Djikstra approached him, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "You've done the continent a favor, Witcher. Whether they realize it or not."
Veylan nodded, his expression thoughtful. "One less thing to worry about."
The graveyard was eerily silent, the air heavy with the scent of decay. Ciri stood over the paralyzed grave hag, her silver sword sheathed but her dagger still in hand, just in case. The creature was grotesque even in its immobilized state, its leathery skin pulled tight over brittle bones, its clawed hands frozen mid-swipe. Veylan's paralyzing agent had worked flawlessly. The hag was as stiff as a plank, its body rigid yet alive, making it a prime specimen for study.
She let out a breath, wiping her brow and taking a moment to survey her surroundings. The fight had been quick—tracking the creature to its lair had taken far more time than subduing it. The paralyzing bolt had done its work in seconds, leaving the hag with only the faintest movements in its chest, evidence of its shallow breathing.
A group of Nilfgaardian soldiers approached from the edge of the graveyard, their captain nodding in approval as he saw the bound creature. "A clean capture, Lady Ciri," he said, his tone respectful. "The scholars will be... most appreciative."
Ciri nodded curtly, helping them lift the hag onto the reinforced cage they had brought along. "Make sure it's handled carefully. If it regains mobility before it reaches the university, there'll be more than a few bodies in its wake."
The captain gave her a small, knowing smile. "You've nothing to worry about. It will be properly contained." He paused, noticing the bundle she held in her hand, a sealed envelope bearing her distinctive handwriting. "Another letter for the Emperor, I presume?"
She handed the letter over without hesitation, the faintest of smiles on her lips. "Yes. And remind him to write back quickly this time. He still owes me a response to my last question."
The captain nodded, tucking the letter away safely. Ciri watched as the cage was secured onto the wagon, the soldiers already moving to escort it to its destination. She lingered for a moment, her thoughts drifting.
As she watched the wagon disappear over the horizon, she couldn't help but reflect on how much her life had changed. The Wild Hunt was no longer a looming threat, its king, Eredin, defeated and his army scattered. The constant fear of pursuit that had haunted her for years was gone, replaced by an almost foreign sense of peace.
Her father... she still struggled to think of him as "Emhyr," rather than "the White Flame." Yet, through the letters they exchanged, he had started to feel less like an abstract figure and more like a man, a father trying to connect with his daughter. She had been cautious at first, wary of his motives. But his words had been surprisingly genuine, his responses thoughtful. He even shared small pieces of his own life, his regrets, his victories. It wasn't the bond of a perfect family, but it was something. She had sent him a locket of her hair with nearly every letter, a small token to show that she was still willing to meet him halfway.
And then there was the work. Capturing live monsters instead of simply killing them, it was still a strange concept to her. Veylan's methods were efficient and practical, but the idea of keeping creatures alive for study unsettled her at first. Yet, the coin couldn't be denied. Capturing a live grave hag had earned her four times what she'd have made killing it outright. And universities across the continent were hungry for specimens, paying top price for creatures in good condition. She supposed it was a fair trade.
A faint smile tugged at her lips as she thought about Erynn and Veylan. She'd heard of their success in Toussaint and how they were settling back in Velen. It had been far too long since she last saw them. Once she finished a few more contracts, she decided she'd pay them a visit. It would be good to see them again, and Erynn was likely showing by now. Ciri had no intention of missing out on meeting the newest addition to their family.
As the sun dipped lower in the sky, Ciri made her way back toward the inn where she was staying. She was looking forward to a hot meal and a chance to rest. Her boots crunched against the dirt road, the town's lights flickering in the distance.
That's when she noticed them.
Crows. Dozens of them, perched on the skeletal remains of nearby trees, their beady eyes fixed on her. She slowed her steps, her hand instinctively drifting toward her sword. The birds made no sound, no movement, but their intent was there.
One by one, they took flight, a cacophony of wings and feathers filling the air. Ciri's heart raced as their dark shapes swirled above her, circling before disappearing into the twilight.
And then she heard it, a voice, soft and cruel, carried on the wind.
"See you soon, our sweet…"
The words sent a chill down her spine, the unmistakable voices of the Crones of Crookback Bog. Her hand gripped her sword tighter as she scanned the shadows, her pulse thundering in her ears.
The road ahead was empty. The birds were gone. But the lingering sense of dread remained.
Ciri exhaled sharply, her resolve hardening. Whatever the Crones were planning, she wouldn't face them unprepared. Not this time.
The warm glow of the inn beckoned her forward, but her thoughts were already elsewhere. The Crones' reach was long, but so was her blade.
"Let them come," she muttered to herself, stepping through the door. "This time, I wont face them alone…"