The Witcher: Chimera
Chapter 22: The Mother and The Neon Jungle aka, Night-City
…
The morning mist hung low over the trees as Veylan guided Nimrael through the narrow forest paths leading toward the old ruins near Devil's Pit. The quiet hum of nature surrounded him, broken only by the occasional calls of crows and the distant rustle of movement deeper in the woods. The air carried a strange, lingering scent, floral, yet earthy, mingled with something… unnatural. Something distinctly not human.
As he neared the makeshift Nilfgaardian checkpoint, he found several soldiers waiting for him, their expressions a mix of exasperation and amusement. Their captain, a lean, dark-haired man with sharp eyes, greeted him with a curt nod.
"Witcher," the captain said, stepping forward. "I appreciate you coming out here. We've got a… peculiar situation."
Veylan dismounted smoothly, giving Nimrael a quick pat on the flank before turning his attention to the soldiers. "So I've heard. Single men sneaking off into the ruins, returning in the middle of the night looking disappointed, and not one of them willing to explain?" He arched a brow. "That's got to be a first."
One of the younger soldiers scoffed. "First for you, maybe. We've already had seventeen men make the trip, all of them coming back the same way. Looking like someone turned them down, and none of them will talk about it."
Veylan folded his arms. "And the footprints?"
The captain exhaled through his nose. "That's the strange part. Among the men's tracks, we found another set. Large hoofprints, belonging to something that walks upright, but not quite like a normal human stride. We followed them to the edge of the ruins, but then they vanish." He shook his head. "One of the men, after a fair amount of prodding, let something slip. He admitted he was 'meeting' the woman who made those tracks… but he wouldn't say a damned thing after that. Just told us to 'let it lie.'"
Veylan's perception perked up at that. "A woman with hooves?"
"Sounds like a succubus," the captain offered. "But that's the thing, if it is a succubus, why would she refuse them? Why keep turning them away when she's clearly luring them in the first place?"
That, Veylan had to admit, was odd. Succubi were not known for rejecting willing suitors. If anything, they thrived on the attention, feeding off the pleasure they could inspire. But seventeen men, all attempting to woo her, all failing, and all leaving grumbling and defeated?
That went against everything he knew about their kind.
He crouched, running his fingers along the faint impressions left in the dirt. The scent of delicate perfumes and wildflowers still clung to the tracks, an odd contrast to the earthy musk that normally accompanied monster dens.
Something wasn't adding up.
The soldier nearest to him shifted awkwardly. "So, Witcher? Any ideas what we're dealing with?"
Veylan stood, brushing dirt off his gloves. "Well… given the perfume scent, the hoofprints, and the fact that all these men were trying their luck with someone, only to get turned away, there's really only one explanation."
The soldiers leaned in expectantly.
Veylan smirked. "They were all trying to court a succubus."
The youngest guard blinked. "Wait, what?"
"The tracks, the scent, the secrecy, it all points to a succubus," Veylan confirmed. "But here's the strange part, succubi don't turn away willing men. If this was a normal case, she would've picked a partner long before the count got to seventeen." He rubbed his chin. "Something's different about this one."
The captain narrowed his eyes. "So what are we dealing with, then? A succubus with high standards?"
Veylan chuckled dryly. "Maybe. Or maybe she's playing by an entirely different set of rules."
He turned toward the ruins, his curiosity thoroughly piqued.
"Guess I'll have to ask her myself."
…
Veylan moved through the ruins cautiously, his senses on high alert. The stone walls were cracked and weathered by time, the carvings on them barely legible from centuries of erosion. This place was old. Likely an abandoned temple or an ancient noble's summer retreat long forgotten by the world.
The scent of wildflowers and incense was stronger here, lingering in the cool air beneath the broken archways. A faint feminine hum echoed through the stone halls, a soft, enchanting melody. It wasn't quite enough to prickle at his instincts, the same way a predator's gaze did. It was calm, and soothing like she was humming to something.
He followed the sound, winding through the ruined corridors until he entered what seemed to have once been a private chamber. Inside, resting atop a worn stone dais, sat a figure.
Veylan exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders as he pushed aside any lingering tension. He held her gaze for a moment longer before making a decision, one that even surprised himself.
Veylan froze the moment he stepped inside the chamber, his sharp eyes locking onto the sight before him. His instincts had warned him that something was different about this succubus, that this case was unlike anything he had encountered before—but he had not been prepared for this.
She was holding a child.
Seated atop the worn stone dais, the succubus cradled a tiny infant in her arms, gently rocking him as she hummed a soft, melodic tune. The baby cooed, reaching for the soft strands of her golden hair, his tiny fingers curling against her skin.
But Veylan's senses immediately registered what was wrong.
The scent, a mixture of human and something else, something unmistakably monstrous. The baby smelled of a succubus, but… there was more.
His small legs were covered in a light dusting of soft fur along with little goat hooves, the telltale sign of goat-like limbs, and tiny ram-like horns curled from his head, newly sprouted and still growing. The delicate purple markings on his skin glowed faintly in the dim light, following the contours of his body in intricate, natural patterns.
Veylan's breath hitched.
"A male... succubus child?"
That was impossible.
Succubi were always female. Their species had no males, no known counterparts, at least in this world. And yet, this child, this tiny thing with his cloven-hoofed legs and budding horns, was undeniably a boy, would that even be considered a succubus? He honestly didn't know
A thunderous realization struck Veylan.
This was something new. Something that had never been documented before.
His reaction must have shown on his face, because the succubus looked up from the child, amusement dancing in her violet eyes.
"Now, now, Witcher," she murmured, her tone teasing. "You look as though you've seen a ghost."
Veylan didn't respond immediately, his thoughts racing.
This wasn't just a case of a rogue succubus causing trouble—this was a revelation. A complete deviation from what was known about her entire kind.
Finally, he exhaled sharply, his gaze flickering between her and the child. "Where… did he come from?"
The succubus smiled softly, stroking the child's chubby cheek as he gurgled happily in her arms.
"Where do all children come from, Witcher?" she asked, tilting her head. "I carried him, birthed him, and now I raise him."
Veylan's grip on his sword hilt tightened slightly. "That's not what I meant. There are no male succubi. That's a fact. So tell me—how is he possible?"
The succubus sighed, a hint of weariness creeping into her voice. "Wouldn't I like to know?" She adjusted the baby in her arms, her violet eyes flickering with something guarded, something protective. "I didn't plan this, if that's what you're wondering. I wasn't trying to create some kind of unnatural offspring."
Veylan studied her carefully. There was no deception in her voice, no telltale signs of a lie.
"And the father?" he pressed.
At that, her expression darkened.
"Gone," she said simply, her voice tight. "He was human. Didn't even know what I was when he fell for me. And when I realized I was with child… he was already dead."
That explained why she had stayed. Why she had turned away all those men. It wasn't that she wasn't interested.
She had already given her heart to someone else.
Veylan exhaled, his mind piecing things together. The secrecy, the reluctance to leave, the fact that she hadn't fed on any of the men chasing after her—she wasn't trying to cause trouble. She was simply… surviving. Raising her child in secret.
A child who should not exist.
She smirked slightly, watching the way his mind worked. "So, Witcher… what now?"
Veylan ran a gloved hand over his jaw, considering. Normally, a case involving a succubus would be straightforward. If she had been a true threat, luring men to their doom, killing indiscriminately, he would have had no choice but to put her down.
But this?
He glanced at the child, who was watching him now with curious, intelligent eyes, far more aware than any normal baby should be.
Veylan huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head slightly. "Well, I can see why you didn't let them get close."
The succubus's lips twitched. "Mmm. Wouldn't want my little one getting attached to the wrong sort."
Veylan crossed his arms. "You understand what this means, don't you?"
Her amusement faded. "That others will come once they hear about him."
Veylan nodded. "And not just Witchers. Mages, scholars, those who study monsters, even those who see him as an abomination… They won't care what kind of life you've built here. They'll want to take him."
With a slow, deliberate motion, he sheathed his sword. The sound of steel sliding into its scabbard echoed through the chamber, a gesture of trust, of non-hostility.
The succubus blinked at him, curiosity flickering in her violet eyes. Her tail, previously coiled in subtle tension, loosened ever so slightly. The baby in her arms let out a soft coo, oblivious to the gravity of the moment.
Veylan exhaled through his nose and spoke, his tone calm "The Nilfgaardian soldiers already know you're here."
The succubus stiffened, her arms tightening around her child. The mere mention of soldiers was enough to put any monster on edge, and for good reason.
"But", Veylan continued, raising a hand in a pacifying gesture, "I need to give them an explanation." He let that hang in the air for a moment before adding, "With your permission, I'd like to speak to them on your behalf."
The succubus's eyes raised in interest slightly. "You would do that?"
He nodded. "I've already done so with another," he revealed, watching her reaction closely. "A Bruxa hybrid named Ravienne. Her father was a human from Cintra. I arranged for her to have protection, a home where she wouldn't have to live in hiding."
The succubus inhaled deeply, considering his words.
"I can do the same for you," Veylan propossed. "I can make arrangements for you to have peace. I can station guards to keep you and your son safe." He glanced at the baby, who squirmed lightly in his mother's grasp, his tiny hooves kicking the air. "At least then, he won't have to grow up in fear. He'll be able to walk outside, to feel the sun on his skin without having to hide from the world."
A long silence stretched between them.
The succubus's gaze drifted downward, her fingers absentmindedly brushing against the baby's small horns. There was a war behind her eyes, caution fighting against hope.
Veylan recognized that look. He had seen it before in those who had spent too long in the shadows, those who had been forced into hiding for who they were.
So, he gave her something no one else had ever given her before.
"Take a few minutes," he said softly. "I'll wait."
And with that, he took a step back and leaned casually against one of the crumbling pillars, arms crossed, posture relaxed.
He wasn't rushing her. He wasn't pressing her for an answer.
He would wait, patiently, as she decided what was best for her and her son.
The succubus stared at him for a long moment, the weight of his offer sinking in.
For the first time in a long time… she had a choice.
…
A few minutes later…
The soft rustle of fabric was the only sound as the succubus, now properly introduced as Selia, stepped forward into the open air. The baby in her arms cooed softly, shifting beneath the blanket wrapped snugly around his tiny form. His delicate horns barely peeked from beneath the cloth, and his little fingers clutched at the warmth of his mother as she held him close.
Veylan walked just ahead of her, his demeanor calm, steady. He needed to handle this carefully.
The Nilfgaardian captain stood near his men, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. His expression was neutral but alert, ready for anything. When Veylan signaled him over, the officer obliged, stepping away from his soldiers to meet the Witcher in the space between.
"Captain," Veylan began, his voice measured, "I need a word with you."
The captain studied him for a brief moment before giving a short nod. "Speak."
Veylan took a breath, glancing at Selia behind him before returning his attention to the officer. "I need you to understand something before you and your men make any rash decisions. The situation here is delicate."
The captain raised an eyebrow but remained silent, waiting for Veylan to elaborate.
"The woman in those ruins is a succubus, just like we theorized. ," Veylan stated plainly. "But she's not like the ones you may have encountered before. She hasn't harmed anyone. In fact, she's been actively avoiding doing so."
The officer's gaze flickered toward Selia, who stood quietly, gently rocking her child as she listened.
Veylan continued ensuring that the captain could understand the situation. "She's been turning away men from nearby villages, rejecting them. That's why the reports from your men mentioned disappointed villagers returning home after sneaking away at night. They weren't attacked. They weren't fed on. Because she's not interested in harming them."
The captain crossed his arms. "And why is that, Witcher? What makes her different?"
Veylan met his gaze unflinchingly. "Because she already gave her heart to a man—a human man, now dead. And from that love, she bore a child. A son."
That made the officer stiffen slightly. His jaw tightened, his composure briefly faltering. "A male succubus?" He glanced back at his men, then at the child in Selia's arms.
"Yes," Veylan confirmed. "Which, as you likely know, is unheard of. But it doesn't change the fact that this child is part human. That's why she resisted all those men—why she's been so reclusive. She isn't luring them in to feed or seduce them. She's protecting her child."
The captain exhaled slowly, his dark eyes scrutinizing Veylan before flicking once more to Selia. "And what are you proposing?"
"That we handle this carefully," Veylan said, his tone brokering no argument. "You and your men were already aware of something unusual happening here, which is why you called me in. Now that you know the truth, I'm asking that you allow me to arrange for her protection."
The officer remained silent for a moment before glancing at his men again. Then he turned back to Veylan, his expression unreadable. "And how do you intend to do that?"
"By placing a contingent of soldiers here, ensuring her and her son's safety," Veylan replied smoothly. "She won't have to live in hiding anymore. And in return, there won't be any more rumors of strange men sneaking off into the woods chasing shadows. This keeps the peace, for both her and the villages nearby."
The captain considered that. His fingers tapped idly against his bracer before he finally exhaled. "And you vouch for her? You're certain she's no threat?"
Veylan nodded. "I've vouched for others before, hybrids, creatures that defy the natural order but deserve to live peacefully. This is no different. I'm not asking for blind trust. But I am asking that you trust me."
The officer studied him carefully, weighing his options.
Finally, he gave a slow nod. "I'll have to report this to my superiors, but I see no reason why we can't arrange for protection. If what you say is true, then she is under our jurisdiction now. She'll be granted security, and the child will not be harmed."
Veylan exhaled slightly, his tension easing. "Good. I'll make sure she understands the arrangement."
The captain turned to his men and barked out a few orders, sending them into formation to discuss the logistics of setting up a safe perimeter around the ruins.
Veylan turned back toward Selia, who had been listening the entire time. Her violet eyes held a depth of emotion, gratitude, uncertainty, and, most of all, quiet hope.
"You'd really do this?" she murmured. "For us?"
Veylan nodded. "You deserve to live without fear. And he deserves a future."
Selia clutched her child closer, a slow smile forming on her lips.
"Then I accept," she said softly.
Veylan returned the nod, knowing that, for now, this was the best possible outcome.
…
Half a Day Later
The sun hung high in the sky, casting golden beams through the thick foliage of the forest. The scent of fresh parchment, ink, and smoldering firewood mixed in the air as Veylan sat beneath a shaded outcropping of stone, meticulously penning his final set of letters. His quill moved with measured precision as he signed the last of the documents, his name forming bold and unmistakable strokes across the page.
The Nilfgaardian administrative officer nearby reviewed them carefully before rolling each one into scrolls, stamping them with wax seals bearing both Veylan's sigil and the official insignia of Nilfgaard. These would be sent through official channels to confirm the arrangement, ensuring that Selia and her son, Eryx, would remain under protection.
After securing the letters, Veylan strode through the makeshift encampment that had been set up around the ruins. The Nilfgaardian soldiers were efficient, their tents arranged in a defensive formation, ensuring Selia and her child would be safe from any unwanted visitors. Patrols had already begun rotating through the outer perimeter, their presence a clear warning that no curious or love-struck villagers would be making their way into the ruins again.
With the final affairs in order, Veylan let out a breath and turned toward the clearing. His sharp eyes quickly picked out Selia, standing just beyond the protective boundary. She held Eryx in her arms, the infant nestled against her chest, his tiny fingers grasping at the fabric of her dress.
But it wasn't their presence alone that caught his attention, it was where she stood.
She was at a grave.
Veylan quietly approached, his footsteps softened by the earth beneath him. Selia hadn't noticed him yet; her focus was on the weathered stone marker before her. A simple yet carefully carved headstone, its surface worn by time but still legible beneath her gentle touch.
She knelt, holding Eryx close as she carefully laid a handful of wildflowers at the grave's base. Her fingers traced the etched name with reverence, her violet eyes glistening with quiet emotion.
Veylan didn't have to see the name to understand.
This was his grave.
The father of her child. The man she had loved. The reason she had never left these ruins.
A deep sense of understanding settled in Veylan's chest as he watched her from a respectful distance. Her love had been real. The kind of love that anchored a soul to one place, even long after the one they loved had passed.
It was the same love he felt for Erynn.
He had seen this love in many forms before, but this… this was rare. A succubus, a creature known for fleeting affairs and passionate indulgences, bound not by lust but by something deeper.
And as he watched her hold her son closer, whispering quiet words that only the wind could carry, he knew, Selia and Eryx weren't just monsters to be documented, or anomalies to be studied.
They were simply a family.
…
As Veylan guided Nimrael through the thick blanket of snow covering the path leading to their cottage, he exhaled softly, watching his breath coil into the frigid air. The journey back had been long, but it was worth it. Now, he was home.
Erynn stood outside, wrapped in a thick elven cloak, her fiery red hair a striking contrast against the pale winter landscape. She smiled warmly as he dismounted, her amber eyes softening as he approached. Despite the bitter chill in the air, warmth bloomed in his chest at the sight of her, and his gaze instinctively drifted down to the small but growing swell of her belly.
"You're late," she teased, though there was no true chastisement in her tone.
Veylan chuckled, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead before wrapping an arm around her waist. "Got held up finalizing some details with Nilfgaard's lot. It's done now." His voice lowered, meant for her ears alone. "Selia and her son are safe."
Erynn's fingers traced his forearm, a silent acknowledgment of the weight of that responsibility. "Good," she murmured before her lips curled into a knowing smirk. "Now, I have something else for you to do."
Veylan sighed, already sensing what was coming. "The festival?"
Erynn's expression turned mischievous. "Of course. Did you forget that Imbaelk is nearly upon us?"
He let out an amused grunt as Ravienne and Svanrige emerged from inside the cabin, their arms laden with supplies. The young half-bruxa had a determined look on her face, her raven-black hair dusted with snow, while the Skelliger prince-turned-honorary-elf carried bundles of dried herbs and fresh reeds.
"You did forget," Ravienne observed, shaking her head. "Erynn said you'd need reminding."
Veylan sighed in resignation. "Not forget, just… delayed." He glanced at Erynn's belly, then at the supplies, then back at her. "And I suppose I'm expected to do most of the heavy lifting."
"Precisely," she answered with an impish grin, brushing past him to hand Ravienne a bundle of candles.
Imbaelk was one of the most sacred elven celebrations, marking the transition from winter to spring. It was a time of purification, renewal, and honoring hearth and home, especially for expectant mothers, as it was also a festival of fertility and new life.
For Erynn, it was a deeply personal occasion. She had spent years keeping elven traditions alive, and this year was even more significant, as it was the first Imbaelk she would celebrate while carrying their child.
Veylan knew how much this meant to her, which was why, despite his usual gruffness, he set his weapons aside and rolled up his sleeves.
"Alright," he said, surveying the altar space near their cottage, which had been carefully restored months ago. "What needs doing?"
The next several hours were spent in careful preparation.
Ravienne and Svanrige worked together to clear away the lingering frost from the sacred space, brushing off the stone altar that had been covered in snow. Erynn oversaw the arrangement of the offerings, directing them on where to place the woven reeds and dried lavender, symbols of renewal and protection.
Veylan, in turn, was tasked with gathering fresh firewood for the ceremonial bonfire. He made his way through the surrounding forest, ensuring the wood was dry enough to burn despite the recent snowfall. As he moved, he listened to the faint laughter drifting from the others, the lighthearted atmosphere warming him far more than the furs on his shoulders.
Returning with an armful of logs, he set them down in a neat pile before glancing toward Erynn, who was carefully adjusting the placement of candles on the altar.
She had already begun chanting softly under her breath, the melodic words of Elder Speech carrying on the wind. The glow of twilight bathed her in golden hues, making her seem almost otherworldly.
Veylan swallowed thickly, suddenly overwhelmed by the quiet beauty of the moment.
She must have sensed his gaze, for she turned to him with a small, knowing smile. "You're staring."
"Just making sure you don't overwork yourself," he grumbled, but the corner of his lips twitched upward.
Erynn reached for his hand, squeezing it gently. "I'm fine, Veylan. And I'll be even better once the rites are complete." She turned toward the altar, brushing a reverent hand over the bronze bust of her patron deity—the very same one he had secured from the Borsodi auction house so long ago. "We must honor those who came before us."
"And ask for blessings for those who are to come," Ravienne added, setting down a small carved figure representing Melitele, the goddess of fertility.
Veylan huffed. "You've been paying attention."
Ravienne smirked. "Of course. Erynn's a very thorough teacher."
Svanrige, adjusting the placement of offerings, nodded solemnly. "It is important to respect tradition."
"Glad you both are embracing it." Veylan clapped a hand on Svanrige's shoulder before glancing toward the sky. The stars were beginning to emerge, the first flickers of night signaling that the ritual would soon begin.
As the final preparations were completed, the four of them stood before the altar, watching as Erynn lit the ceremonial candles one by one.
The flames flickered, the firelight casting elongated shadows against the snow-covered ground.
Erynn raised her hands, her voice steady as she spoke in Elder Speech.
"Melitele, Danu, aep dolen haelienn, hanem vaenyn aep cette nosse. Aen en'cael meire ept va en caelm, aen glosse aep saerne caerme velenna. Aen an'seidhe aep solas hanem, aen ess'taedh aep vaelle an'lochet. Hae vaenyn, aen vean'reen essa, aen dolen saerne caerme, aen evell aep'coiael vaen."
Translation…
"Melitele, Danu, and the spirits of the land, we honor you on this night. As winter wanes and spring stirs beneath the ice, we ask for your blessings. Protect our home, guide our paths, and grant prosperity to those who walk in your light."
She stepped back, her gaze locking onto Veylan's.
It was his turn.
Veylan inhaled deeply before stepping forward. Though not entirely an elf by blood, he still had some elven blood and he had come to understand and respect the importance of these rites.
Lifting his head, he spoke clearly.
"Lle aep domhaan aep saerne. Lle aep haelienn. Aen ess'taedh vean'men, aen'thaess aep hael, aen haele aep evell. Aen shem'mer vaelle aep caelm saerne haelienn."
"Aen caelm aep'coiael aen'thaess ess'mir. Aen aep ess'coiael aep hael, lunedh saerne aep aen haele vaelle."
"This home will stand. This family will grow. And those who seek peace shall always find it within these walls." He glanced at Erynn, his voice softening. "May the child we welcome into this world be watched over, strong and safe."
Erynn's eyes glistened, and she reached for his hand once more, threading their fingers together.
Around them, the candles burned steadily, their light unwavering against the cold night air.
The ritual was complete.
Veylan let out a slow breath, the tension leaving his shoulders as he turned toward Erynn.
"Was that good enough?"
Erynn laughed, resting her forehead against his. "More than enough."
From behind them, Ravienne sighed dramatically. "Finally, we can eat."
Veylan chuckled. "Now that is a tradition I can get behind."
With that, they turned toward the cabin, ready to celebrate the rest of Imbaelk with warmth, food, and the comforting knowledge that, for tonight, all was well.
…
The moon hung high over Velen, casting its pale light over the dilapidated village Ciri had taken shelter in. She had been restless all evening, a storm brewing in her gut, a sense of unease that gnawed at her like a rabid wolf. The crows had not stopped watching her since she arrived. Every time she stepped outside, their beady black eyes followed her, their sharp caws echoing in the distance.
They weren't attacking her.
They weren't even making a move.
That was the most disturbing part.
It was deliberate. Calculated. They were watching.
The villagers, however, seemed completely unfazed. If anything, they welcomed it. And that was what made Ciri's stomach churn with rage.
She had been keeping her ear to the ground, speaking with merchants, spies, and even the local drunkards who sometimes knew more than they should. What she discovered was far more horrifying than she could have imagined. The Crones had made a request, a highly unusual one, even by the standards of their deranged followers.
Monster parts. Alchemical elements. Flesh. Blood. Things meant for powerful, ancient spells.
But what sent ice through her veins was how willing the villagers were to oblige them.
Ciri crouched on the roof of a tattered barn, hidden within the shadows, watching the scene unfold in the center of the village.
A fire roared in the middle of the square, its flames licking high into the air, casting grotesque shadows against the gathered villagers. They stood in a circle, their expressions eerily serene, as if entranced. But what made Ciri's stomach turn was the altar at the center of their little gathering, a flat, moss-covered stone caked in blood, bits of bone, and human flesh.
There were baskets at its base, filled with unfathomable horrors-.
Severed ears, dozens of them, some fresh and still bleeding, others rotting in the night air. They belonged to the men of the village, who stood tall and proud, heads bandaged, as if they had willingly sliced their own flesh off.
Teeth, pulled straight from the mouths of infants, still slick with saliva and pink tissue. The mothers who gave them up sobbed quietly, but they never moved to stop it.
Jars of bile and human fat, carefully sealed and stacked in neat rows beside a pile of goat skulls.
Monster entrails, the still-glowing organs of Nekkers, Drowners, and even a Grave Hag's stomach, bloated and pulsating.
Ciri clenched her fists, her stomach turning at the sheer madness of it all. But that wasn't even the worst part.
The elders of the village stepped forward, each holding an iron dagger, its blade rusted and covered in old dried blood. One by one, they pressed the knives to their own tongues, cutting them open, letting their blood drip into a cauldron filled with an inky black substance that sizzled and hissed as it mixed with their offering.
"For the Ladies Three, we give our tongues. May we speak only their truths."
Their voices were raw and wet, gurgling through their bloodied mouths.
Then came the women, the mothers, holding their infants close as they approached the altar. Ciri tensed as she saw one of them dip their fingers into the bloodied cauldron and mark their newborn's forehead with the symbol of the Crones—a twisting spiral with three hooked talons.
They whispered, "For the Ladies Three, we give our young. May they be shaped by their will."
Ciri felt nauseous. They were marking their own children as offerings.
But it was the last part of the ritual that sent white-hot fury rushing through her veins.
A boy, no older than twelve, was dragged forward by two men, his hands bound, his eyes glassy and unfocused as if he had been drugged. The villagers whispered prayers, praising the Crones, as one of the elders pulled a twisted, thorn-like brand from the fire.
Without hesitation, he pressed it against the boy's bare chest.
The child screamed, a bloodcurdling, ragged wail that shattered the night air. But no one moved to stop it.
The crowd only chanted louder.
Ciri's vision blurred with rage.
She was going to kill them. Every last one of them.
Then, just as she was preparing to leap down and cut through these people like wheat, a gust of wind swept through the square.
The flames shuddered, nearly snuffing out entirely, before roaring back to life with an unnatural green hue.
The villagers froze, heads bowed, waiting.
And then, the voice came.
A sickly chorus of whispers, three voices speaking in unison, a mocking, hissing melody that sent shivers down Ciri's spine.
"You watch, our sweet... but you do not act. Why is that, child?"
Ciri flinched.
The voice was inside her head.
"Do you think you can stop us, little Ashen One?"
A horrid giggle rippled through the air, like nails scraping against bone.
"Do you think they would let you?"
Ciri's grip on her sword tightened.
She was done playing this game.
"We see you, Cirilla. We see your dreams. Your fears. You cannot run from us forever..."
The crows watching from the rooftops screeched in unison, taking flight into the night, their dark wings blotting out the moon for a brief moment.
The air grew thick, as if the very fabric of reality itself was straining under an unseen weight. The green flames flickered violently, their sickly hue stretching into unnatural shapes, casting monstrous shadows against the ruined village square.
Then came the stench, a putrid mix of swamp rot, decay, and blood-soaked soil—and the crows scattered into the night with shrill, echoing cries.
The Crones had arrived.
Ciri's stomach twisted as three warped, grotesque figures emerged from the darkness, their gnarled forms slipping between the veil of this world and something far older, far hungrier. They slithered forward, their movements unnatural, like marionettes dangling from unseen strings.
The first, Brewess, was hunched over, her bloated belly sagging over her rotting apron, her milky eyes flickering with perverse amusement. She licked her cracked lips, inhaling deep as if savoring Ciri's scent.
The second, Weavess, was skeletal, her elongated fingers twitching as she stitched invisible threads through the air. Her twisted lips curled in a grin, her voice crawling into Ciri's ears like spider legs.
And the last, Whispess, the most terrifying of them all, cocked her head at an unnatural angle. She spoke in a breathless whisper, her words crawling under Ciri's skin.
"You see now, child... the fruit of our labors."
The cauldron in the center of the village began to froth and boil, a sickly red mist rising from its depths, swirling into twisted shapes above their heads. The villagers—those still conscious, fell to their knees, whispering praises, rocking back and forth as if caught in a trance.
Then, with a sickening gurgle, the cauldron burst open.
And the sky tore itself apart.
…
A roaring wind howled through the village, whipping dirt and ash into a furious vortex as the air split open like a festering wound.
A rift, jagged and unstable, rippled before them, a window into a world unlike anything Ciri had ever seen.
Her breath caught in her throat as she stared, wide-eyed, at the impossible sight before her.
A city. A massive, sprawling city stretching beyond the horizon.
Towering steel constructs rose into the heavens, glowing in neon blues and reds, their skeletal frames wrapped in cables and pulsing lights.
Flying machines zipped through the air, darting between impossibly tall buildings, weaving through metallic spires like fireflies in a storm.
And the people... gods, the people.
Humans, but different. Some were more machine than flesh, their limbs glistening with metal plating, glowing veins of circuitry coursing beneath their skin. Some had hollow, flickering eyes, their bodies wrapped in strange armored cloth that shimmered under artificial light.
Ciri's heartbeat pounded in her ears.
This wasn't another realm, another sphere.
This was something else.
This was a world without magic.
A world where machines had replaced monsters, where steel and circuitry had taken the place of spells and signs.
A world beyond the Conjunction of Spheres.
The Crones giggled, their voices warping and twisting through the air.
"Behold, our grand finale."
"A prison fit for a monster."
"A world where he will be nothing. Powerless. Helpless."
The cauldron hissed violently, spewing sickly green embers as the rift widened just a little more, revealing more of that strange, unholy place.
People in the city below held small glowing devices, talking to invisible voices through them.
A man with a golden metal arm leaned against a streetlamp, his eyes flickering like molten gold, scanning the bustling streets.
A woman with mechanical legs, thin and sharp as a mantis blade, vaulted over a metal railing with ease, disappearing into a sea of flashing lights.
And in the distance, something monstrous, something wrapped in coiling steel and exposed wires, twitched and sparked, moving with unnatural grace through the streets.
A synthetic beast.
Ciri staggered back, unable to comprehend what she was seeing. What kind of world was this? What was this place?
The Crones turned to her, their rotting grins stretching too wide for their cracked faces.
"This will be his fate, our sweetling."
"A world of metal and gears... A place where his blood, his magic, his monsterous gifts... are meaningless."
"A world where he is nothing but a man."
The wind howled louder, the rift trembling as if preparing to swallow something, someone, whole.
And Ciri knew, without a doubt, who they meant to send through.
Her stomach twisted in fury.
They wanted to banish him to a place with no magic, no Elder Blood, no power—a world that wouldn't understand what he was.
A world that would see him as an anomaly, a thing to be dissected and studied.
A world that would devour him.
Ciri's teeth clenched, her fingers twitching toward the hilt of her sword.
"You won't get away with this," she snarled, the flames of rage burning in her chest.
The Crones laughed, their voices rattling through the night.
"But we already have, sweet Cirilla... we already have."
The rift pulsed, growing brighter, larger, and with a final sickening lurch, the air around them began to break apart—the first step in pulling him through.
This wasn't just a vision.
This was a trap.
They were going to send him there.
And Ciri had to warn him before it was too late.
Ciri's horse thundered through the darkened forest, hooves pounding against the frozen dirt road as she pushed the animal to its absolute limits. The cold wind lashed at her face, but she barely registered it, her thoughts a frantic storm.
She had to warn Veylan. Now!
…
The Crones' ritual, the way they had torn open the veil between worlds—it was unlike anything she had ever seen. A world without magic, without monsters, without Elder Blood. The prison they had forged for him was not of this world, but something else entirely.
She cursed under her breath, the memory of the strange contraptions, the towering metallic structures, and the eerie half-human, half-machine people flashing in her mind. What in all the spheres had she just witnessed? Even she, who had traveled across worlds, had never seen a place like that.
The cottage was just ahead.
The Nilfgaardian soldiers stationed outside turned as they heard the furious gallop of her horse. They reached for their weapons instinctively, but she didn't slow down. She reined in the horse only at the last possible second, nearly sliding out of the saddle as she leapt off.
"I need to see Veylan!" she barked, her breath ragged, her green eyes wild with urgency.
The officer in charge, a dark-haired Nilfgaardian captain with sharp, scrutinizing eyes, stepped forward. "Lady Cirilla?" His voice was calm but edged with suspicion. "What is the meaning of this?"
Ciri clenched her fists, frustrated at how slow they were moving. Did they not realize what was at stake?
"It's the Crones!" she snapped. "They're plotting something against Veylan—something big! They opened a portal, a-." she shook her head, still trying to find the words, "—a rift to another world! A world without magic, without anything like our own! They mean to banish him!"
The soldiers exchanged glances, clearly skeptical, but the captain's eyes narrowed in thought. He studied her for a long moment, his gaze flicking to the sweat-drenched horse, the frantic way she stood, as if she had ridden through hell itself. He exhaled sharply.
"Where?"
She took a deep breath, still shaking from the ride. "The ritual site. The village. The Crones had them gathering-."
But before she could continue, the doors of the cottage swung open.
Veylan stepped onto the porch, his silhouette dark against the candlelit glow from within. He was dressed in his hunting leathers, his silver sword slung across his back alongside his steel blade, and his rings on his fingers with the enchanted blade from Gunther O'Dimm at his hip, his chimera-Witcher medallion resting against his chest. Lady Erynn emerged behind him, her hand instinctively resting on her growing belly, concern etched into her delicate features.
"Ciri?" Veylan's voice was calm but questioning, his sharp golden eyes assessing her immediately.
"Veylan, you're in danger," she began, stepping forward. "The Crones, they-!"
The world exploded.
A sudden blast of unnatural force struck Veylan square in the chest, sending him flying backward before anyone could react. A deafening crack filled the air, followed by a tearing sound, like reality itself was being ripped apart.
Lady Erynn screamed his name.
Ciri's heart stopped.
A portal had formed behind him, not a shimmering, magical gateway like a mage's portal, but something unnatural, jagged, unstable. It looked wrong, as if the very fabric of their world was rejecting it.
And it was pulling him in.
He slammed against the ground, his hand reaching for something, anything, but there was nothing to hold onto. The force of the rift dragged him backward. His silver sword, his steel sword, even the ornate dagger he carried from Gaunter O'Dimm, all of it was pulled through with him.
"VEYLAN!" Erynn lunged forward as fast as she could while still holding her pregnant belly, but Ciri barely managed to grab her wrist, stopping her from being dragged in too.
Veylan's eyes locked onto them, confusion and fury flashing across his face as he was sucked into the abyss.
And then-.
The rift snapped shut.
Like the slamming of a steel door.
He was gone.
For a moment, there was only silence.
Then, the sound of wings.
Ciri snapped her gaze upward.
A crow sat perched atop the cottage roof, its beady black eyes reflecting the firelight from inside. It tilted its head, as if mocking them.
Then-.
The laughter began.
A chorus of cackling, inhuman voices, twisting through the trees, echoing through the night.
The crows in the nearby forest burst into flight, swarming the sky, their dark shapes blotting out the stars.
Ciri's blood ran cold.
The Nilfgaardian soldiers were frozen in shock.
Erynn stood rigid, her hands trembling against her stomach, her face pale as death.
Ciri barely heard the panicked voices of the soldiers, barely registered the horrified realization sinking into everyone's bones.
The Crones had won.
They had taken him.
And now-.
He was in a world beyond their reach.
A world without magic.
A world where Veylan had no way home.
…
Night City.
The first thing he noticed was the smell.
Oil, smoke, metal, sweat—synthetic and unnatural. The air was thick with it, choking, oppressive. Beneath that, the dull, constant hum of machinery, an unrelenting mechanical drone that had no place in any world he had ever known.
Veylan groaned, his body aching as he pushed himself up from the crumpled hood of the police car he had evidently fallen onto. The metal groaned beneath his weight, his impact having left a deep, spider-webbed dent across the windshield.
How in the name of all the Spheres had he survived a fall like that?
He blinked, his vision still spinning, his enhanced senses flickering between awareness and static. His hands trembled as they brushed over the strange asphalt beneath him—black, glossy, and hot under the neon glow of the towering buildings above.
He could hear voices, murmurs filled with cautious disbelief.
"Christ. He's not even scratched…"
"What the hell kinda chrome is that? That ain't any cyberware I've ever seen."
"No implants. None. He's clean."
A new voice, one more authoritative, edged with wariness. "Step away from the suspect."
Veylan lifted his head, his glowing amber-green eyes locking onto the approaching figures. Six men, armored in black and chrome plating, strange weapons similar to those flintlock rifles but more advanced and smaller leveled at him. He didn't know this yet, but they were policemen.
The air was thick with oil and smoke, choking the natural instincts that had guided him through countless hunts. The hum of machinery, the ever-present pulse of something synthetic, rang in his ears like a hive of kikimoras.
This world was wrong.
Veylan exhaled, his body protesting as he forced himself upright. His instincts screamed that he should be dead. The impact should have shattered bones, ruptured organs, but then again, he was an amalgamation of monsters, higher vampire, unseen elder and Witcher plus whatever else he was made of.
His regeneration had already begun knitting his muscles back together. He reached for his weapons.
His steel sword was still at his back. So was his silver. The weight of Gaunter O'Dimm's dagger was firm against his hip, its cursed edge humming with quiet malevolence. His belt pouch, miraculously still fastened, held what little he had prepared for the road, a handful of runestones, vials of basic elixirs, meteorite ore wrapped in cloth, and a few emergency potions that could turn the tide of a fight.
Not all was lost.
He had everything he needed to survive. The question now was where the hell was he?
The murmurs of onlookers drew his attention.
"Holy shit. He's still standing."
"What the fuck kinda armor is that? Looks like something outta an antique museum."
"Is that a sword? Two swords?"
One of the voices, authoritative, clipped, spoke up over the others. "Step away from the suspect."
Veylan turned his head, his feline eyes locking onto a group of figures in black armor, chrome glinting under the neon lights. They were armed. Firearms, if his guess was correct, though they were unlike any crossbows he had ever seen. They moved like trained soldiers, but their scent, cold metal, synthetic fibers, and something chemical, was unlike anything he had encountered before.
Their leader, a man with dark cybernetic implants along his temple, stepped forward. "Hands where I can see them," he ordered, his voice carrying the weight of authority.
Veylan didn't move.
His mind calculated the situation rapidly. Six men. Coordinated. Their weapons were ranged, while his were close-quarters. The positioning was bad, open street, too many variables. He could try Axii, but without knowing their minds, there was no guarantee it would work.
He had a better idea.
Slowly, he lifted his left hand, open palm, non-threatening, while his right remained near his belt, just within reach of his vials. If this turned violent, he would need to be fast.
The captain frowned, glancing at one of his subordinates. "You picking up any cyberware?"
"Nope," the officer responded, his visor flashing data across its surface. "No neural link, no biometrics, nothing. He's clean."
The tension in the air thickened.
"No cyber?" another voice scoffed. "Bullshit. That guy fell out of the sky and barely has a scratch, and look at those eyes?!"
Veylan's jaw tightened.
They had no idea what he was.
The captain took a step forward, his hand hovering over his holstered weapon. "Who are you?"
Veylan studied the man, weighing his options. He needed to communicate. He needed them not to see him as an immediate threat. But they spoke a tongue that, while vaguely familiar, was distorted.
He needed Axii.
He flicked his fingers subtly through the air, tracing the rune for the sign. A faint golden glow pulsed at his fingertips as he reinforced it with a drop of his own blood. The mixture of Elder Blood and Axii should allow him to understand them.
The reaction was immediate.
"Shit, what the hell was that?"
The moment the rune faded, the words of the soldiers, no, police or equivalent of guards, if he understood correctly, became clear. It wasn't a perfect translation, but he could understand them now.
He exhaled, straightening. "Where am I?"
The captain took a step back, eyes narrowing. "You're in Night City. And you're under arrest."
Veylan's lips pressed into a thin line. That wasn't an option.
He subtly shifted his weight, calculating whether he could take them before they opened fire. Quen first, Igni second. Close the distance. If they had armor, he could switch to his steel or silver sword, enchanted steel or silver like the ones he's packing could cut through most materials, and if these men were enhanced, he wouldn't take chances.
Then a new voice cut through the tension.
"Woah, woah, woah, let's pump the brakes, chooms."
A man stepped forward from the watching crowd, hands raised in a don't-shoot motion. He was younger, lean but confident, his street-brawler stance casual but trained. His jacket—stylized, black and red, marked him as someone who belonged here. A street rogue, but not just any thug.
This was a hunter. A survivor.
V.
Veylan's cat-like gaze locked onto the man, his senses drinking in every detail—the way he moved, the way his fingers twitched toward his belt but never fully rested on his weapon. Cautious, but not afraid.
The voice in V's head, one Veylan couldn't hear, sighed dramatically.
"Great," Johnny Silverhand muttered, his digital projection flickering beside V. "Another medieval asshole. This some kinda RPG crossover event?"
V didn't react to Johnny's remark. His attention was fully on Veylan. "So, uh… lemme guess. You got no ID, no implants, and a real bad case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time."
Veylan narrowed his eyes. "I was pulled here. Against my will."
The captain of the police squad scowled. "That so? And what kind of tech did that, huh? You some corpo test subject?"
Veylan didn't answer. Let them make their own assumptions.
V tilted his head, considering something. "Alright, Cap, look, this guy ain't got a shard, no neural link, nothing. You take him in, he's gonna be more confused than a Ripperdoc at a medieval fair."
The captain grunted, clearly annoyed. "You vouching for him?"
V smirked. "Let's just say I've got an eye for talent." He turned back to Veylan, arms crossed. "You got a name?"
Veylan exhaled, weighing his options. Trust was something earned, but if he was to survive in this place, he needed a foothold.
"Veylan," he answered finally.
V clicked his tongue. "Alright, Veylan. Welcome to Night City."
He glanced back at the cops. "How 'bout you let me handle this? Less paperwork for you, and I'll make sure he doesn't go around stabbing people with those fancy swords."
The captain sighed. "Fine. But if he so much as breathes wrong, you're on the hook."
As the officers dispersed, V turned back to Veylan with an easy grin. "You got a helluva story, don't you?"
Veylan's grip tightened on his medallion.
"You have no idea."
...
To Be Continued...