The Witcher: Chimera
Chapter 3: Into Crookback Bog and The Conspiracy
…
Veylan and Erynn rode through the dense forests of Velen, the path leading them toward the village of Blackbough, where the Pellar was said to reside. The journey was uneventful, save for the occasional rustle of wildlife in the underbrush and the distant calls of birds echoing through the trees.
As they approached the outskirts of Blackbough, the sun dipped low on the horizon
The villagers, wary of strangers, eyed them with a mix of curiosity and suspicion. Undeterred, Veylan guided his horse toward a small cluster of cottages, seeking directions to the Pellar's hut.
An elderly woman, tending to a garden of herbs, looked up as they approached. "Evening, travelers. What brings you to Blackbough?"
"We're looking for the Pellar," Veylan replied, his tone respectful. "We've heard he lives near here."
The woman nodded, wiping her hands on her apron. "Aye, the Pellar's hut is just northwest of the village, near the woods. But be warned, some folk are upset with him. Best tread carefully."
Thanking her, Veylan and Erynn continued on their way, following the narrow path she had indicated. As they neared the Pellar's dwelling, they noticed a group of men gathered near the front door, their voices raised in anger.
One of the men, a burly fellow with a scowl etched across his face, pounded on the door. "Pellar! Come out! Your talismans did naught for our friend! He's sicker than before!"
Veylan dismounted, motioning for Erynn to stay back. He approached the group calmly, hands open to show he meant no harm. "What's the trouble here?"
The burly man turned, eyeing Veylan's medallion with suspicion. "Our friend bought a talisman from the Pellar to ward off evil, but he's fallen ill. We want answers."
Veylan nodded thoughtfully. "Talismans can protect against curses and dark magic, but they won't cure sickness. Your friend's ailment might be due to something else."
Another man, younger and visibly worried, stepped forward. "Can you help him? He's been vomiting and can't keep any food down."
"It sounds like he has a stomach ailment," Veylan said. "A tea made from chamomile and mint can soothe his stomach. Apply a poultice of crushed fennel seeds mixed with warm water to his abdomen. That should ease his discomfort."
The men exchanged uncertain glances. "We don't have those herbs," the burly man admitted.
Erynn stepped forward, her satchel in hand. "I have some chamomile and mint here," she offered, her voice gentle. "We can prepare the tea and poultice for your friend."
The men's expressions softened, gratitude replacing suspicion. "Thank you," the younger man said earnestly. "Our friend's house is at the edge of the village. Please, come as soon as you're able."
Veylan nodded. "We'll speak with the Pellar first, then come to tend to your friend. It shouldn't take more than an hour."
Satisfied, the men stepped aside, allowing Veylan and Erynn to approach the Pellar's hut. Veylan knocked on the door, calling out, "Pellar, we need to speak with you. It's urgent."
After a moment, the door creaked open, revealing the Pellar's weathered face. His eyes, sharp and discerning, studied them intently. "What brings a Witcher and an elf to my humble home?"
Veylan met his gaze evenly. "We seek information about Anna and Tamara Strenger. Their trail led us to you."
The Pellar's expression grew somber. "Enter, then. There's much to discuss, and time is of the essence."
As they stepped inside, the scent of herbs and incense filled the air, mingling with the earthy aroma of the thatched-roof dwelling. The Pellar gestured to a rough-hewn table, where various talismans and charms lay scattered.
"Anna and Tamara are in grave danger," the Pellar began, his voice low. "Dark forces are at play, and their fates are intertwined with the spirits that haunt this land."
"We found this,"Erynn said softly, drawing theprimitive talismanfrom hersatchelandplacing itcarefully on thetable.
ThePellar's eyes widened, hisfingers tremblingas he reached for it,cradling it reverently.
"This... protected them," he whispered, hisvoice tightwithhaunted memory."For a time."
"Protected them?"Veylan pressed, hisexpression darkening."From what?"
ThePellar's breath hitched.
"Darkness... ancient and foul." His tone dropped to aharsh rasp, filled withdread."Old... powerful... cursed beings. They hunger... they trade... and they always collect."
Hisweathered eyesflicked toward thetalisman, still clutched in histwisted hands.
"They were being hunted... surrounded by somethingevil, closing in, something my charms held back. But charms only last... for a time."
Erynn was starting to put the pieces together now of what happened, hersharp gazelocked on thePellar."What beings?What... hunts them?"
ThePellar's voice trembled, thick withsuperstitionandfear.
"The Crones of Crookback Bog."
Theroom fell still, even thehanging charms ceasing their gentle swaying.
"Foul creatures... cursed as gods... but they are not divine." His voice turnedhollow."They plague this land... devouring... trading... binding. They... make offers... dark pacts."
Veylan's expression twisted,memory flashing through his mind of what was 's child.
"What kind of pacts?" He asked.
ThePellar hesitated, his eyesdark with grim certainty.
"A... bargain for the unborn." His voice cracked. "To... spare a woman... from bearing a cursed fate."
Theimplication strucklike alightning bolt.
Erynn's breath hitched,her eyeswide with understanding.
Veylan's jaw clenched, thehorrifying truth settlingin hisgutlike a blade:
Anna's stillborn daughter.
Thechild they buried.
"They came to her..."Erynn whispered,her voiceshaking. "They... offered...something."
Veylan's voice turned cold, sharpas tempered steel.
"What... did she trade?"
ThePellar shook his head slowly,hisvoice hollow.
"I... do not know... but I fear the Crones have claimed their price... and if they have... you are already running out of time."
…
Thecool night airgreetedVeylanandErynnas they stepped out of thePellar's hut, theirexpressions tenseandhauntedby thegrim truththe Pellar had revealed. Theweight of dark bargainsandcursed fateshung over themlike a blade poised to fall.
Erynn's hands trembledfaintly, though shesteadied herself,breathing slowlyuntil hermagic-sense cast a glance atVeylan, whosesharp gazeremained fixed on thedarkened treelinebeyondBlackbough's village, hisjaw clenched.
"We'll find them," she whispered. "We have to."
Veylan nodded slowly,hisamber-green eyes gleamingfaintly in thelow moonlight.
"One way... or another." His voice waslowandfirm,resolve hardeningin his tone.
Shaking off the dark thoughts,VeylanguidedErynnback throughBlackbough, following thefaint glowof alantern lightswinginggentlyoutside amodest cottagenear thevillage's edge.
Thesame young manfrom earlier stoodwaiting nervouslynear thedoorway, hisface lighting upas he spotted them.
"Witcher! Elven lady! Over here!" he wavedfrantically.
Veylan approached calmly, though hissenses sharpened, scanning forany sign of danger.
"How's your friend?" he asked, his toneevenbutdirect.
The young mangestured anxiouslytoward thesmall cotnear thehearth, where apale, sweat-soaked manlay,breathing steadilybutweary.A half-emptycup of herbal tearested on thewooden stoolbeside him.
"He's... doin' better," the young man admitted,voice hopeful."The tea helped... he kept it down. But he's still... weak."
Veylan kneltbeside thesick man,pressing two fingersagainst thepulse pointon was warm, thoughno longer burning.
"Color's returning... pulse is steady." He glanced at thediscarded wooden bowlnear bones.
Hiseyes narrowed.
"What did he eat... before he fell ill?"Veylan asked sharply.
Theyoung man hesitated."Uh... fish. Caught it just this morning. Cooked it... didn't think anything of it..."
Veylan exhaled slowly,rubbing his forehead.
"It wasn't cooked through." Hisvoice dropped, sharp but not accusatory. "Raw fish can cause stomach sickness if it's undercooked. He's lucky he kept the tea down."
Erynnstepped in,hands glowing faintlyas shehovered her palmsover thesick man's chest, her magicsensing his body's balance.
"He's recovering." Hervoice steadied."Give him more tea... rest... and keep him warm. He'll be fine by morning."
Theyoung man's face brightenedwithrelief.
"Thank you... truly. We'd have lost him without your help."
Veylan nodded curtly,rising slowly."See to it you cook your fish properly next time. This was... preventable."
As they turned toleave, thevillagers murmured quietly,gratitude replacing suspicion.
Erynn glanced back briefly, herexpression softening."You did well," she whispered toVeylan,touching his arm gently.
"Small kindnesses..." he repliedquietly, thoughhis gaze remained distant,focusedon thedarkened horizontowardCrookback Bog.
"Let's hope we're as lucky... when it really matters."
…
The darkened woods parted slowly as Veylan and Erynn guided their horses back toward Crow's Perch, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and the lingering chill of the night. Their expressions remained tense, weighted by the grim revelations from the Pellar.
The sound of distant crows echoed faintly, blending with the soft rustling of leaves. Erynn's emerald eyes flicked toward Veylan, her brows knitted in worry.
"You've been quiet..." she said softly, her tone measured.
"Thinking," Veylan replied, his voice rougher than usual. "About the Crones. About Anna..."
His jaw tightened, the memories of the Baron's confession still burning in his mind. He couldn't shake the image of that shallow grave, or the dark magic that seemed to cling to the Pellar's charms.
By the time they reached Crow's Perch, torchlight flickered along the fortress walls, illuminating the weathered battlements. The guards at the gate nodded silently, respect mingling with wary recognition as they passed through the main gates.
The courtyard was eerily still, quiet except for the distant crackle of fires and the faint murmur of patrolling soldiers.
As they dismounted, Erynn's eyes swept the fort's interior, her magic sense thrumming faintly, though nothing stirred beyond the murmur of restless dreams.
Geralt was already waiting near the main hall's entrance, leaning against a weathered pillar, his expression grim. His silver medallion gleamed faintly, still resonating with the lingering magic of the swamps.
"You're late," he muttered, pushing off the pillar.
"So are you," Veylan countered, meeting Geralt's gaze. "Find anything?"
Geralt thought on that for a moment before speaking.
"I followed Dea's spirit. She led me through the marsh... to an old altar deep in the swamp. Found traces of... something. Ritual markings... candles burned down to wax stubs... but no sign of Tamara or Anna."
"A shrine... to what?" Erynn pressed, her fingers tightening around her satchel.
Geralt's expression darkened. "Eternal Fire. Someone was praying there... desperately."
Veylan's gaze sharpened, his mind racing.
"Could've been Tamara," Geralt added. "Found signs of a struggle, torn fabric, a rusted blade, and signs of a fiend in the area possibly shortly before or after... but the tracks vanished in the marsh."
The Baron's expression twisted with pain and frustration as he listened to their findings. His weathered hands trembled, though he steadied himself with a sharp breath.
"Tamara... might've gone to Oxenfurt," Geralt concluded. "There's a sanctuary there... for Eternal Fire worshippers. It's a long shot, but it's the only lead we've got."
The Baron nodded slowly, his voice tight.
"You'll need passes... the city's under King Radovid's lockdown. No one gets through without papers."
Veylan exchanged a glance with Erynn, uncertainty flickering in his eyes.
"I've already got a pass," Geralt admitted, grudgingly. "Bought it off... let's say, questionable sources, some guy at the crossing. But without an official seal... I'm pretty sure it's worthless."
The Baron grunted, moving toward a small, battered chest near his desk. He retrieved two leather-bound papers, stamped with the Royal Velen seal, and a heated wax press.
"These'll get you through," he said gruffly, handing them over. "Yours too, Wolf. Give me a second... I'll make it official."
Geralt nodded silently, extending his forged pass.
The Baron's hands worked steadily, sealing the papers with a careful press of hot wax.
"Oxenfurt's a long way," he said quietly. "If you find her... tell her..."
His voice faltered, his eyes hollow.
"Tell her... her father's... sorry."
The room fell silent, weighted by grief... and the grim certainty that regardless of how this turns out, this family will have a long road of recovery ahead.
…
The next morning…
The early morning mist hung heavy over Crow's Perch, clinging to the ancient stone walls and mud-churned roads like a lingering memory. The air was still, broken only by the faint chirping of waking sparrows and the soft snorts of horses being readied for the journey ahead.
Geralt, Veylan, and Erynn worked silently, securing their saddlebags, checking gear, and adjusting tack with practiced efficiency. The scent of damp leather and oiled steel mixed with the earthy tang of morning dew.
…
Near the keep's edge, Philip Strenger, The Bloody Baron, approached a small, freshly dug grave, its edges still dark with turned soil.
His broad shoulders sagged, though his back remained straight, weighed down by loss, but unbroken. In his hands, he carried a bundle of wildflowers, simple, soft blooms gathered from the meadow just beyond the gate.
Kneeling slowly, he laid the flowers gently, arranging them with rough, calloused fingers—hands scarred from battles long fought, now steady with purpose.
The Baron rested his hand over the simple wooden marker, its surface etched with Dea's name, carved with quiet reverence. His breath hitched, but he held steady, his expression worn but solemn.
"I'm... so sorry," he whispered hoarsely, his weathered voice breaking. "For what I did... and what I couldn't fix. But I swear... no more... no more drinking... no more running. I'll... be better. I'll deserve to be better... even if it's too late for you... or your mother."
He closed his eyes briefly, pain carved deeply into his features, though resolve burned stronger now.
Veylan and Geralt watched from a distance, their expressions unreadable, though understanding lingered in their sharp, weathered eyes. They'd seen remorse before... and knew the weight of promises made in moments of grief.
As Philip Strenger rose, he met their gaze, his eyes gleaming with something steady and unyielding. A vow not spoken, but etched into his very being.
Neither Witcher spoke, offering only a brief, respectful nod, acknowledging, but not forgotten.
Erynn, standing just beyond the stable gates, watched the silent exchange, her fingers brushing a small rune-carved charm she'd placed on Dea's grave the night before—a blessing of protection... and peace.
The Baron approached as they mounted their horses, his face lined with exhaustion, but clear-eyed and steady.
"Thank you... for everything," he said roughly, his tone free of pretense or expectation.
Geralt nodded, adjusting Roach's reins.
"We'll find her," he said simply, certainty behind his words.
Veylan's gaze hardened. "We'll see this through."
With silent resolve, they spurred their horses through the fortress gates, leaving Crow's Perch behind, three riders bound by fate, their path uncertain, but their purpose clear.
Behind them, the Baron watched silently, his fingers twitching, longing for the familiar weight of a bottle for only a moment before he shunned such thoughts... he turned away, leaving the past buried where it belonged.
…
The ride to Oxenfurt stretched across winding forest paths, mud-churned roads, and weathered stone bridges crossing slow-moving rivers. Morning mist clung to the damp earth, weaving through the gnarled trees like restless spirits.
Veylan, Geralt, and Erynn rode silently but purposefully, their sharp eyes scanning the road ahead, ever watchful for bandits, monsters, or Redanian patrols.
Erynn's fiery hair shimmered brightly in the early sunlight, catching the eyes of passing merchants and travelers, some staring with open curiosity... others with thinly veiled suspicion.
Two Witchers, and an elven sorceress, traveling together was a sight unlike any other.
The massive stone bridge leading into Oxenfurt loomed ahead, its iron-bound gates flanked by heavily armored Temerian guards, their blue-and-white surcoats crisp despite the thick mud beneath their iron-shod boots.
Banners of Redania fluttered fiercely in the wind, King Radovid's eagle crest etched into the iron gate. A small line of merchants waited impatiently, grumbling at the thorough inspections being carried out by grim-faced guards.
Veylan, Geralt, and Erynn slowed their horses, drawing instant attention from the waiting crowd.
Murmurs rippled through the gathered merchants:
"Witchers... there's two of 'em!"
"And that's no human lass... that's an elf! Pureblood... look at her."
A Redanian sergeant approached, his weathered face scarred from years of conflict. His sharp eyes lingered on Erynn's pointed ears before settling on Veylan's strange medallion... and Geralt's wolf-shaped emblem.
"State your business!" the sergeant barked, resting one hand on the hilt of his longsword.
Geralt calmly dismounted, holding Roach's reins loosely.
"Business in Oxenfurt. We have passes." His tone was cool, even, but unyielding.
The sergeant's sharp eyes narrowed, but he gestured sharply for the passes.
Veylan and Erynn handed theirs over, the leather-bound papers still bearing the Baron's wax seal, official and unmistakable.
The sergeant inspected them carefully, eyes flicking between the signatures and the passengers' faces.
Finally, he handed them back stiffly.
"Everything's in order. Open the gate!"
The gate creaked loudly, its iron-bound doors groaning as chains rattled within the mechanism.
Erynn's gaze lingered on the sergeant's harsh expression, noting the calculated suspicion still lurking in his cold blue eyes.
"Welcome to Oxenfurt..." he muttered grudgingly. "Try not to cause trouble and you'll have none in return."
"Wouldn't dream of it," Veylan replied dryly, already mounting Nimrael once again.
Geralt smirked faintly, though his sharp gaze never wavered from the armed guards watching closely as they rode through the gates.
…
The streets of Oxenfurt stretched wide before them, stone-paved roads lined with bakeries, herbalists, traders' stalls, and rows of timbered houses.
Students of the famed academy wandered the busy streets, their robes fluttering as they debated fiercely about arcane theory and philosophical texts.
The faint scent of river water, fresh bread, and alchemy fumes mixed strangely in the cool air.
Erynn's gaze softened as she took in the lively market square, its energy sharp but hopeful... different from the harsh wilderness they'd traveled through.
"We should find the Eternal Fire's sanctuary first," Geralt suggested, his expression tightening. "Tamara might've gone there seeking safety... if she's still alive."
"Agreed," Veylan added, adjusting his satchel. "But keep sharp... the Crones' reach might be farther than we think."
…
The air around Oxenfurt's Eternal Fire sanctuary was tense with watchful eyes and unspoken judgment. Stone pillars lined the cobblestone courtyard, where pilgrims knelt in prayer under the harsh scrutiny of Temerian guards and witch-hunters.
Geralt, Veylan, and Erynn dismounted at the main steps, their boots crunching against the damp earth. Passersby cast uneasy glances toward the two Witchers and Erynn, her cloak pulled tight, though her fiery hair still glimmered like embers beneath her hood.
The heavy oaken doors of the sanctuary loomed before them, etched with the sigil of the Eternal Fire, a symbol of devotion, but also zealotry.
Before they could reach the entrance, a pair of guards, Temerian swords drawn, stepped forward, blocking the path.
"Halt!" the senior guard barked, his eyes narrowing on Erynn, his gaze fixed on her faintly glowing medallion. "You there... you're no common traveler. You reek of magic."
Erynn stiffened, her fingers tightening around her satchel's strap.
"We're here on business," Geralt said evenly, arms crossed but ready. "Looking for someone."
The guard sneered, his blade shifting slightly. "Magic's outlawed here, unless sanctioned by the Order of the Eternal Fire." His tone darkened, eyes flashing with suspicion. "And her... she's more than just some hedge-witch. What are you hiding, elf?"
Erynn's breath hitched, instinctively stepping back, though Veylan immediately stepped forward, shielding her with his broad frame.
"Back off." His voice dropped to cold steel, amber-green eyes gleaming dangerously. "We're not here for a fight. Let us through... we're not here to cause trouble."
"Enough."
The harsh voice rang firmly, cutting through the tension like a blade.
Graden, clad in witch-hunter armor, emerged from the temple's shadowed entryway, his sharp eyes piercing through the gathered soldiers.
"Lower your weapons... now." His tone was measured, but unyielding.
The senior guard hesitated, though he eventually sheathed his blade, muttering curses under his breath.
Graden's gaze flicked toward Erynn, lingering on her tense posture, noting the way she half-hid behind Veylan's shoulder, not out of cowardice, but genuine wariness.
"You're not here to start trouble..." Graden said slowly, approaching them carefully. "So, tell me... why are you here?"
Geralt spoke first, voice steady. "Looking for Tamara Strenger. We were told she came here... seeking sanctuary."
Graden's gaze sharpened, though he nodded slowly. "She's inside... praying for her mother's safety." His expression darkened. "She'll be finished soon. Wait here. Don't... cause problems."
A few minutes later, the temple doors opened, and Tamara Strenger emerged, her dark hair tied back, her eyes sharp but weary. She wore the plain, practical clothing of the Eternal Fire's followers, though her bearing remained unyielding... forged by pain and resolve.
Her expression hardened the moment she saw the strangers waiting for her.
"Who... are you?" she demanded, tone sharp.
"We're here about your mother... Anna," Geralt said evenly as he met her gaze.
Tamara's face twisted, her fists clenching. "My... father sent you, didn't he?" she hissed. "I want nothing to do with him!"
"We know what he did," Veylan said carefully. "But that's not why we're here."
"He beat my mother!" Tamara's voice cracked, though she held her ground. "Again... and again... until she couldn't take it anymore! He caused her miscarriage... I know he did!"
Erynn's gaze softened, pain etched in her eyes.
"The miscarriage... it wasn't his fault." Her voice trembled, though her words remained steady.
Tamara flinched, her expression twisting.
"What...?"
"It was... something worse." Geralt growled, disdain sharp in his tone. "The Crones... they came to Anna with an offer."
Veylan's voice dropped, dark and dangerous. "She must've thought... she could end the pregnancy without pain... without suffering."
Erynn continued softly. "But instead... they fed on her with dark magic. They took... twisted her body... drained her of strength until..."
"Until she lost the child." Veylan finished grimly.
Tamara staggered, her breath hitching, her mind reeling.
"Gods..." she whispered. "I... I didn't know..."
Geralt exhaled slowly.
"Your father... he knows he can't undo what he did. But he's trying."
"He hasn't touched a drop of drink since you left." Veylan's gaze steadied. "He wanted us to tell you... he's sorry. For everything."
Tamara's breath hitched, her fists trembling as she stared fiercely at Geralt, demanding an answer without words since she could tell he had more to say.
Geralt's expression darkened, his sharp features etched with grim understanding. He stepped forward, his voice was steady. "Your mother... is in the swamp."
Tamara recoiled, her eyes widening with horrified disbelief.
"The... swamp?" she whispered. "You've been there?"
"I have." Geralt's voice hardened, his jaw tightening. "I went there... tracked her trail as far as I could."
He paused, his eyes burning with disgust as the memory surfaced.
"I faced them, the Crones. Whatever you've heard, they're worse."
Veylan's hand twitched, muscle memory responding to the unspoken tension.
"What... are they?" Tamara demanded, her voice cracking.
Geralt exhaled slowly, as if forcing the words out.
"They're not human." His tone dropped into something cold and final. "They look like twisted, old hags... but that's only one of their faces. Underneath... they're monsters. Ancient. Cunning. Hungry, deformed and inhuman looking."
Erynn's eyes darkened, her voice trembling with haunted understanding.
"They... took her, didn't they?" she whispered. "Bound her... somehow."
Geralt nodded grimly.
"They marked her with a sigil... burned it into her skin." His amber eyes gleamed faintly in the torchlight. "It... causes pain if she defies them. Forces her to comply... to serve."
Tamara gasped softly, staggering back.
"You mean... she's... a slave?"
Veylan's jaw clenched, his expression darkening as he pieced the grim reality together.
"What... do they want from her?" Tamara demanded; her voice sharp with raw desperation.
Geralt's gaze sharpened, cold and deadly.
"They eat Children, taken from villages, disappear into the swamp." His voice dropped to something dangerously quiet. "I couldn't prove it before but now... I'm sure."
"There was... something else," Geralt continued. "A Fiend... massive, twisted... with antlers like tree roots. It hunted your mother, dragged her away... but it didn't kill her."
Tamara's face twisted in disbelief. "Why would a Fiend take her alive?"
Veylan answered coldly. "It was summoned. Sent by the Crones to drag her back if she tried to escape."
Tamara staggered, her breathing ragged, her mind reeling with the awful truth.
"How..., how do we stop them?" she whispered, desperate, eyes blazing with defiance.
Geralt's voice sharpened like drawn steel.
"We'll kill them. Every last one... but first we find her and we get her out of that accursed swamp."
The air turned deathly still, resolve etched into every face.
The Crones would pay.
No matter the cost.
Graden's sharp gaze had never wavered through the entire conversation. He had listened silently, arms crossed, his expression unreadable as the full horror of the Crones' deeds unraveled before him.
The temple courtyard was still, the torchlight flickering, casting harsh shadows across the stone-carved symbols of the Eternal Fire.
He stepped forward, his boots striking firmly against the cobblestones.
"Tamara's under my protection," he said evenly, voice steady but charged with purpose. "I've sworn to keep her safe... and if her mother's fate hangs in the balance... so be it."
Tamara's breath hitched, her eyes widening in surprise.
Graden drew his steel sword, its edge gleaming faintly in the torchlight.
"You'll have my blade," he declared baring a seriousness, meeting Geralt's gaze with unyielding resolve. "And my men, my students... if you'll have us."
Veylan's eyes narrowed, his mind racing. "We've no room for... zealots," he warned cautiously. "I've seen enough of your kind, burning innocents in the name of 'justice.'"
Graden nodded slowly, acknowledging the weight of those words without flinching.
"I don't burn without cause," he said baring an honesty. "Me and my students hunt monsters, those who act like monsters who abuse the magics they are granted, and only if they abuse such practices. If these Crones are what you say... there's no greater evil to face."
Tamara stepped forward, her eyes fierce. "I'm coming too." Her tone allowed no argument. "This is my fight... my mother's life is on the line."
After a long, tense moment, Geralt nodded curtly. "You follow orders... no reckless heroics. This isn't some temple skirmish, you'll be facing monsters out there."
Graden sheathed his blade, already turning toward his waiting men. "Prepare to move out. Send word ahead... we ride for Crow's Perch, then to crookback bog."
…
One day later, thunderclouds churned ominously over Crow's Perch, casting shadows across the fortress courtyard.
The Baron, grim-faced and armor-clad, paced near the main gates, his best men standing ready, their swords sharpened and horses saddled.
When Graden and his soldiers arrived, battle-worn but resolute, the Baron's expression darkened but held firm.
"Didn't think you lot would show," he growled, adjusting the worn leather straps on his steel chest plate.
"We're here... because of Tamara," Graden answered coolly. "And that by extension means also Anna and you."
The Baron nodded grimly as he continued preparations.
"We move at first light... into the swamp," Geralt announced, stepping forward, Veylan and Erynn flanking him.
"We go... together."
…
The scent of wet earth and freshly turned soil clung to the grounds of Crow's Perch as the soldiers made their final prep , where the grass was sparse and the ground uneven, Philip Strenger, The Bloody Baron, knelt by a small, weathered grave. His broad shoulders trembled as he adjusted the wildflowers he had placed there days ago, now wilting in the cold wind. His scarred hands, so used to wielding swords and crushing enemies, gently brushed away stray leaves that had gathered over the name etched into the simple wooden marker: Dea.
His breathing hitched as he traced the name with his fingertips, memories of that night burning fresh in his mind. The weight of guilt pressed heavily on his chest, a burden he could never cast off. No amount of blood spilled in the coming battle could ever cleanse him of what he'd done, or failed to do. His head bowed, tears slipping down his weathered face as he silently begged for forgiveness he knew he didn't deserve.
Footsteps crunched softly on the dirt behind him, but he didn't move. He couldn't. He was trapped in his grief, consumed by the memory of Dea's small, broken form and Anna's distant screams in the dark. He barely registered Tamara's approach until she came to stand beside him, silent and still.
She had seen him like this only once before, long ago, after a brutal campaign, when war had left him hollow. But this time, it was different. His shoulders trembled with something more than exhaustion, grief so raw it stripped away every defense he had ever built.
Tamara struggled internally near the edge of the fort for a long moment, she stood frozen, her fists clenched at her sides, torn between anger and something far more fragile, empathy. He was the man who had hurt her, hurt her mother. But he was also the man now broken, humbled, and burdened by a loss neither of them could fix.
Slowly, hesitantly, she reached out and placed a trembling hand on his shoulder. His body jerked as if he hadn't expected the touch, but he didn't pull away. He let her hand rest there, a silent tether keeping him grounded. He wept quietly, his face buried in his hands, unable to hold it back any longer.
Tamara said nothing. There were no words that could heal what had been shattered, no promises that could undo the past. But in that fleeting moment, they were just father and daughter, both scarred, both mourning, both searching for something they might never find.
When the wind shifted, signaling the gathering storm, she gently squeezed his shoulder, just once, before withdrawing her hand. He slowly rose to his feet, his face worn and hollow but steadier now. They shared a long, somber look, one filled with old pain and fragile understanding.
Without a word, they turned toward the waiting search party, leaving the grave behind, but carrying its memory with them into the dark.
…
Later, at Crookback Bog…
The swamp swallowed them whole, its glistening muck sucking at their boots and hooves as the search party pressed forward through twisted roots and murky water. Fog rolled thick, coiling through the rotting undergrowth, weaving between skeletal trees like malicious spirits. The air stank of wet decay, moss, and rot, coating every breath with a rancid chill.
Veylan, Geralt, and Erynn led the way, their keen senses heightened, ever watchful for movement beneath the blackened water. Their medallions pulsed faintly, warning of nearby dangers.
The first attack came swiftly. Drowners erupted from the shallow marsh, their blue-gray flesh glistening with slime, teeth gnashing as they charged.
Silver blades and Steel hissed free.
Veylan surged forward, silver blade flashing, cleaving through two Drowners with a single, brutal arc. Their gurgling howls died in a spray of black ichor.
Geralt ignited Igni, flames roaring from his outstretched hand, engulfing a nearby cluster of necrophages. Their horrific screeches cut through the fog as they burned and fell twitching.
Behind them, Erynn's hands blazed with runic light as she cast protective wards, binding magic crackling like lightning, searing a lunging ghoul into ash.
The soldiers fought fiercely, their steel clashing against claws and fangs, holding formation despite the uneven ground.
Tamara and Graden faced down a water hag, its distorted body twisting as it leapt from the bog, claws extended. With a furious cry, Tamara charged, blade flashing as she slashed deep across the creature's bloated midsection.
The water hag shrieked, lunging back, only to be impaled by Graden's blade, his expression cold as he drove the weapon deeper.
"Hold your line!" Graden barked, his men rallying, surging forward with pikes raised in a bristling wall of steel.
…
After several more brutal skirmishes, the battered search party reached the heart of the swamp, a cluster of crumbling cottages, their timbered walls sagging, smoke-stained roofs rotted from years of decay.
The smell hit first.
Veylan and Geralt both stiffened, their faces twisting with revulsion. The stench of burnt hair, spoiled meat, and something darker clung to the air, thick and suffocating.
"Bones... fresh," Veylan muttered, his amber-green eyes burning with unspoken horror.
They followed the stench to a large cauldron, its bubbling surface slick with oily residue. Erynn recoiled, her hand trembling as she lifted a charred bone, its end jagged... snapped by teeth.
Tamara gasped, staggering backward, her breath hitching in horrified realization.
"...The children..." she whispered. "Gods... they... they ate them."
The party fell silent, the weight of the atrocity crashing down upon them like a flood.
They found Anna near the largest cottage, her frail form wrapped in a tattered shawl, rocking slowly, her eyes distant, murmuring incoherently.
"Anna..." Geralt whispered, approaching slowly. "It's us... we're here..."
She didn't react, her gaze blank, her mouth trembling as she mumbled nonsensically:
"The... wind sings... they're always watching... always hungry... always hungry..."
Tamara sobbed quietly, falling to her knees beside her mother, gently touching her face. "Mother... please... it's me... it's Tamara..."
But Anna's hollow eyes didn't recognize her.
Suddenly, the wind shifted, and with it came something unnatural.
The very air twisted, sour and cold, as distant whispers echoed through the trees, layered, distorted voices blending like warped song.
"Found her... our pretty broken doll... wandering... lost... a fool's hope..."
The voices hissed, mocking and cruel.
"Tried to steal what's ours. Naughty children... they never learn."
Erynn shuddered, stepping back, her magic thrumming in defense.
"Foul magic..." she whispered with a bad taste in her mouth now. "It's... everywhere."
"Show yourselves!" Geralt barked, silver blade raised, his voice cutting through the cursed air.
The wind twisted deeper, cackling laughter echoing from nowhere and everywhere.
"Fools... fools... meat for the pot... meat... for the flame... foolish little lambs..."
The voices paused, sharp and sudden, as if... startled.
Their horrid chant faltered, their mocking tone fading into... uncertainty.
"But... the dark haired one... with silver-hair..."
Their voices turned low, sharp, almost... fearful.
"What... is he...?!"
Veylan's gaze sharpened, his grip tightening on his silver blade.
Geralt's sharp glance flicked toward Veylan, narrowing his eyes. He'd always assumed the other Witcher was... just another mutant.
But the Crones didn't scare easily.
And Veylan's presence clearly unnerved them.
Whatever they sensed... it terrified them far more than steel or fire ever of Form
As they stood there the air grew colder, tension wrapping around the swamp like a tightening noose. Veylan's gaze remained fixed on the treeline, his posture rigid, hand resting on the hilt of his silver sword. The medallion around his neck trembled faintly, sensing something unnatural, ancient and deadly.
Graden, Tamara, and the Baron exchanged uneasy glances, noticing how Veylan's sharp eyes narrowed, their green-gold hue shifting, flickering for a heartbeat into something... inhuman. Predatory. Hawk-like.
The Baron stiffened, his hand gripping the hilt of his blade, though he held his tongue. Tamara's fingers twitched, her gaze locked on Veylan, realization dawning, but before anyone could react, the forest exploded in a thunderous crash of splintering wood and cracking branches.
Geralt barely had time to turn before the Fiend lunged, its antlered skull gleaming in the dim, cursed light, its third eye burning with malevolent hunger. Massive claws raked toward Anna's frail form, her empty gaze unfocused, still lost in terrified murmurs.
"Move!" Geralt shouted, already surging toward her, but he wouldn't be fast enough.
Veylan knew instantly. He couldn't dodge, couldn't risk Anna or the others being caught in the onslaught.
Instinct roared to life. Monster blood stirred.
With a snarl that tore free from his throat, Veylan moved.
His eyes burned. Red. Blood-red.
His fingers twisted, nails lengthening into razor-sharp claws as dark veins coiled like roots under his scarred skin. His face twisted, lips curling back into something far too predatory, more beast than man, revealing sharp teeth.
He met the Fiend mid-charge.
Geralt's breath hitched. In that single frozen moment, he saw... something far worse than any Witcher mutation, something older, darker...
A Higher Vampire.
Veylan collided with the Fiend, tearing into it with brutal precision, sinking claws deep into its leathery hide. The Fiend roared, staggering back, but Veylan didn't stop.
With a snarl, he spun, silver blade flashing, burying the blade deep into the creature's skull, piercing its third eye. Bone cracked with a sickening snap.
The Fiend's monstrous form shuddered violently, its death throes shaking the swamp floor before it collapsed backward, its last breath escaping in a rattling hiss.
The swamp fell silent.
Veylan stood still, his chest heaving, his blade still buried in the Fiend's skull.
His claws twitched, fangs half-bared, red eyes gleaming in the muted sunlight, searching for another enemy... another threat.
The Baron and Graden's men stared frozen, their weapons lowered, faces pale with shock and horror.
Tamara's breath hitched, her expression twisting between fear and disbelief.
Geralt lowered his blade slowly, his sharp eyes narrowed, trying to process what he'd just witnessed.
Veylan exhaled slowly, forcing the darkness back. His breathing steadied as the blood-red light in his eyes dimmed, fading back into amber-green. His claws shrank, veins retreating, leaving behind only scarred, calloused hands.
With a final jerk, he ripped his sword free from the Fiend's skull, ichor dripping from the blood-slick blade.
The horrified silence stretched long after the Fiend lay still.
Erynn whispered something in Elder Speech, a warding prayer... but her wide eyes remained fixed on Veylan, her magic trembling in instinctive recognition.
The stillness of the swamp hung heavy, suffocating in its unnatural quiet. The Fiend's twisted corpse lay motionless, its third eye dark and lifeless, black ichor pooling beneath its massive frame.
Veylan's breath steadied, though his heart still pounded with the lingering rush of something primal. He could feel their stares, sharp, fearful, uncertain. But now wasn't the time to address what they'd seen.
He cleaned his blade with a sharp flick of his wrist, blood-slick ichor spraying against the wet ground. His amber-green eyes rose, locking onto Geralt's unreadable gaze.
Tamara's trembling voice finally shattered the silence.
"...What... was that?"
Her wide, haunted eyes searched Veylan's face, but he didn't answer—not yet. He forced himself to stay calm, to push down the instinctual urges still clawing at the edges of his mind.
Instead, he turned sharply toward Anna, still mumbling incoherently, her thin frame trembling, lost in her own fragmented reality.
"We need to get her out of here." Veylan's voice was rough, commanding, with no room for argument.
"Out of this... cursed place."
Graden stepped forward, his expression tight with lingering distrust, though he nodded stiffly.
"The Fiend's dead... but the Crones will know." His sharp gaze flicked toward Anna's frail form, his jaw clenching. "We can't fight them on their ground."
Tamara knelt beside her mother, hands shaking as she gently wrapped her arms around her, whispering soothing words though Anna barely reacted, still lost in whispered fragments.
The Baron's face twisted with pain and grief, as he began to speak.
"Anna... it's me... Philip... we're here... we're taking you home."
Anna's distant eyes flickered but didn't focus.
Geralt nodded slowly "We move now." His medallion pulsed faintly, warning of dark magic stirring. "Before the swamp decides we've overstayed our welcome."
Veylan's fierce gaze swept over the gathered men, Graden, and the Baron.
"I will explain... everything," he promised, meeting Geralt's questioning stare. "But not here. We need out."Bottom of Form
No one argued.
Weapons were raised, guards repositioned, and with swift precision, they lifted Anna into Tamara's arms.
The group pressed forward, their shadows twisting in the dim light, fearful eyes still glancing warily toward Veylan... but moving as one.
The swamp's twisted depths remained eerily still... as if watching. Waiting.
…
Philip Strenger, the Baron, sat near the hearth, his expression distant and worn as he watched over Anna, who lay resting beneath thick furs, her frail body trembling from fevered dreams. Tamara knelt beside her mother, holding her thin hand, whispering soft reassurances despite the lack of response.
Graden, Geralt, and Veylan stood gathered near a long wooden table littered with half-empty tankards, scattered maps, and torn scrolls. The air was thick with tension, unease crackling like an unsheathed blade. Erynn, ever watchful, stood near Veylan, her hand resting gently on his arm, a silent tether anchoring him.
The Baron's men and Graden's witch-hunters remained silent but visibly restless, casting uneasy glances toward Veylan, their minds still reeling from what they had seen in the swamp. The memory of his transformation, his blood-red eyes, and inhuman strength burned vividly in their minds.
Tamara, after ensuring her mother was stable, rose slowly, her gaze sharp and resolute despite the haunted shadows lingering in her eyes. "We all saw what happened back there," she said, her voice tight with restrained intensity. "No Witcher I've ever heard of can do that."
Geralt's steely gaze narrowed slightly, though he remained silent, waiting for Veylan to speak.
Veylan exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening around the worn hilt of his silver blade, though he did not draw it. "You deserve the truth," he admitted, his voice low but steady. "What you saw... wasn't the work of a Witcher. Not entirely."
Graden's jaw tightened, but he held back whatever sharp retort lingered on his tongue.
Veylan's gaze swept over the gathered men, his expression unreadable yet now serious. "When I was a young boy... they took me. Four others, too. We were prisoners in some forgotten keep, far south... beyond Nilfgaard's reach."
His eyes dimmed, memories surfacing like old scars. "They wanted to... improve on Witcher mutations. To create something... more." His tone turned cold as frost. "Their method was... monstrous."
Tamara's breath hitched, but she said nothing.
"They fused us with monster blood and other such materials," Veylan continued, bitterness lacing his voice. "They forced it into us, remade us. The others... they didn't survive. I did."
His hand rose, tracing the faint scars along his forearm, etchings burned deep by runes of binding long since faded.
"I carry their... experiments still." His amber-green eyes gleamed faintly in the firelight. "Leshen, Kikimora... Rock Troll... Drowner... Higher Vampire... and others."
The gathered men shifted uneasily, their faces twisting with horrified realization.
"They made me... a Chimera."
The room fell silent, the fire crackling softly as Veylan stepped forward, his gaze unflinching. "You already saw one of those things in the swamp."
His eyes burned briefly, flickering to blood-red, a chilling echo of the Higher Vampire's nature.
"But there's more." His tone turned cold. "Much more."
His veins darkened, faint root-like patterns twisting under his scarred hands as his eyes burned green, flashing with the Leshen's ancient power. "Nature answers... when I command it."
His muscles flexed, briefly hardening into stone-like density, Rock Troll strength rippling beneath his skin before fading.
He exhaled slowly, faint vapor rising from his lips, the Foglet's shroud, dissipating into mist.
He held their gaze, unflinching. "What you've seen... is only part of what they did to me."
He stepped forward, his voice dropping to something colder, more controlled.
"Higher Vampire blood... you saw that back in the swamp," he began, his eyes flickering faintly red before returning to their usual amber-green hue. "
Though I doubt he ever knew it was stolen."
His jaw clenched. "I fight every day... not to become what they wanted."
His scarred hands flexed faintly, his fingertips twitching as if remembering claws.
"Leshen essence." He raised a scarred forearm, veins rippling like twisting roots, faintly glowing green. "I can call the forest to bind or destroy... but it comes at a cost."
The soldiers shifted uneasily, glances flicking toward the nearby windows as if expecting the roots themselves to burst through at his command.
"Rock Troll marrow..." His muscles tightened, broad shoulders tensing as stone-like ridges rippled briefly beneath his skin before fading. "Strength... endurance... enough to shatter bones... or shields."
"Kikimora venom..." His expression twisted, fingers twitching as his nails briefly darkened, glistening faintly. "Poison immunity. Their venom doesn't touch me... but I feel the hunger of the swarm though it comes in handy when I need to take them off guard since they think I'm one of them."
Geralt's eyes narrowed, he let out an a shaky breath as he took in every detail with a Witcher's cold calculation.
"Drowner lungs..." Veylan hissed, exhaling sharply, faint vapor-like mist escaping his lips as what appeared to be faint gills formed on his neck. "I can breathe underwater... for a time."
"Basilisk nerve-reflexes..." His pupils narrowed, turning into reptilian slits for a fleeting moment. "I can see... farther... sharper than most. But hunting, and some other traits come with it."
"Royal Wyvern's venom sacs..." He lifted his blade, letting the faintly etched runes gleam in the firelight. "Their toxins live in my blood; poison doesn't touch me. But my anger, my heightened emotions..." He clenched his fists, breath hitching. "...It's harder to master."
Graden's face paled, his fingers twitching near his sword hilt, though he didn't reach for it.
"Foglet essence..." Veylan's body shimmered faintly, faint mist curling around his feet. "I can vanish, become mist... when the fight demands it."
He paused, his gaze locking on Geralt, who still watched, calculating, wary... thoughtful.
But Veylan's voice darkened as he stepped closer.
"There's more."
"Marr essence." His amber-green eyes dimmed, shadowed by something far darker. "I can... consume nightmares. But in doing so... I have the option of become theirs, or even manipulating them to some degree."
Tamara shuddered, her breath hitching.
"A Fiend's hunger, and strength." His voice dropped, cold as steel. "The worst of their kind... lives within me."
"And finally..." His expression twisted, his face shimmering briefly with inhuman fluidity. "Doppler blood."
Before anyone could react, his features shifted, bone and sinew twisting painfully, until Graden's face stared back, serious, exact, unmistakable, if not for the Witcher swords, they would think he was Graden, he even had the same outfit.
Gasps echoed through the room as Veylan shifted again, becoming Geralt, his pale yellow eyes glinting with unnerving accuracy.
"Only males... only humanoids," he admitted darkly, resuming his true form. "But changing... is never easy."
The hall fell silent, the fire crackling faintly as Veylan lowered his gaze, his breathing steady.
His scars gleamed faintly in the firelight, etched runes long faded, silent reminders of everything taken... and remade.
"Gods..." Tamara whispered, her face ashen, barely able to breathe.
Graden's fingers tightened around his sword hilt, though he didn't draw it.
"You were made into... a weapon..." he whispered slightly trembling. "Weren't you?"
Veylan met his gaze, unyielding.
"I'm not what they made me..." His voice trembled with cold defiance.
"I'm... still myself."
Erynn stepped closer, her hand resting on his arm, steady as stone.
"And that... is why they failed," she whispered fiercely.
The room remained still, shadows flickering... but no one spoke.
They understood now.
Veylan... wasn't just a Witcher.
He was a living curse.
A weapon forged... and forgotten.
…
The Baron, still pale and shaken from Veylan's revelations, slowly stepped forward, his weathered face lined with desperation and fragile hope. His gaze fixed on Anna's frail, trembling form, her face twisted in tormented whispers, lost in unending terror.
"You said... you could consume nightmares," he rasped, his voice trembling with pleading urgency. "Can... can you help her?"
The hall fell silent, all eyes turning toward Veylan, whose amber-green gaze softened just slightly.
He had seen souls broken by nightmares before. He knew exactly what plagued her... dark memories twisted by cursed magic, fears amplified into an endless loop.
"I can try," Veylan said quietly, stepping forward with measured calm. "But it... won't undo everything. It can only... ease her suffering and stop the nightmares."
The Baron's hands clenched, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears.
"Please... anything..." he whispered.
Erynn gently touched Veylan's arm, her expression steady but wary.
"Be careful..." she murmured. "Don't... lose yourself."
He nodded faintly, his sharp features set with grim resolve before he knelt beside the bed, his shadow stretching long in the fire's dim glow. Anna's fragile form twitched faintly, her breathing ragged, her eyes half-lidded but unseeing. Sweat beaded along her ashen face, her lips trembling as she muttered broken phrases from fractured dreams.
Veylan exhaled slowly, extending his scarred hand, fingers trembling just above her face.
His nails lengthened subtly, bone-white claws forming with a sickening crack, his veins darkening faintly like twisting roots. The air chilled as mist swirled faintly around his fingertips.
With precise focus, he pinched the air, grasping at something invisible, something resisting.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then... a faint, sickly squirming form emerged from thin air, dark as smoke, writhing and twisted, its form shifting constantly like a living nightmare.
The Baron staggered back, breath caught in his throat.
"Gods... what is that...?"
Tamara gasped, her hand flying to her mouth, trembling.
"Her nightmares," Veylan answered, his voice edged with something darker. "Given shape... given hunger."
With a swift motion, he pulled the nightmare fully free, the squirming wraith-worm writhing frantically, hissing faintly as if realizing its doom.
Without hesitation, Veylan opened his mouth and swallowed it whole, teeth flashing sharply for a fleeting instant before his jaw clenched shut.
The air pulsed, the swirling mist thickening as cold vapor escaped his lips with a faint whispered exhale. His veins pulsed faintly beneath his skin, though he showed no pain, only practiced control.
Anna's frail body stilled, her breathing evening out, her trembling ceasing as the dark shadows seemed to lift from her expression. Her thin fingers loosened, and for the first time since the swamp... she rested peacefully.
The room remained still, haunted silence stretching after the dark mist faded.
The Baron's voice cracked as he staggered closer, his face etched with raw relief.
"She's... calm... she's breathing normally..."
Veylan slowly rose, breathing sharply, though his expression remained unreadable.
Erynn gently touched his hand, steadying him, her eyes soft but worried.
Tamara's voice trembled, her face ashen.
"Did... did you just eat her nightmares?"
Veylan met her gaze, his voice certain.
"I ended them."
…
The room remained cloaked in uneasy silence, broken only by the soft crackling of the dying hearth fire and Anna's steady breathing, finally free of the nightmares that had plagued her fragile mind. Tamara, still shaken, stood by her mother's side, her fingers trembling but steady as she gently adjusted the blankets covering Anna's frail form.
The Baron leaned heavily against the edge of the bed, broad shoulders sagging, his face etched with weary relief but still haunted by guilt and memories he could not escape. For now, Anna was safe, but the weight of what they had seen in the swamp and the truth about Veylan lingered like a blade hovering over their heads.
At the far end of the room, Veylan sat silently, arms resting on his knees, head bowed as if bracing for the inevitable storm. Erynn's presence remained a steadying force beside him, her warm fingers intertwined with his scarred hand, silently offering her support. His medallion lay cold and still against his chest, but the monstrous blood within him still hummed faintly, restless and lingering, like an old wound that refused to heal.
Graden paced near the doorway, his sharp steel-gray eyes flicking between Veylan and Geralt, his jaw clenched in tense thought. His men, loyal and disciplined, stood outside, uneasy but obediently waiting for orders.
The air crackled with unspoken questions. No one had ever faced something like this—a sentient Chimera, part Witcher, part monster, yet still driven by honor and purpose. Veylan's existence defied reason and law, challenging everything they knew about monsters and men.
Geralt exhaled slowly, his sharp, amber gaze lingering on Veylan, still seated near the hearth, his scarred hands resting on his knees, silent but watchful. He could feel Graden's stare, tense and calculating, still measuring the weight of what he had seen.
Finally, Geralt spoke, "If Veylan's existence ever becomes public..." he began, his tone edged with something harder, darker. "Even I'm not sure how the kingdoms would react."
His eyes flicked toward Graden, acknowledging the thought already brewing in the witch-hunter's mind.
"Witchers... are barely tolerated as it is," Geralt continued, his expression unreadable. "Most of the world still fears us... calls us mutants... monsters."
Graden's jaw clenched, though he said nothing.
"Sorcerers?" Geralt added, his voice dipping into bitter certainty. "They're hunted now... burned for simply existing. What do you think they'd do..."
He nodded slowly toward Veylan, whose amber-green eyes remained fixed on the crackling embers, his expression unreadable.
"...If they found out about him?"
The fire crackled again, the weight of the truth settled heavily over them all.
"They'll hunt him," Graden finally admitted, his steel-gray gaze hardening. "Like... anything we don't understand, like any other monster."
Tamara stiffened, her fingers tightening at her sides, anger flashing across her face.
"He's not a monster," she hissed, her voice trembling with emotion. "He saved my mother... he saved all of us!"
Erynn's fingers intertwined tighter with Veylan's scarred hand, silently grounding him, though she said nothing.
Geralt nodded slowly, acknowledging Tamara's words.
"I know." His tone softened but remained serious. "But... you know how this works. Kings... priests... power-hungry men... They won't care. All they'll see is something to fear. Something to kill, or use."
The room fell still, the unspoken reality settling like a blade poised to strike.
After a long, charged pause, Geralt's voice lowered, serious and deliberate.
"We'll need to investigate... find out who created him... why." His amber gaze sharpened. "Make sure it never happens again."
His expression darkened, sharp as tempered steel.
"But... we do it quietly."