The Witcher: Chimera
Chapter 4: Hidden Truths
…
Graden, still pacing near the doorway, stilled suddenly, his sharp gaze narrowing in thought. His steel-gray eyes flicked toward Veylan, lingering for a long moment before he finally spoke.
"Do you remember any names...?" His voice was measured, but tinged with urgency. "Anyone... from the keep... when it fell?"
The room fell silent, every gaze shifting to Veylan, whose scarred hands clenched faintly in old, familiar frustration.
He exhaled slowly, amber-green eyes flickering in the dim light as memories surfaced, long buried beneath pain and survival.
"There were... five of them." His voice lowered, edged with bitterness. "I only knew them by reputation... whispers... but they were the architects behind what happened."
He lifted his sharp gaze, cold "Magister Alzeth Veylor. He... oversaw the trials. The other alchemists feared him, obsessed with creating the perfect hunter."
His jaw clenched as he continued.
"Lyara the Forsaken. They said she was expelled from the Brotherhood of Sorcerers... exiled for experimenting with... binding rituals. I still wear her work." His fingers traced the scarred runes along his forearms.
"Olthar Valrik..." Veylan spat the name, rage flaring beneath his steady tone. "The Endless Flesh Project. He wanted to remake Witcher trials. Turn us into something unstoppable."
His voice darkened, dipping into something colder.
"Thaelith Rorn. A... twisted herbalist. Obsessed with... monstrous growth. He created the root-bonding spells they used on me."
He hesitated, breathing sharply before speaking the last name, as though even saying it summoned old ghosts.
"Rhaegen Velhorn. Former Imperial alchemist. He invented the vampiric infusion process."
The room fell utterly still.
Graden's breath hitched, his steel-gray eyes widening with stunned recognition.
His men shifted uneasily, exchanging tense glances as Graden stiffened, sharp features twisting into something bordering on disbelief.
"What...?" Veylan demanded, his voice sharp. "You know them."
Tamara's face paled, her fingers trembling near the hilt of her dagger.
"I've... heard those names..." she whispered. "From the church records."
Graden nodded slowly, his expression unreadable, though his voice trembled slightly.
"Two of them..." he rasped, jaw tightening. "We've... encountered... two of them.*"
Veylan's gaze sharpened, his muscles coiling, instinct roaring to life.
"Explain."
Graden swallowed hard, his eyes blazing with fury.
"Olthar Valrik... and... Thaelith Rorn." His tone turned harsh, edged with disgust.
"They're aligned with Radovid's court. The Church of the Eternal Fire... thought they were just alchemists-for-hire. Hells... we didn't know."
Veylan's breath hitched, his fingers clenching into fists.
Geralt stepped forward, his amber gaze narrowed, his expression darkening. "You're saying, Radovid might be using them, without knowing what they are."
Graden nodded grimly, his voice lowering to something deadly.
"If even half of what you said is true... we've been blind. They've, embedded themselves in Redania's alchemical division."
Erynn's eyes widened, her breathing quickening as realization set in.
"They've been... continuing their work."
Veylan's voice dropped, cold and dangerous.
"Then they're still experimenting."
The weight of truth settled like a heavy blade, poised for execution.
Geralt exhaled slowly, his fingers brushing the worn leather grip of his silver blade.
"This just got worse."
…
The fire crackled softly as Graden laid out a map of the Northern Realms across the worn oak table. His sharp steel-gray eyes burned with resolve as he addressed the room, gesturing toward Veylan, Geralt, and the others gathered in tense silence. The truth of the alchemists' involvement with Radovid's court still hung heavily over them.
"We move carefully," Graden said firmly, tracing a path down south past Nilfgaard's borders. "I'll contact my network... old informants, rogue scholars, and disillusioned witch-hunters who've fallen out of favor with the Eternal Fire. They'll know where to start digging." He paused, his gaze hardening. "But if even one whisper of this reaches Radovid or his court, we'll have half the Redanian army hunting us, and the damned Crones will seem merciful by comparison."
Geralt nodded grimly. "I'll keep my eyes and ears open as I travel. With what's happening in Velen, I'll be moving through dangerous territory anyway." He rested a gloved hand on the hilt of his silver blade. "If I hear anything about these alchemists... I'll find you."
Graden shifted his attention to his men, his tone sharp and commanding. "Reinhart, Ilith... you're staying here." He gestured toward Tamara, standing protectively near her mother. "Ensure they are always protected at all costs. If these bastards realize we know... they may come after her to draw us out."
Tamara bristled but didn't argue, her dark eyes gleaming with defiance. "We'll be ready," she promised, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands.
Graden turned to Veylan and Erynn, his voice lowering. "I'll need you in Oxenfurt in a few days. We'll meet outside Novigrad once my contacts respond. Until then... stay hidden." His gaze lingered on Veylan's faintly glowing medallion. "Your... nature makes you a target whether you like it or not."
Erynn, ever calm and composed, gently rested her hand on Veylan's arm, offering silent reassurance. "We have... other contacts," she said softly, her voice tinged with quiet authority. "The Aen Seidhe remnants down south... they still owe me favors."
From beneath her cloak, she produced a folded parchment etched with ancient runes in Elder Speech. Carefully, she placed it on the table, her fingers tracing the intricate script glowing faintly in the firelight.
"They will recognize this," she continued. "And this word... 'Faen'aleth.' It means Sanctuary Found." She looked up, her emerald-green eyes gleaming. "Tell them I sent you. Show them this if they need proof."
Graden accepted the parchment, his expression unreadable. He was no fool, he knew the power of the Aen Seidhe, even scattered and broken. If anyone could operate beyond Radovid's reach... it was them.
His sharp gaze swept across the gathered faces, landing on each one in turn. "Tell no one outside this room what we know," he ordered, his voice like steel. "Not unless it's absolutely necessary. We don't know who's watching... or how long they've been watching."
…
The dawn came slowly, light spilling over the mist-covered lands of Velen, turning the sodden earth into a patchwork of silver-gray and deep green. The air smelled of wet grass and distant rain, the storm that had loomed over them finally breaking into something calm, if only for a of Form
Veylan and Erynn stood near the main courtyard, their horses saddled and ready even if they'll still be a while, while Geralt adjusted Roach's reins with practiced ease, watching quietly as Graden issued orders to his remaining men.
"Stay sharp," Graden commanded, his steel-gray eyes cold and calculating. Reinhart and Ilith nodded stiffly, already moving toward their patrol routes, ensuring Crow's Perch's defenses were secured. Tamara, still armed and determined, watched closely, her dark eyes sharp despite the lingering emotions she barely concealed.
…
Inside the fort, Philip Strenger, The Baron, sat by Anna's side, his roughened hands gently clasping hers, silent and steady. Anna's eyes, now clear and untouched by nightmares, gleamed with quiet confusion as she gazed around, not quite remembering how she'd come home... but peacefully unaware of the horrors left behind in the swamp.
"...I was... gone... wasn't I?" Anna whispered, her voice soft but steady.
The Baron nodded slowly, his eyes glistening with something far deeper than words could convey.
"But you're home now..." he rasped, voice breaking. "You're... safe."
Veylan and Erynn entered quietly, their boots barely making a sound against the stone floor. Erynn's gaze softened as she took in Anna's peaceful expression, knowing her nightmares were truly gone.
The Baron rose slowly, his expression guarded, though gratitude gleamed faintly in his scarred features.
"...Thank you." His voice trembled. "For everything."
Veylan nodded. "You'll keep her safe now. We've bought you time—but it won't last forever."
"I know." Philip's jaw clenched, steel returning to his weathered face. "If they come again... we'll be ready."
…
As morning fully broke, Veylan and Erynn mounted their horses, leaving Crow's Perch behind with only a glance back, watching the fading silhouette of the Baron, Anna, and Tamara standing together.
The ride to the Pellar's hut was short and uneventful, the air cool but charged with the lingering remnants of magic still rooted in the land.
The old stone markers near the Pellar's clearing loomed in the mist, faintly etched with ancient runes, though they seemed less harsh now... less watchful.
The Pellar, crouched near his herbal garden, looked up sharply as Veylan and Erynn approached, his sharp eyes narrowing before softening with recognition.
"...You've returned," he rasped, his voice rough from age but tinged with curiosity. "And... there's no... darkness trailing you now."
Erynn dismounted, smiling faintly. "We found her... saved her."
Veylan nodded. "The sigil's gone. Whatever... bond they had over her... it's broken."
The Pellar stiffened, though he relaxed shortly afterwords, ... They'll know... they'll want her back."
"We're ready," Veylan assured. "The Baron's men are holding the keep. She's safe... for now."
Back at Crow's Perch, Graden mounted his horse, armor gleaming faintly despite the mud-slicked path. His steel-gray eyes burned with cold purpose, already calculating the next move.
His men followed silently, weapons secured, their expressions grim but determined as they set off southward, vanishing into the mist-heavy roads toward Oxenfurt and beyond... quietly hunting secrets long thought forgotten.
Geralt, ever silent, rode west, Roach's hooves clattering softly over the muddy paths as he disappeared into the wilderness, his mind already turning toward Ciri's trail... and dark forces still stirring in Velen's cursed swamps.
…
The next morning, two days to go till they go to Oxenfurt…
The sun rose slowly over the village, mist clearing as the morning air warmed, carrying the scent of herbs and fresh earth. Veylan, ever practical, spent the early hours mending the goat pen, ensuring Princess, the Pellar's prized goat, wouldn't wander into the woods again.
Princess, ever curious, sniffed eagerly at the strawberries Veylan scattered in the feeding trough, munching contentedly as he secured the wooden beams with fresh nails.
"Stay put this time," he muttered dryly, scratching her floppy ear.
The Pellar, nearby, nodded in approval while sorting bundles of fresh herbs, his weathered hands steady despite old age.
"You've a sure hand, Witcher," the Pellar rasped. "This old fool appreciates it... and so does she."
Veylan nodded faintly, his amber-green eyes softened just a little before rising.
By midmorning, Veylan and Erynn worked side by side in the herb garden, picking wild sage, elderflower, and rosehips, crafting woven bundles for Luineth'belain's offering.
Erynn's delicate fingers tied protective charms, silver-threaded ribbons symbolizing blessings of safe passage and protection, each one carefully bound with prayers in Elder Speech.
"These will hold... if tied by dusk," she whispered, half-smiling.
Veylan, ever practical, gathered branches for the ceremonial fire, knowing the ritual would take them to an ancient oak glade just beyond the Pellar's hut.
As night fell, firelight danced across the sacred clearing, casting soft amber glows on the gnarled trees etched with ancient runes.
Veylan and Erynn stood together, their hands brushing, silent but connected, as Erynn whispered ancient prayers to earth and sky.
With gentle reverence, they hung woven charms from low branches, their ribbons twisting gently in the night breeze, whispers carried by the forest's breath.
As the ceremonial fire crackled, Veylan found his thoughts wandering, wondering what distant shadows stirred, knowing their quiet moments like this were precious... fleeting.
Erynn's hand slipped into his, warm and steady, grounding him once again.
"Let's just... be here... for now," she whispered softly.
And so they stayed... in the quiet glow of firelight... beneath the ancient trees... for just a little while longer.
…
The ancient grove stood shrouded in soft moonlight, its weathered stones half-buried beneath moss and creeping ivy, forgotten by the passing ages but still alive with quiet power. The sacred altar of the Aen Seidhe, long abandoned by its elven caretakers, rested at the grove's heart, its rune-carved surface dulled by time and overgrown roots.
Erynn, her fiery hair glowing faintly in the silver light, stepped forward silently, placing offerings of wild herbs, elderflowers, and woven charms upon the altar's stone surface. Her fingers brushed its rough edges, her emerald-green eyes dimming with bittersweet reverence.
Veylan watched quietly, his expression unreadable, but respect burning in his amber-green eyes. He'd seen altars like this in forgotten ruins... trampled and defiled by monsters and men alike. This one... would be different.
Without a word, Veylan stepped forward, his hand resting on the moss-covered stone, feeling the faint pulse of forgotten magic still woven into its ancient runes. He closed his eyes briefly, letting its presence settle, then knelt on one knee, head bowed.
He spoke in Elder Speech, his voice low and reverent.
…
"By earth, sky, and root... hear this offering," he intoned, words steady, though tinged with resolve. "Grant safe passage through this season of change... shield those under our care... from darkness... and from those who hunt."
…
He rose slowly, his scarred hand tracing one of the ancient runes, now worn and cracked. His fingers tightened, something stirring deep within his blood—an ancient connection twisted into monstrous instinct... but here... it could be different.
Roots trembled faintly beneath the earth, shifting and curling at his command.
Veylan extended his hand, veins darkening faintly, Leshen-like tendrils twisting beneath his scarred skin. Twisting roots writhed and uncoiled, pulling back like obedient branches, freeing the altar from its grasping overgrowth. Moss fell away, leaving the smooth stone gleaming faintly, its ancient etchings glowing softly in response.
With flint and steel, Veylan lit the ritual fire, its embers catching quickly, dancing wildly in the cool night air. Its flickering warmth cast wavering shadows across the cleared altar, breathing life back into the ancient place.
Erynn tied the protective charms, binding woven threads of silver and green to the low-hanging branches, her fingers moving gracefully, murmuring quiet invocations in Elder Speech.
Veylan stepped beside her, quietly tying the last ribbon, his amber gaze steady as he whispered his own protective blessing:
"Let no shadow pass...
Let no dark force claim them...
By my blade... by my blood...
Let them be protected."
His fingers lingered on the last ribbon, naming silently:
Anna. Tamara. Geralt. The Baron. Graden.
And finally... Erynn.
Before leaving the altar, Veylan paused, thoughtful and still. He drew his dagger, its worn edge gleaming faintly in the firelight.
With deliberate precision, he carved a small, simple symbol into the trunk of the ancient oak near the altar's edge, the Elven rune for 'Hope.'
Erynn watched silently, her eyes shimmering with understanding. She did not speak—she knew what words could not express.
Veylan placed both hands on the cleared altar, bowing his head one last time.
He whispered in Elder Speech, his voice steady but laced with quiet intensity.
"By earth, sky, and root... let no evil pass this place... let no cursed power take root.
Grant those who walk the old paths... safe passage... and peace."
His voice sharpened, final words falling like steel.
"And let those who hunt us... find only ruin."
The fire crackled softly, smoke curling skyward, carrying his words into the ancient, silent night.
They stood together, side by side, watching the flames, their hands brushing gently, bound by shared purpose... and a lingering hope that refused to fade.
The fire crackled softly, its embers glowing like scattered stars beneath the ancient oak. Veylan and Erynn stood still, their fingers lightly intertwined, grounding each other in the quiet stillness of the grove. The carved rune for 'Hope' gleamed faintly on the altar's edge, as though accepting their shared plea.
The night wind whispered through the branches overhead, weaving soft, ancient songs through the grove's forgotten runes. Veylan's gaze lingered on the altar, his amber-green eyes still touched by reverence despite the weight pressing down on his scarred shoulders.
"...Do you think they heard us?" Erynn's voice was soft, uncertain.
"Maybe," Veylan replied quietly, his fingers brushing hers. "Even if they didn't... we did."
Their moment of stillness ended as instinct stirred in Veylan's chest, his medallion trembling faintly. His gaze snapped toward the darkened treeline, scanning the shadows beyond the grove's edge.
They were being watched.
Far beyond the clearing, hidden among twisted roots and low-lying foliage, Caelir of the Scoia'tael knelt silently, his piercing gaze locked on the Chimera-Witcher still standing at the altar. His sharp, calculating mind burned with unease as he watched Veylan lower his hands, the altar's runes still faintly glowing, free of moss and overgrowth.
He had seen enough.
The earth itself moved when the Witcher spoke in Elder Speech, roots twisting like obedient servants, restoring what time and neglect had devoured.
Like a... Leshen.
Vealas, crouched low beside him, "It's just as I said."Bottom of Form
"He commanded the earth... like one of them."
Caelir's face darkened, his jaw tightening. "We've heard the stories... but seeing it..." He trailed off, silent calculation flashing behind his sharp elven features.
He motioned silently for his scouts to retreat, though his mind churned with restless thoughts.
The Witcher's presence unsettled him, not because of his power, but because of his reverence... his understanding of Aen Seidhe rites. He had not mocked their traditions... he had restored them.
And now, the Church of the Eternal Fire had allied itself with this... Chimera.
"Graden..." Caelir whispered darkly, eyes narrowing. He had heard whispers of the moderate Witch-Hunter, a man of reason among fanatics... dangerous in his restraint, unlike those who burned without cause.
His contacts reported that Graden's men had ridden south, while he rode north, likely toward Oxenfurt... but what concerned him most was what these students carried.
A sealed Elven message.
Sent... on behalf of the Chimera.
Caelir's mind burned, already turning gears, considering what he had seen... and what it meant.
The Aen Seidhe remnants might be scattered... but their legacy remained. If Graden's men sought Elven aid in secret... something far greater was unfolding beneath the surface.
He would learn more.
No matter the cost.
…
Caelir moved swiftly through the dense forest, his senses alert to every rustle and whisper of the night. The encounter with the Chimera had left him unsettled, but he knew better than to linger. The creature had not pursued them, a small mercy in these perilous times. As he approached the hidden encampment, the familiar scents of pine and damp earth mingled with the faint aroma of the evening's meal. His scouts acknowledged him with silent nods, their eyes reflecting the same unspoken concerns that weighed on his mind.
Entering his tent, Caelir removed his cloak, the fabric still carrying the chill of the forest. Maps and correspondence lay strewn across a makeshift table, evidence of their ongoing struggle to piece together the fragments of a rapidly evolving situation. He had sent riders to their few remaining contacts over a week ago, yet no word had returned. The silence from their queen and her advisors was particularly disconcerting.
As if summoned by his thoughts, the air within the tent shimmered, and a luminous figure materialized before him. Queen Francesca Findabair, Enid an Gleanna, stood with an ethereal grace, her expression grave. "Caelir," she began, her voice resonating with a blend of authority and deep concern, "I have uncovered truths that cast our predicament in an even darker light."
Caelir straightened, his attention fully captured. "Your Majesty, we have been awaiting your guidance. What have you discovered?"
Francesca's gaze bore into his, the weight of centuries reflected in her eyes. "The conspiracy we face is not a recent machination but one that stretches back through the annals of history, perhaps even predating our earliest records. Those who orchestrated these events remain active, their influence seeping into the very fabric of our world."
She paused, allowing the gravity of her words to settle. "In the chaos that ensued when the prison fell, much was lost. However, through the remnants of ancient records, we have discerned a most alarming revelation."
Caelir's breath caught, a sense of foreboding tightening around his chest. "What is it, my Queen?"
"They have succeeded in activating the blood of Lara Dorren," she said, her voice tinged with both awe and dread. "Not within a female descendant, as legends have long foretold, but within a male. This male is known to you, Veylan."
The name struck Caelir like a physical blow. Memories of the Chimera, of the power he had witnessed, surged to the forefront of his mind. "Veylan... the Chimera," he murmured, the pieces of a vast and intricate puzzle beginning to align.
Francesca nodded solemnly. "His existence is both a beacon and a threat. The ancient bloodline, awakened in him, holds the potential to reshape our world—or to destroy it. We must tread carefully, for the forces at play are beyond anything we have encountered."
Caelir felt the weight of responsibility settle heavily upon him. "What would you have us do, Your Majesty?"
"For now, observe and protect," she instructed. "Gather information, but do not engage unless absolutely necessary. We must understand Veylan's role in this unfolding saga before we can determine our course."
The projection began to fade, Francesca's form becoming increasingly translucent. "Remember, Caelir, the past and present are intertwined more than ever. Our actions in the coming days will echo through the ages. Stay vigilant, and may the Elder Blood guide you."
With that, she was gone, leaving Caelir alone in the dim light of the tent, the enormity of their situation pressing down upon him.
The flickering light of the enchanted projection cast eerie shadows across the confines of Caelir's tent, illuminating the worn maps and scattered reports covering the makeshift war table. His mind reeled from Queen Francesca's revelation about Veylan, the Chimera-Witcher, and the dark truth of Lara Dorren's bloodline awakened within him—a possibility no one had foreseen.
As the projection stabilized once more, Francesca's expression grew thoughtful, her brows knitting in measured contemplation. She shifted her focus, her piercing silver eyes glinting with ancient wisdom and deep concern. "There is... another factor to consider."
Caelir straightened, his fingers tightening around the edge of the table. "You mean... Erynn."
Francesca nodded slowly. "The Kitsune... a rarity on this continent, even among the oldest elven records. By all accounts, a pureblood, untouched by human lineage." Her gaze darkened. "And she chooses to walk beside him... share his bed... a bond forged willingly."
Caelir's lips pressed into a thin line. "We assumed she was simply... infatuated."
Francesca's expression sharpened. "Assumptions will cost us." She reached into the magical field of the projection, summoning ancient records, their faded script emerging in shimmering runes etched in Elder Speech. Her voice steadied, taking on the measured tone of a historian recounting forbidden truths.
…
"Extract from Project Chimera Records: Observation Phase V
Subject Designation: 'Veylan'
Status: Viable Hybrid - Exceptional Survivor
Biological Stability: Achieved beyond expectations. Mutation fusion successful with genetic reinforcement from unknown Elder source.
Reproductive Viability: Inconclusive.
Human-Alchemist Theorization: "...Subject appears to exhibit compatibility markers with other humanoid species. Reproductive compatibility is probable at a 50% success rate under specific genetic conditions... though the result of such an offspring remains... unknown."
…
The projection flickered before stabilizing, its glowing runes shifting, burned into Caelir's mind like forbidden prophecy.
Francesca's voice dropped, quiet but forceful. "If they are sharing their lives... and she is pureblooded..."
Caelir's breath hitched, his steel-blue eyes widening with dawning realization. "If she bears his child... a living Chimera... carrying both of their legacies..."
"A being never meant to exist," Francesca finished grimly. "Born of ancient power... bound by Elder Blood and something far darker."
For a moment, silence reigned, heavy with unspoken fear and implications too vast to fully comprehend.
Caelir shook his head slowly, his mind racing. "We have to act. If they—"
"No," Francesca interrupted, her voice sharp and unyielding. "We watch. We observe."
"But-"
"If we move now, we risk turning them into something worse," she warned. "Unleashing what we cannot control."
Her silver gaze hardened, gleaming with the weight of centuries. "But if that day comes... if fate forces our hand..."
Caelir stiffened, his hand resting on his blade hilt, ready though unwilling.
"We will do what must be done."
The projection flickered, leaving him alone once more, trapped in the suffocating darkness of the coming storm.
The cold wind bit sharply through the narrow backstreets of Oxenfurt, the distant chiming of bells marking the late hour. Graden, cloaked in black, moved swiftly through the silent alleys, his expression grim but resolute. Trust was rare—and even tonight's meeting might prove fatal if they'd been followed.
He slipped through an unmarked cellar door, descending into a dimly lit basement reinforced with stone walls and heavy iron beams. Inside, Dijkstra stood near a weathered table, Vernon Roche by his side, Ves positioned near the entrance, her crossbow half-raised, ready at a moment's notice.
They weren't alone. High-ranking agents from Radovid's court, disillusioned nobles, and even a few former Temerian officers lingered in the shadows, their expressions tense but focused.
"You're late," Dijkstra growled, his sharp eyes gleaming beneath his broad brow. "Care to explain?"
Graden shrugged stiffly. "Needed to be sure. I don't take chances."
"Neither do we," Ves added coldly, her grip tightening on her weapon.
Graden's sharp gaze swept across the assembled faces, calculating, measuring. "We're wasting time. You're here because you've seen what's happening... or at least suspect it."
Silence settled, thick with expectation.
"We're here," Roche said quietly, arms crossed, "*because you've never called a meeting like this before... and that alone is damn of Form
Graden nodded slowly, removing his cloak, revealing scars carved deep from long-forgotten battles. His expression darkened as he placed sealed documents on the weathered table, the wax broken but the contents intact.
"What I'm about to say... stays here. You breathe a word of this outside these walls... and we're all dead."
Every gaze fixed on him as he began.
"There's a Witcher in Velen..." His voice steady but weighted with unease. "But he's not just a Witcher."
He spread several documents, maps marked with key locations, old magical symbols, and ancient sigils.
"His name... is Veylan. He's alive... and he's a living weapon."
Roche's raised an eyebrow. "What kind of weapon?"
Graden's voice hardened. "A Chimera."
The room stilled, tension thickening.
Graden spoke steadily, listing every monstrous bloodline twisted into Veylan's veins:
"Leshen... Kikimora... Rock Troll... Drowner... Higher Vampire... Marr... Foglet... Changeling... Basilisk... Royal Wyvern... Gryphon..."
He paused, his voice dipping into something colder.
"They made him, stitched monsters into his blood. He's everything they could create—everything they feared."
Dijkstra's face twisted, though shock barely touched his hardened features.
"This... is madness," he growled. "Why would anyone..."
Graden's sharp gaze fixed on him. "*To create the perfect *hunter."
He slammed another document onto the table, worn and stained from use.
"Two of the alchemists responsible..." his voice sharpened, steel-edged. "...are working for Radovid. Olthar Valrik and Thaelith Rorn. We've confirmed their names. They've embedded themselves into his alchemical division."
Roche's fists clenched, anger flashing across his scarred face.
"How long... how deep...?"
Graden's face darkened. "Long enough... and deep enough that if he finds out about Veylan, he'll send armies... or worse."
The room fell silent, horror settling over the assembled faces.
"Gods..." Ves whispered, her grip tightening on her crossbow. "That's... not a Witcher... that's a weapon."
Graden nodded slowly. "Which is why... we cannot fail."
The room remained still, frozen with grim understanding.
They were already out of time.
Graden's expression darkened, his jaw tightening as he spread several worn manifests across the weathered oak table. His steel-gray eyes burned with restrained anger as he pushed the documents forward, forcing the gathered operatives to see the truth.
"Within the next day... Veylan and his companion Erynn will meet me near the outskirts of Oxenfurt." His voice steadied, sharp and commanding. "I've sent trusted scouts ahead to secure the meeting point... but we don't have much time."
Roche's scarred fingers traced the manifest seals, Temerian ink smudged and hastily marked. "What is this?" he demanded. "Smuggling routes? Monster contracts?"
Graden exhaled slowly, his expression twisted with barely-contained rage. "Worse."
He gestured sharply toward the stack of manifests, his tone dropping into something colder... deadlier.
"Olthar Valrik and Thaelith Rorn... They've been moving blood samples."
Ves paled, her knuckles whitening on her crossbow.
"Samples... from what?"
Graden's voice hardened. "From mages..." He paused, anger flashing beneath his calm exterior. "...taken by the Church of the Eternal Fire. Every burned heretic, every disappeared spellcaster—they've been draining them before execution."
His eyes burned as he dropped another manifest, marked with the insignia of Radovid's court.
"But it doesn't stop there. They've been contracting monster hunters, paying double for monster remains, glands, and venom sacs. Every beast killed in Redania's heartland... they get first claim."
Dijkstra's face twisted, his thick brows furrowing. "What in all the hells are they building...?"
Graden's tone dropped, voice cold and sharp like tempered steel. "Another Chimera... or worse."
Roche swore quietly, slamming his fist on the table. "Gods... they're... starting again."
Graden nodded grimly, forcing himself to continue.
"It gets worse." His expression darkened, steel-gray eyes flashing with barely-contained rage.
He lifted the final manifest, its red wax seal broken, signed orders scrawled hastily in coded script.
"They've been moving boys..."
Ves stiffened, her face going pale. "...What?"
Graden's voice trembled, barely controlled.
"Boys..." he repeated coldly. "Orphans, marked as 'state wards.' Disappearing from camps and outposts... shipped south."
The room fell deadly silent, the weight of horrified realization crashing down like iron chains.
Roche slowly lowered his head, fists clenched. "They're... taking them... for the trials."
Graden nodded slowly, his tone hollow but deathly serious.
"They're trying again... to restart the project." His voice grew colder, edged with quiet fury. "...And this time... with Radovid's resources."
Dijkstra slammed his palm on the table, glaring fiercely. "How long... how deep does this go?!"
Graden's gaze fixed hard on him. "Long enough... and deep enough that if he finds out about Veylan, he'll send armies."
…
The dense forests of Dol Blathanna loomed like a fortress of shadows, ancient oaks and ash trees rising like silent sentinels, their gnarled branches entwining, casting uneasy twilight even at high noon. Graden's students, Liora and Cyran, rode hard, their horses' hooves thundering across the worn forest paths, breathing heavily from days of relentless travel.
Their armor bore the unmistakable marks of the Church of the Eternal Fire, a symbol that invited hostility in Aen Seidhe lands. Tensions ran high, their hands never straying far from swords and crossbows as wary eyes tracked them from the darkened treeline.
Liora adjusted her reins, scanning the shifting shadows with grim caution. "We're close," she hissed, her voice tense. "They'll know we're here."
Cyran nodded, his steel-gray gaze hardened. "Let them. We're not here to fight... we're here to seek aid."
They emerged into a small clearing, ancient stone pillars carved with Elder Speech runes marking its borders. Mist curled faintly around moss-covered boulders, the air crackling with old magic.
Movement flashed.
In an instant, Aen Seidhe archers emerged from the shadows, bows drawn, their arrows glinting like silver-edged death in the dim light.
"Humans." The word was spat with disdain, cold and sharp. Elven warriors clad in weathered leather armor stepped forward, deadly grace in every measured movement.
Liora and Cyran dismounted slowly, palms raised in caution.
"We come in peace..." Cyran began carefully, his voice steady.
The lead archer sneered, sharp features twisted with contempt.
"There is no peace here, Witch-Hunters." His bow strained, ready to loose. "You've hunted our kind... burned our homes. You think we'll parley now?"
Tension crackled, violence poised like a drawn blade.
Before anyone could act, Cyran stepped forward, his voice cutting sharply in perfect Elder Speech:
"Faen'aleth!"
The air stilled.
The archers faltered, confusion flickering across their hardened faces.
Cyran reached slowly into his satchel, producing a sealed parchment etched with runes. He held it high, letting the Elder Speech glyphs glimmer faintly in the twilight.
"By the word of Erynn..." he continued, voice calm. "She sent us. This is her hand. We are not your enemies."
The lead archer stiffened, his brows furrowing as suspicion warred with recognition.
An older elven woman, clad in ceremonial robes, emerged from the forest's edge, her worn staff etched with ancient wards. Her piercing green eyes burned with quiet authority.
She raised a hand, halting the tense standoff.
"...Let me see it."
Cyran stepped forward cautiously, offering the sealed parchment with both hands. She studied the letter carefully, eyes scanning every curve of the ancient script. Her expression hardened, though her gaze softened faintly at the familiar flowing hand of Erynn's Elder Speech.
"...She still remembers us," the elder whispered.
Liora exhaled slowly, lowering her hand from her sword hilt.
The elven woman's voice sharpened as she addressed the assembled warriors.
"Lower your bows."
Reluctantly, the archers obeyed, though wariness remained etched in every motion.
Cyran's voice steadied.
"We've come with grave news." He straightened, steel-gray eyes meeting the elder's sharp gaze. "Radovid is... moving. He's gathering blood samples from mages taken by the Church of the Eternal Fire... and monster parts from hunters across the land."
The elders exchanged grim looks, their faces darkening.
"He's starting again," Liora added quietly, her expression tight. "...And we know two alchemists already working in his court: Olthar Valrik and Thaelith Rorn. Three others are still at large."
Cyran's voice dropped.
"They're transporting orphans, labeled as wards of the state... disappearing further into his territories. We... believe they intend to restart the project."
The elder's breath hitched, shock flashing across her hardened features.
"You... know of the project?"
Cyran nodded slowly.
"We know enough... And we need your help. There's an old prison farther south, hidden deep beyond Nilfgaard's borders. Erynn said... you might know its name."
The elven elder's face darkened, her gaze fixed on the glowing parchment.
"...We do."
…
The ancient prison loomed in grim silence, half-consumed by time and ruin, its crumbling walls scarred by explosions and deep fissures, as though some great force had ripped through the fortress from the inside out. The iron-barred windows were twisted and broken, clawed edges still marked with rusted stains that spoke of forgotten struggles.
Stone towers jutted into the gray sky, their weathered battlements crumbling, blackened from ancient fires. Weeds and twisted roots clawed through cracks in the walls, as though nature itself sought to reclaim the cursed place.
The elder's steps slowed, her sharp, emerald-green eyes darkening with memory. This place... she thought, her heart tightening with dread and bitter remembrance.
She could still hear it, that night when shrieks and monstrous howls had torn through the trees, accompanied by the agonized screams of men and beasts alike. The earth itself had trembled, splintered trees falling like broken spears as dark magic surged through the forest's heart.
And then... he emerged.
A ragged, bleeding boy, half-starved but alive, his fierce amber-green eyes burning with raw, desperate purpose. Veylan. He had escaped this place, the only one to survive the nightmare they had unleashed.
They pushed forward into the broken courtyard, where blackened stone lay scattered like shattered bones. Heavy metal doors, twisted off their hinges, lay half-buried in the dirt.
The elders exchanged uneasy glances, their fingers tightening on their weapons.
"This... feels wrong," one of the scouts muttered, glancing warily at the looming ruins. "Like... we shouldn't be here."
"We shouldn't," the elder admitted, her voice sharp. "But we must."
They approached cautiously, the earth cracking beneath their boots as they crossed the threshold. The air was cold, damp, and charged with the lingering scent of ancient alchemical fumes that stung the nose even after so many years.
The central chamber yawned wide and broken, its walls blackened by long-dead fires. Charred remains of alchemical machinery lay scattered, shattered into twisted, rusting heaps.
They found the door first.
It had been ripped clean from its iron hinges, deep claw marks gouged into its battered surface. Bricks and stone near the threshold lay cracked and broken, blasted outward from some unimaginable force.
The elder knelt slowly, her fingers brushing dirt away from the wall-mounted plaque, half-obscured by moss and grime.
Her breath caught as faint, etched letters emerged through the layer of filth.
"Veylan... Subject #5."
The room fell deathly silent.
"This... was his cell," she whispered, her voice tight with unspoken emotion.
The scouts shared uneasy glances, the implications twisting like a cold dagger in their minds.
"What... happened here?" one finally asked.
They pressed onward, deeper into the ruined wing, moving through the scattered debris and twisted wreckage toward the other cells.
The air grew colder, stale with the stench of death still lingering despite time's passing.
The first cell was partially collapsed, its door still hanging crooked from its battered hinges.
Inside lay bones twisted and malformed. Insectoid limbs jutted from the human skeleton, ending in razor-sharp claws. A segment-like tail, jagged and broken, coiled near the cracked skull, a horrific mockery of a Kikimora hybrid... something that should never have been.
One of the scouts turned away, retching, unable to stomach the grotesque sight.
The second cell held something equally unnatural.
A skeletal frame, broad-chested with elongated limbs, jutted forward, its twisted spine arched, its ribcage misshapen. Its skull was draconic, with beast-like jaws still frozen in a silent, eternal scream.
"Gods..." the elder whispered, horror twisting through her.
The third cell contained rotted branches woven through a monstrous skeleton, roots piercing through bone and earth. Jagged antlers jutted from the skull, a Leshen mockery, as though the forest itself had reclaimed its foul creation.
But the last cell...
The elders froze as they stared.
There were no bones left, only a melted mass, fused to the stone floor, its twisted remains charred and warped, half-sunk into the cracked stone.
It had... melted.
The air turned deathly still, silent but for the faint rustling of cold wind through the broken walls.
"This place..." the elder realized, her breath trembling.
"This place... was hell. And Veylan... survived it."
It was shortly after that they found the journals…
…Bottom of Form
Subject #1 - "Insectoid Hybrid"
Designation: Kikimora-Enhanced Humanoid
Status: Terminated During Experimentation
Day 1: Subject accepted Kikimora venom infusion. Initial results promising. Reflexes improved.
Day 7: Carapace growth observed along spine and forearms. Aggression levels increasing.
Day 15: Subject displays insect-like climbing ability. Legs partially segmented.
Day 21: Fangs replaced by venom-injecting mandibles. Subject unstable.
Day 28: Uncontrolled aggression. Isolation protocols engaged.
Day 35: Developed prehensile tail with venom stinger.
Day 40: First escape attempt; subject killed two guards.
Day 45: Vision now fully nocturnal; subjects' pupils have become multi-faceted.
Day 50: Subject displays hive-like behavior, creating tunnels in cell walls.
Day 57: Wings emerging, underdeveloped but functional.
Day 62: Subject displays territorial instincts, guarding perceived "nest."
Day 67: Aggression peaks. Emergency containment protocols enacted.
Day 71: Mutation unstable; biological structure collapsing.
Day 75: Subject's carapace began to disintegrate.
Final Entry: Subject terminated after total biological breakdown.
…
Subject #2 - "Draconic Hybrid"
Designation: Wyvern-Infused Humanoid
Status: Terminated During Combat Trial
Day 1: Successful wyvern venom and marrow infusion. Strength increased.
Day 6: Bone density significantly reinforced; ribs extending outward.
Day 12: Fingers elongated into claws, calcium deposits hardening.
Day 17: Jawline altered, suggesting carnivorous adaptation.
Day 23: Tail vertebrae extending; reptilian flexibility noted.
Day 29: Scale-like skin patches forming along torso.
Day 34: Aggressive combat response triggered by loud noises.
Day 40: Increased metabolic rates; requires more sustenance.
Day 46: Capable of leaping over three meters in controlled tests.
Day 51: Developed limited fire-resistant properties.
Day 58: Rapid muscle growth. Subject strength measured at twice normal human capacity.
Day 63: Neural instability detected. Memory degradation likely.
Day 68: Wing-like bone growth emerging from shoulders; no functional flight.
Day 75: Neural collapse. Subject attempted facility breach.
Final Entry: Subject killed after prolonged combat with security forces.
…
Subject #3 - "Forest Horror"
Designation: Leshen-Bound Humanoid
Status: Failed Binding, Subject Absorbed by Forest
Day 1: Initial infusion with Leshen bark essence accepted.
Day 5: Root-like structures extending from spine.
Day 10: Vascular system now interconnected with injected plant cells.
Day 14: Subject displays limited plant manipulation (roots and vines).
Day 20: Skin begins hardening into bark-like armor.
Day 27: Photosynthesis-like energy intake confirmed.
Day 33: Antler-like bone structures forming on skull.
Day 39: Subject developing deep territorial awareness.
Day 45: Appears dormant unless provoked.
Day 50: Speech replaced by guttural howling.
Day 58: Displays complete hostility toward humans.
Day 62: Breached containment. Killed four guards.
Day 70: Full Leshen transformation suspected.
Day 74: Subject merged with forest after failed termination attempt.
Final Entry: Subject presumed dead but sightings persist in nearby woods.
…
Subject #4 - "Meltdown"
Designation: Experimental Fusion - Multiple Monster DNA
Status: Biological Failure
Day 1: Extreme cross-species hybridization initiated.
Day 4: Severe cellular rejection detected.
Day 7: Rapid mutation; structural destabilization.
Day 10: Organic matter breaking down despite regenerative infusions.
Day 13: Skin turned gelatinous, losing structural cohesion.
Day 16: Limbs elongating beyond usable lengths.
Day 20: Subject's motor functions severely impaired.
Day 25: Host no longer recognizable as humanoid.
Day 30: Viscera pooling; bones reduced to organic slurry.
Day 35: Necrosis halted temporarily through electric stimulation.
Day 39: Tissue incapable of maintaining form.
Day 42: Full system collapse.
Day 45: Emergency termination initiated.
Day 47: Facility staff forbidden from further experimentation.
Final Entry: Entire cell sealed and marked off-limits.
End of Recovered Journal Entries
…
The scouts carefully sorted through the dust-covered journals, their expressions darkening as they read aloud the horrifying entries. The illustrations within each journal—detailed anatomical sketches of the subjects during various mutation phases—painted a picture worse than any nightmare.
These were not just notes.
They were records of atrocity.
One of Graden's students, her hands trembling, stared silently at a faded sketch of Subject #1, showing its insectoid claws extending, mandibles forming, and venom sacs pulsing under its carapace-like skin.
Another scout turned the page, revealing Subject #2's evolving skeleton, its draconic spine twisting, bone ridges forming, claws lengthening, and feral gaze staring back from the page's yellowed parchment.
The last entry, a grotesque depiction of Subject #4, its melted form twisted into something indescribable, made them wince involuntarily.
"This... isn't alchemy..." one whispered, voice shaking.
"It's... madness."
They had found Veylan's past.
And it was worse than they could have ever imagined.