The Witcher: Chimera
Chapter 5: The End of Radovid
…
The wind howled through the craggy hills north of Oxenfurt as Graden, Vernon Roche, Ves, and Dijkstra gathered near the old watchtower ruins, the chosen meeting point deep in the forests away from Radovid's patrols. Moss-covered stones loomed like ancient guardians, their weathered faces scarred by time and battle.
Graden adjusted his heavy cloak, his steel-gray eyes flicking toward the shadowed woods beyond the clearing. His students, Alden and Liora, watched the perimeter, blades ready, ever vigilant. The air felt tense, charged, as if the forest itself held its breath.
"We're exposed here," Dijkstra muttered, broad shoulders tense, his expression grim. "Hope your 'Chimera-Witcher' shows up fast... this isn't exactly a friendly neighborhood."
"He'll come," Graden replied coolly, though uncertainty lingered at the edge of his voice.
Moments later, the soft crunch of hooves echoed faintly as Veylan and Erynn rode into the clearing. Nimrael and Ashbloom, their loyal mounts, snorted softly, mist curling from their nostrils in the cool night air. Erynn's fiery red hair gleamed faintly in the waning moonlight, her expression calm but guarded, silver-tipped staff resting across her back.
Veylan dismounted, his scarred hand steady on Nimrael's reins, his amber-green gaze sweeping the assembled group with practiced caution.
"You're late," Roche remarked, arms crossed, his weathered face unreadable.
"We were followed," Veylan replied coldly, scanning the treeline. "We lost them... for now."
Graden wasted no time.
"We have bigger problems." His tone sharpened, cutting through the tension. "Radovid's moving. He's already... experimenting again."
He unfurled several maps across the old stone table, his fingers tracing key locations marked in red ink.
"These are manifests we intercepted." His expression darkened, steel-gray eyes gleaming with suppressed rage. "Monster remains... blood samples from mages taken by the Church of the Eternal Fire. All of it... disappearing south."
Ves's sharp voice cut in.
"We know where they're operating... don't we?"
Graden spread another map, his finger landing on an old, forgotten military outpost just north of Oxenfurt, buried deep in the forests, marked as abandoned on Redanian records.
"They've... converted it." His voice dropped, cold as steel. "Built something... underneath it. A network. It connects directly to Oxenfurt's underground tunnels."
Veylan stepped closer, amber-green eyes narrowing.
"How many... are inside?"
"We don't know... yet." Graden admitted. "But we know one thing..."
He lifted a second manifest, marked with Radovid's official seal.
"They're... transporting boys." His voice trembled slightly, though anger burned hotter.
"Orphans. Marked as wards of the state... disappearing from military camps and supply routes. We... think they're holding them there."
Veylan's breathing sharpened, claws twitching faintly under his scarred fingers.
Erynn placed a steadying hand on his arm, though her own expression remained hardened.
"We're... ending this," Veylan growled, his voice low and dangerous. "For good."
Graden nodded sharply.
"My students are ready. They've rallied loyal scouts and informants from within the Church... those still loyal to Redania's true cause. We'll... burn it down... from the inside."
Dijkstra's smirk twisted coldly.
"Then we'd better move fast... before Radovid realizes we're already in his shadow."
Graden's voice steadied, sharp as tempered steel.
"We leave... at first light."
…
The dense woods surrounding the abandoned watchtower were silent, save for the faint rustling of autumn leaves beneath careful boots. Veylan, Roche, and Graden's men moved swiftly but cautiously, shadows among shadows, their weapons gleaming faintly in the pale moonlight.
Ahead, three guards patrolled near the weather-beaten entrance, their Redanian armor scarred from countless battles. Veylan's amber-green eyes gleamed coldly as he raised one hand, fingers twitching subtly, and cast Axii with silent precision.
The guards staggered, their expressions softening as their eyes glazed over. One stumbled, half-muttering something, before collapsing into a dreamless sleep. The others followed without a sound.
Roche signaled sharply, and Graden's men surged forward, binding the guards' wrists and ankles with silent efficiency. Ves swiftly relieved them of their keys and weapons, tucking the rusting ring of keys into her belt.
"Out of sight," Graden ordered curtly, motioning toward the nearby underbrush. Two scouts hauled the guards into the shadows, leaving no trace of the silent takedown.
Roche glanced at Veylan with a raised eyebrow, "What's next?"
Veylan assessed the situation as he took in all the variables. He studied the cracked wooden door leading into the watchtower's inner halls, scarred by age and weather. His sharp gaze traced the splintered edges, noting small gaps where moonlight spilled through the ill-fitting planks.
"I'll check inside... quietly," he muttered, his voice low but firm. "Stay ready."
Before Roche or Graden could respond, Veylan's face twisted, his scarred fingers curling as dark veins surged beneath his skin. His eyes burned red, gleaming like smoldering embers, as his form dissolved into a twisting crimson mist.
The blood-red vapor slipped soundlessly through the door's cracks, weaving between warped planks and iron-reinforced hinges into the dimly lit interior. The air inside reeked of stale sweat and burned tallow, faint footsteps echoing from the upper levels.
Veylan drifted toward the lower corridor, where shackled boys huddled inside crude iron cages, their frightened eyes wide and hollow. Two guards lingered nearby, half-dozing, poorly armed but still alert enough to raise an alarm.
Veylan's crimson mist coiled sharply, taking shape behind them. He materialized silently, his claws gleaming faintly before vanishing back into scarred, calloused hands.
By the time Roche and Graden's men entered the watchtower's main hall, they found seven disarmed guards standing still, their expressions blank, entranced by Axii's lingering spell.
"Bind them... quickly," Veylan ordered, already moving toward the lower levels.
As the guards were dragged away, Roche narrowed his eyes at the blood-stained claw marks on the stone walls.
"What did you..."
"They're alive," Veylan interrupted coolly. "The boys... they're in cages."
He tossed the ring of keys to Ves, who caught them deftly, her jaw tightening.
"Move fast," Graden barked, his expression darkening. "We don't have much time."
The air thickened with cold dread as Veylan, Roche, Graden, and their assembled allies descended the winding stone staircase, each step echoing like a funeral bell in the crumbling depths of the watchtower's hidden catacombs.
The stench of rot and burning alchemical fluids clung to the air, mixing with the faint crackling of arcane machinery and distant, ragged breathing. The walls were scarred, etched with glyphs, sigils faintly glowing like old wounds refusing to heal.
They emerged into a dimly lit laboratory, its broken stone floor slick with dark fluids and rusted chains. Cages forged from cursed silver lined the walls, glowing faintly with binding runes.
And then... they saw them.
A ghoul-like figure, hunched and trembling, snarled from the nearest cage, its jagged teeth glinting beneath taut, gray skin, its malformed body a grotesque mockery of humanity. Its claws scraped against the cage bars, leaving deep gouges as black veins pulsed beneath its skin.
Ves recoiled, her face twisting in horror.
"Gods... what did they..."
A sudden cry erupted, desperate and ragged.
"PLEASE! I WANT TO GO HOME! MOM!"
The voice cracked from a shivering boy, half-shadowed in the back corner. His emaciated frame was pale and flickering, his eyes sunken, and his thin hands bloodied from slamming against the cage bars. His skin shimmered faintly, half-corporeal, like a wraith caught between life and death.
He bashed his small fists against the silver cage, sobbing uncontrollably.
Before anyone could move, a Redanian guard stomped forward, kicking the cage hard, sending the boy sprawling.
"Shut up!" the guard snarled. "Keep screeching, and you'll get worse!"
Veylan's claws twitched, fury sparking in his burning eyes.
Before he could act, a savage roar erupted from a cage further down the row.
"FUCK OFF!" a gravel-rough voice bellowed, deep and vicious. "WHEN I GET OUT OF HERE..."
The cage shuddered violently, its bars groaning beneath the monstrous strength of a hulking boy, his features warped by twisting, gnarled horns, razor-sharp claws, and a third eye burning crimson in the center of his forehead. Half-human... half-fiend.
"I'LL MAUL YOU TO PIECES!" he snarled, gnashing his fangs, slamming his body into the enchanted bars, sending sparks crackling along the binding runes.
Next to him, another cage trembled, revealing a half-drowner, half-nekker hybrid, his webbed hands clenched into fists, his feral blue-green eyes blazing with murderous rage. Patches of scales gleamed faintly along his muscular arms, his mouth filled with needle-like teeth.
The last cage held a small, winged boy, his hollowed face twisted into a silent snarl. Feathered wings partially unfurled, battered and crusted with blood, one broken beyond use. His golden eyes burned with defiant hatred, his talon-like fingers trembling from exhaustion.
Roche stiffened, his face pale, struggling to process what he was seeing.
"...This can't be..." he whispered, voice strained.
Ves gritted her teeth, her crossbow raised, aiming at the guard still cursing at the shrieking wraith-boy.
"Say one more word..." she hissed, fury trembling in her voice as the guard stopped dead in his tracks.
Graden stepped forward, his expression cold, his steel-gray eyes burning with unrelenting resolve.
"Unlock the cages... now!" he ordered.
Veylan's claws flexed, his amber-green eyes blazing dangerously.
"And leave one guard alive," he growled lowly, voice cold as death.
"We need answers."
The grinding sound of rusted locks shattered the silence, echoing across the damp stone walls of the cursed laboratory. Veylan's scarred hands twisted the last iron key, forcing the ancient lock to yield with a sharp click. The door groaned open, revealing the ghoul-like boy, hunched and trembling, his razor-clawed hands twitching with nervous instinct.
The boy stumbled forward, his spines lowering defensively as he crawled on all fours, feral eyes wide with confused terror. He couldn't speak, his lips trembling soundlessly, but his thin fingers clawed at Veylan's coat, clutching tightly, desperate for contact... for safety.
"It's all right," Veylan said quietly, his voice steady despite the anger burning beneath his calm facade. He gently lifted the boy, holding him firmly yet gently.
Roche and Graden's men worked swiftly, unlocking the remaining cages, pulling weakened children free with care and urgency.
Erynn knelt beside the Griffon boy, her delicate fingers tracing his shattered wing, her magic weaving softly as runic light pulsed faintly from her hands.
"This will hurt... but only for a moment," she whispered softly, wrapping the wing carefully with binding herbs and enchanted cloth.
The griffon boy hissed, tears glistening in his golden eyes, but he didn't resist. He simply... watched her with wary hope.
The half-drowner boy staggered free, breathing ragged, his webbed hands clenched into fists. He fixed his feral gaze on one of the unconscious guards, growling lowly.
"I told you..." he rasped hoarsely, teeth bared. "I'm... going to kill you."
"You'll get your chance," Veylan said honestly, tightening the last knot around the bound guard shoved into the iron chair.
The wraith-like boy hovered near Erynn, thin arms trembling as he clutched his burned hands to his chest. His hollowed face twisted, tears streaking his ashen cheeks.
"I... I want to go home..." he whispered brokenly.
Erynn gently touched his shoulder. "You're safe now... I promise."
With the boys secured, Roche's scouts fanned out, searching the catacombs, blocking entrances and cutting escape routes.
Veylan turned sharply, his amber-green eyes burning with barely-contained rage. He grabbed the guard by the collar and slammed him into the chair, binding his arms and legs with thick iron shackles.
"You're going to talk," Graden hissed, his steel-gray eyes cold and unrelenting.
"You're dead," Roche added darkly. "But how fast... depends entirely on how helpful you are."
Veylan leaned in, his face twisting, fangs glinting faintly as his claws flexed dangerously.
"You don't want me angry," he growled, "So for your sake, try to be honest."
Before the guard could stammer a response, shouts echoed from the tunnels beyond the sealed chamber.
The sound of struggle intensified, followed by the heavy drag of boots against stone.
Steel clashed, chains rattled, and curses rang out, punctuated by muffled cries of defiant rage.
Two scouts emerged, dragging a struggling figure bound in heavy iron shackles, his fur-lined cloak smeared with dirt and blood. His face twisted, purple with fury, crowned head exposed, though his circlet lay forgotten, cast into the dirt like a discarded relic.
Radovid V, King of Redania, shoved forward by unyielding hands, staggered into the room, rage twisting his features into something grotesque.
"HOW DARE YOU?!" he roared, spittle flying, bloodshot eyes blazing with mad defiance.
"I'M THE KING! THIS IS MY KINGDOM!"
…
The room fell silent, the air thick with tension as Radovid staggered against his bindings, his wild eyes blazing with defiance and unfettered madness. Blood dripped from his split lip, but he grinned through the pain, his teeth bared like a cornered beast.
"You were supposed to be a king!" Roach roared, stepping forward, his scarred face twisted with unrestrained fury. His fists clenched, knuckles white, shaking with anger long suppressed.
"My king..." he hissed, his voice trembling with betrayal.
"Our king!" Graden's voice cracked as he slammed both fists against the table, sending rusted tools scattering across the stone floor. His steel-gray eyes burned with raw hatred as he gestured sharply toward the boys being led away, half-broken, barely alive.
"And instead..." Graden's voice rose, shaking with rage. "...You did this!"
Radovid sneered, his blood-stained lips curling into a vicious smirk as he watched the boys disappear into the dimly lit tunnels.
"They didn't deserve this... none of them did!" Veylan snapped, his claws flexing, fangs flashing faintly under the flickering torchlight. His amber-green eyes now blood red and predatory burned, fixed on Radovid like a wolf ready to strike.
"They didn't deserve... what happened to me."
Radovid's eyes narrowed, realization striking. His expression twisted with recognition... and disgust.
"You..." he hissed through clenched teeth. "You're that freak... the one... the alchemists whispered about."
He laughed sharply, spitting blood onto the cold stone.
"How does it feel," he sneered, his voice dripping with venom, "knowing you'll never find peace? Knowing that chaos follows you wherever you go... like the stain you are!"
He spat viciously, his aim striking Ves's boots.
"You think you're heroes? You think you're better than me?" His voice rose, mocking and cruel. "All of you... every last one... is nothing compared to me."
He thrashed in his bindings, defiant even as blood dripped from his temple.
"You helped me!" he roared at Graden, face twisting with twisted delight.
"Your precious Order... your men... they rounded up mages! They gathered blood... all in secret, all for me!" His laughter echoed coldly.
"I fed that blood to them!" He nodded toward the distant cages, where the last trembling boy was carried out by Erynn's steady hands.
"Monster parts... magical infusions... Do you know how easy it was?" His voice dropped into something cold and deadly.
"You think you could've done this? You think anyone could've made this possible?"
He grinned, madness gleaming in his eyes.
"I'm Radovid!" he hissed darkly. "I'm-"
Roach's fist connected with brutal force, cutting off Radovid's next words.
The king's head snapped back, his eyes rolling, and he collapsed into the chair, limp and silent.
The room fell still, silent save for the sharp sound of Roach's breathing, his scarred knuckles trembling, still clenched tight.
"Not anymore," Roach spat, his voice low and cold as death.
…
The early dawn light cast gray shadows over the clearing near the watchtower ruins, cold mist curling like ghostly tendrils through the weathered stone walls. The battle-worn group, now exhausted but unshaken, gathered near the smoldering remains of the cursed alchemical laboratory, where Radovid's monstrous ambitions had been laid bare.
The boys rescued from the cages rested under thick blankets, their expressions hollow but calmer thanks to Erynn's healing touch. Roche's men stood guard, ever watchful, steel ready, while Graden's scouts patrolled the perimeter, ensuring no lingering threats emerged from the forest's edges.
Veylan, Roche, and Graden waited silently, their expressions grim, knowing what came next could decide everything.
The sound of approaching hooves echoed dully through the clearing, heralding the arrival of Imperial Commander Henry Var Attre, ambassador of Nilfgaard's war council, flanked by two armored knights, their dark cloaks emblazoned with the Imperial Sun.
The Nilfgaardian procession halted sharply, their horses snorting, restless in the unfamiliar, cursed air.
Henry Var Attre dismounted gracefully, his expression calm but unreadable, his sharp, calculating eyes taking in every detail, battle-scarred soldiers, broken weapons, and wounded children.
"Baron Strenger spoke highly of you," Var Attre began, his smooth, practiced tone cutting through the cold air. "He claimed your intentions were... noble." His sharp gaze flicked toward the rescued boys, lingering with faint curiosity. "But... explanations are in order."
Veylan stepped forward, scarred hands clenched, amber-green eyes burning with barely contained fury. His posture steady yet charged, every muscle coiled with lethal restraint.
"What you see..." Veylan began slowly, his voice low, edged with cold steel, "...is the price of Radovid's ambition."
Var Attre's expression didn't waver, though curiosity darkened into something colder.
"Explain."
Graden exhaled sharply, stepping alongside Veylan. "He wasn't just waging war. He was building something, something worse."
He spread several worn manifests, marked with Imperial seals, Church symbols, and Redanian contracts. His fingers traced lines of scribbled orders, demanding boys labeled as 'state wards', blood samples, monster parts.
"He took boys..." Graden continued, his voice trembling slightly, "some orphans, some not... and turned them into, that." He gestured toward the huddled boys, shivering near the campfire, eyes hollow from horrors survived.
Var Attre's breath hitched, only slightly, but his sharp gaze hardened.
"Mutations..." he hissed coldly. "He was creating weapons."
Roche snarled, stepping forward. "Not just weapons..." His voice cracked with rage. "Monsters who are people. They were just children."
Var Attre's hands tightened behind his back, his composure cracking faintly. "How many survived?"
"Five," Erynn answered softly, her voice tinged with sorrow as she approached quietly. "The rest who went through the mutations... are gone."
Her gaze softened as she glanced toward Veylan, understanding without words.
Var Attre turned slowly, studying Veylan, sharp recognition dawning.
"You're... one of them," he realized coldly.
Veylan's eyes flashed dangerously, his jaw tightening.
"I'm... the only one that lived," he growled. "The first. And if you're wondering... they won't survive without help."
His amber-green gaze burned with bitter defiance.
"They didn't ask for this... neither did I."
Var Attre exhaled slowly, calculating in grim silence. His mind turned sharply, processing what such forbidden knowledge might mean for Nilfgaard's future.
"We... need you and by extension them, to come to the capital to provide proof." His voice steadied, coldly practical. "To present before the Imperial Court. Radovid must be judged."
It was then that his sharp gaze fixed on the approaching soldiers dragging a bound and gagged Radovid toward the center of the clearing.
The fallen king's wrists and ankles were shackled with heavy iron, chains clattering against the frostbitten earth. His wild eyes blazed with unhinged defiance, his face bruised from Roche's earlier strike, though his smile remained twisted and hate-filled.
The group fell silent as Radovid was forced to his knees, his struggles useless against the unyielding grip of two Nilfgaardian soldiers.
Veylan stepped forward slowly, his amber-green eyes blazing with cold intensity, every movement deliberate. His scarred hands clenched, fingers twitching, though he kept himself in check.
"We didn't... become this... by choice," he began, his voice low but charged with emotion.
His gaze swept over Var Attre, lingering for a long moment.
"None of these boys chose this fate," he continued, his voice steady but trembling faintly with unspoken pain. "Neither did I."
His burning eyes fell on Radovid, who sneered defiantly, jerking against his bonds.
"They'll never be the same," Veylan growled, his voice sharpening, though not with rage, but grief.
"But their minds..." he paused, exhaling slowly, steadying himself. "Their minds are still intact... like mine."
He looked back at Var Attre, his scarred features hard but honest.
"We're going to trust you and we expect that trust to mean something."
His voice dipped, roughened by hard-earned experience.
"Make sure this never happens again if it can be helped."
He took one final step forward, gripping Radovid's collar, forcing his head back.
"The price" Veylan whispered coldly, "is too high."
With measured calm, he released Radovid, shoving him into the waiting hands of the two Nilfgaardian soldiers. They restrained him firmly, iron gauntlets tightening, ignoring the king's muffled curses and furious struggling.
Var Attre's sharp gaze softened, though only faintly. There was empathy there, buried beneath political pragmatism, tempered by the understanding of what this moment truly meant.
He exhaled slowly, lifting his head, his expression unreadable.
"I will ensure that this never happens again," he promised gravely. "You've given the Empire a prize beyond measure."
He nodded curtly to the soldiers, who dragged Radovid away, his muffled roars fading into the mist-cloaked woods.
As silence fell, Var Attre's gaze returned to Veylan.
"...I shall arrange for you to speak before the Imperial Court... on their behalf," he said slowly, steel-gray eyes gleaming with measured respect.
"If... you are willing."
Veylan's breath hitched, though he held his gaze steady.
"...I'll do it," he said quietly.
…
A few days later…
The grand hall of Nilfgaard's Imperial Court fell deathly silent as Veylan stepped back, his scarred features still etched with emotion from his impactful testimony. His amber-green eyes burned with unspoken fury, though his voice had not wavered when he spoke the boys' names, giving them back the humanity Radovid had stolen.
The assembled court of advisors, generals, diplomats, and spymasters sat stunned, silent, haunted by the truth laid bare. Even the hardest faces, weathered by war and politics, were etched with disbelief, and horror.
Emperor Emhyr var Emreis, White Flame Dancing on the Graves of His Foes, sat stone-faced upon his massive ebony throne, his sharp gaze locked on the shivering boys seated beneath the banners of the Empire.
His expression remained unreadable, cold and calculating, but within, he felt something rarely stirred in his blackened heart.
Compassion.
Guilt.
He couldn't escape the thought, what if it had been Ciri? What if she had been taken, manipulated, warped into a living weapon, stripped of her identity and humanity, forgotten like these boys?
The ghoul-like boy whimpered softly, burying his twisted claws into his face, trembling uncontrollably. The young wraith-like child clung tightly to Erynn's hand, seeking comfort, while the griffon-mutant nursed his bandaged wing, wary eyes darting around the imposing chamber while the boy that resembled a smaller hunched over humanoid Fiend stood silently and respectfully as his three eyes were half lidded by the boy that resembled a Drowner and a Nekker who also stood there trembling.
The weight of command, of leadership, of duty, all the burdens Emhyr carried daily, felt heavier now... crushingly so.
He rose slowly, his black and gold armor gleaming in the dim torchlight, his expression colder than winter's breath.
"I have seen enough," he declared, his deep voice echoing across the vast chamber, authoritative but measured.
"This... abomination will end."
Silence reigned.
"All research on human experimentation such as this, forced mutation, and alchemical hybridization is to be destroyed." His eyes burned with steel-edged resolve.
"Only brief records will remain... sealed under Imperial control, written for reference alone—if such evil ever emerges again."
His gaze swept over the assembled court, lingering on generals, spymasters, and diplomats alike.
"This practice... is hereby outlawed, in all Imperial territories."
He descended the dais, his heavy boots echoing across the cold marble, his expression darkening as he turned slowly, fixing his gaze on the fallen king.
Radovid V, bound and kneeling, his face twisted with defiant malice, stared back with hollow-eyed madness. His grin twisted, blood-stained teeth bared, though fear flickered faintly beneath his mad rage.
Emhyr's voice sharpened, cold as death itself.
"Radovid V..." he hissed quietly, deadly menace dripping from every word
"You will be made a spectacle for all to see."
His steel-gray eyes burned, sharp and deadly, unforgiving.
"On the headsman's block."
The Emperor's expression twisted, gleaming with cruel satisfaction.
"And that..., is an order I will take great pleasure in authorizing."
Radovid's snarling defiance finally broke, panic flashing in his bloodshot eyes as two Imperial guards dragged him away, chains clattering against the stone floor... dragging him toward his final fate.
Silence returned, heavy and unforgiving, lingering like the haunting legacy of what had just ended, and what might yet begin.
The execution square was shrouded in grim silence, the only sound the heavy clatter of iron chains dragging across the worn cobblestones. Radovid V, the fallen king of Redania, was marched forward under heavy guard, his wrists bound tightly in reinforced shackles. His bruised and bloodied face twisted into a snarl as he fought against the grip of the Nilfgaardian soldiers escorting him, though his struggles were as futile as his fading legacy.
The execution scaffold loomed ahead, its weathered oak stained with the blood of countless condemned. The Imperial sun emblem of Nilfgaard hung high above, gleaming like a cold, unyielding judge against the ash-gray sky. Diplomats, courtiers, and envoys from across the Continent stood gathered, their faces etched with grim determination, many still reeling from the horrifying evidence of Radovid's crimes laid bare at the Imperial Court.
Roach, Ves, and Graden watched in stony silence from the front of the gathered assembly, their expressions hard and unreadable. They had fought wars, survived betrayals, and weathered countless brutal campaigns, but this moment felt different. It felt... final.
Radovid's wild, hate-filled eyes scanned the crowd, searching for any trace of loyalty, but he found none. His closest allies had long since abandoned him, exposed as co-conspirators in his monstrous ambitions. Even those who had once ruled Redania in his name now stood distant, their faces pale with disgust, or fear.
"You'll all burn!" Radovid hissed, spitting venomously as the guards forced him to his knees at the headsman's block. "This world is mine! You think killing me will change anything? Fools! Every last one of you!" His voice cracked with shrill rage as he thrashed against his bonds, a caged animal lashing out one final time.
Ves's hand twitched near her belt, fingers brushing the hilt of her dagger, but she held her ground. Graden's steel-gray eyes narrowed, cold and unyielding as he watched the scene unfold without a flicker of emotion. His clenched fists trembled at his sides, though whether from anger or grim satisfaction, none could say.
Radovid's eyes burned with desperate defiance as he locked onto Roach. "Traitor... you're nothing. I was your king, your savior!"
Roach stepped forward slowly, his scarred face carved from stone. "You were supposed to be," he said quietly, his voice low and deadly calm. "But kings... protect their people. You... butchered them."
Radovid's lips twisted into a snarl. "I did what was necessary! What had to be done! You're all weak, none of you understand!" He spat toward the crowd, his words falling on deaf ears.
The Imperial herald raised his staff, signaling for silence. The gathered onlookers stilled, breath held in anticipation. The executioner stepped forward, his axe gleaming cold and merciless in the harsh morning light.
Emperor Emhyr var Emreis watched from the balcony of the nearby Imperial court, his expression unreadable but his piercing gaze fixed on the condemned king. There would be no clemency, no mercy, no reprieve.
The herald's voice rang out, steady and clear. "Radovid V, former King of Redania, condemned for war crimes, forbidden alchemical experimentation, human trafficking, and high treason against the peoples of the Continent. By order of His Imperial Majesty, Emperor Emhyr var Emreis, sentence is death."
Radovid's curses rose to a fever pitch, his voice cracking as he hurled his final venomous words toward the gathered crowd. But his tirade was abruptly silenced as the executioner's axe fell with brutal finality.
The gathered crowd remained silent, unmoving. There was no cheering, no triumph—only grim acceptance. Radovid's blood soaked into the weathered wood of the scaffold, staining the stones below as his twisted reign came to its inevitable end.
Roach turned away without another word, Ves following at his side with cold resolve. Graden lingered a moment longer, his steel-gray eyes fixed on the fallen king's lifeless body. The weight of countless battles and lost causes pressed down on his shoulders, though he showed no outward sign of it.
As the executioner wiped his blade clean and the gathered assembly slowly dispersed, the heavy stillness remained, unshaken. The end of one tyrant had come... but the scars left behind would linger far longer than his reign.
…
From across the square, two figures emerged, Maric and Elara Veyle, weathered farmers, their faces lined with grief and endless searching. Behind them, Tirian Caleis, a lone blacksmith, his stoic mask trembling with long-buried pain.
Their eyes widened at the sight of the boys, shock and disbelief twisting their expressions.
"...Is it... them...?" Elara whispered hoarsely, her voice breaking as she gripped Maric's arm, shaking.
Roach stepped forward slowly, his scarred features softened by something rare, understanding.
"It's... them," he said quietly. "Your boys... they're here."
The Wraith-boy's hollow eyes widened, his ashen face trembling with raw, desperate hope.
"...Mom...? Dad...?" he whispered raggedly, his thin frame trembling like he might vanish into mist.
His mother broke into a run, weeping openly, arms outstretched, her voice cracking.
"My boy!" she sobbed. "My Calen!"
He stumbled forward, collapsing into her embrace, fingers clutching at her worn cloak, sobbing uncontrollably.
The Drowner-Nekker boy watched helplessly, frozen, scared that he might not be recognized, that they would turn away.
"...It's me..." he whispered hoarsely, voice cracking. "...Rylis..."
His father stared, tears filling his weathered eyes, his hand trembling at his side.
For a moment... nothing moved.
Then...
He crossed the space in long, shaking strides, falling to his knees, arms wrapping around his mutated son, clutching him tightly.
"Gods... my boy..." he whispered, voice cracking, tears streaming. "I thought... we'd lost you..."
The Drowner-Nekker boy trembled, thin, scaled arms clinging to his father, sobbing in gut-wrenching relief.
"You came back..." his father whispered, rocking him gently. "You came back..."
Ves wiped her face, steeling herself as she turned away, silent tears glistening in her fierce blue eyes.
Veylan stood still, watching quietly, breathing unevenly, the weight of memories pressing down, memories of a family long gone, of fathers and mothers never searching.
For these two boys, stolen futures had been returned... scarred... but whole.
And for one fleeting moment... hope burned bright again.
…
The process of assigning homes for the remaining three hybrid boys was a careful and deliberate one. Each child, though physically altered, still carried the fragile innocence of youth, tempered by pain and isolation. Despite their monstrous appearances, their intelligence, willpower, and silent hope remained of Form
The Griffon-winged boy, Kaelen, found a new home with Lord Valrik Teymar and Lady Elara Teymar, a high-ranking Nilfgaardian couple known for their compassionate governance and strong moral code. Despite being a battle-scarred veteran, Lord Valrik was deeply moved when he saw Kaelen's tattered wings trembling, barely able to hold their own weight after so much abuse.
Lady Elara, a former scholar of magical studies, understood the potential and danger of the boy's monstrous heritage but was equally determined to offer him stability and guidance. They promised to strengthen his wings, teach him to fly freely again, and never let him be caged.
The moment Kaelen entered the marbled hall of House Teymar, his eyes widened in awed disbelief. He had never known warmth or comfort until Lady Elara gently wrapped him in her fur-lined cloak, shielding his fragile wings.
…
The ghoul-like boy, Toren, who still could not speak, was taken in by Lord Dorian and Lady Selene Maravos, scholars of magical restoration and alchemical ethics. Despite Toren's terrifying appearance, Lady Selene, known for her kindness and unwavering empathy, approached him without fear, kneeling slowly and offering her hands.
Toren trembled, shrinking away, his twisted claws folding inward, but Lady Selene gently wrapped her arms around him, holding him close, as if seeing past the monster to the frightened child beneath.
"We have you now... you're safe," she whispered, tears streaming as Toren clung to her silently, his mournful red eyes glistening.
Lord Dorian, a stern alchemical researcher, was deeply shaken by what had been done to Toren. Though emotionally reserved, he vowed to never allow such horror to happen again and quietly pledged to help Toren recover, not through science, but through love and care.
The Fiend-hybrid, Malrik, stood massive and imposing, his fiendish horns curled forward, his burning third eye gleaming faintly even when dull with exhaustion. He had lived as a lost street urchin, hunted and feared, forced to fight for scraps until Radovid's hunters seized him.
He was taken in by Lord Aedan and Lady Veyra Farathin, retired commanders known for adopting war orphans from the frontlines of Nilfgaard's longest campaigns. Despite his monstrous size, Lady Veyra had no hesitation when Malrik knelt, his huge frame trembling, expecting rejection.
"You belong with us now," she said softly, extending her hand without fear.
"We see you... not what they made you."
Malrik's burning third eye dimmed, the rage etched into his features softening as hope flickered for the first time. When Lord Aedan clasped his shoulder, steady and firm, Malrik choked out, "...Home...?"
As the three boys departed, now placed into caring homes, the shadows of the past still lingered... but hope, fragile yet unyielding, began to take root.
For the first time in their lives, they belonged... not as experiments... not as weapons... but as children, scarred, changed, but never truly lost.
…Bottom of Form
The Church of the Eternal Fire, its leadership fractured, faced unprecedented scandal after Graden's testimony exposed how Radovid's agents had been draining captured mages, bleeding them dry to fuel his experiments. Many corrupt leaders, implicated in secret deals with Redanian alchemists, were exiled, executed, or disappeared quietly.
The moderate faction, led by Graden, rose swiftly, using the public outcry to seize control and reform the Church's policies. Under his unofficial leadership, witch-hunts were abolished, and mages were declared victims rather than enemies. The new decrees demanded "equal justice" for mutants and magic users, though true equality remained distant it still was a start.
Graden refused formal promotion, choosing to remain independent, rebuilding trust from the ground up. His men, fiercely loyal after Radovid's fall, became protectors of mages and mutants, hunting remnants of the alchemists still in hiding.
Redania, now leaderless after Radovid's death, fell into political chaos. Power-hungry nobles jockeyed for control, while loyalist factions struggled to restore order. Cities rebelled, peasants revolted, and Redanian military remnants splintered, with many defecting to Nilfgaard.
In the wake of the scandal, surviving Redanian officials were forced to distance themselves from Radovid's legacy, denouncing him as a mad king. They pledged peace to Nilfgaard and entered negotiations, offering trade routes, territory rights, and safe passage for refugees.
Though Radovid's legacy would be forever cursed, Redania's people began rebuilding, free from fanatic rule, scarred but determined.
…
The Kaedweni court, long known for its ruthless practicality, publicly condemned Radovid's actions, though many suspected their alchemists had taken notes from his experiments.
King Henselt's successors, eager to save face, expanded protections for mages, but privately, continued research into mutant enhancements for military purposes. Many exiled sorcerers found temporary refuge, though hidden dangers lingered.
Temeria, still recovering from its own fractured rule, aligned itself with Nilfgaard, denouncing Radovid as a symbol of tyranny. King Foltest's former advisors, scarred by political infighting, passed laws protecting mages and mutants, hoping to rebuild Temeria's war-torn lands.
Many mages, once hunted, returned home as allies, aiding in restoration efforts. Former witchers and mutants found temporary acceptance—though prejudice never fully vanished.
Skellige's Jarls, fierce warriors who had long distrusted sorcery, declared open war on "those who tamper with life itself." They denounced Radovid's crimes, calling him a coward's king, and swore vengeance against any alchemists or monster-makers found practicing such arts.
The Lodge, though reluctant, recognized the political shift in their favor. Many mages returned to influence courts across the Continent, pressuring surviving kings to outlaw witch-hunts.
Though cautious about direct involvement rumor has it that, Triss Merigold, Philippa Eilhart, and Yennefer of Vengerberg worked behind the scenes, ensuring Radovid's records were destroyed or secured, removing dangerous magical knowledge from public reach.
Nilfgaard, ever opportunistic, expanded its territories into Redania and Kaedwen, using the scandal to justify military occupation. Emperor Emhyr, now hailed as a liberator, declared peace, though war preparations continued quietly.
He upheld his royal decree banning human experimentation, using Radovid's atrocities to strengthen Nilfgaard's image as a protector of law and justice. However, secret Imperial archives preserved Radovid's research in obscure references, should the need for future evidence ever arise.
With mages free, fanaticism shattered, and Redania's legacy condemned, the Continent shifted. Kingdoms rose and fell, nobles schemed, and peasants rebuilt.
And even though it may only last for a time, Veylan rested easy knowing that he had brought some measure of justice to those who were wronged.
…
The wind howled softly through the rugged hills of Velen, stirring fallen leaves and scattering ash-gray clouds across the moonlit sky. The land still bore scars from endless war, dark magic, and monstrous attacks, but for the first time in many long years, there was a glimmer of peace.
Veylan adjusted the straps on his blade's sheath, his amber-green eyes scanning the worn forest path ahead as he guided Nimrael through the moss-covered trail. Erynn rode beside him on Ashbloom, her fiery red hair glowing faintly under the silvered moonlight, windswept but serene.
For the past week, they had traveled tirelessly through Velen's lawless stretches, hunting monsters, helping villagers, and clearing cursed places once thought lost. With Radovid's fall and Nilfgaard's influence expanding, lawlessness still festered, and monstrous abominations from long-forgotten ruins stirred anew.
Their latest contract, three Kikimore drones that had infested a decaying homestead, was finished. Veylan's blades dripped ichor, sticky remnants from the brutal fight, though Ashbloom's saddlebags now carried potions, herbs, and coin, payment well-earned.
At every village square, notice board, or tavern wall, wanted posters of Olthar Valrik, Thaelith Rorn, and three other collaborators hung prominently, their twisted faces sketched in gritty detail, promising hefty rewards for information leading to their capture, or execution.
As they approached the outskirts of Willow's Hollow, the familiar clearing welcomed them, its aged oak trees twisting protectively around the modest stone cottage they now called home. The windows glowed warmly, soft candlelight flickering, a haven in the dark wilds.
Veylan dismounted, his boots hitting soft earth, and unfastened Nimrael's reins, letting the warhorse graze freely near the old wooden fence. Erynn smiled faintly, guiding Ashbloom toward the small stable, her graceful hands working effortlessly as she unsaddled her mount.
Inside the cottage, everything felt still... peaceful.
The fire crackled softly in the stone hearth, casting warm, dancing shadows across weathered wooden beams. A simple table held fresh bread, dried herbs, and half-filled potion flasks, remnants of their shared work.
Veylan exhaled slowly, closing the door behind them, feeling tension fade as Erynn's hand brushed his.
"Long day," she whispered, softly teasing.
"One of many," he replied, lips quirking faintly despite his weariness.
Before he could move further, she stepped close, fingers tracing his jawline, green eyes gleaming softly with affection.
"You... could've been killed..." she whispered, her voice trembling faintly, though her touch remained steady. "I... can't lose you..."
Veylan gently cupped her face, scarred hands steady, amber-green eyes burning with fierce devotion.
"You won't," he promised quietly. "I survived worse... and found you."
Their foreheads touched, breathing steadying, comforting in the shared silence, the only sound the soft crackling of the fire.
Hours passed, the weight of the past week falling away, leaving only them, two weary souls, scarred but whole, finding peace in each other's embrace.
The night stretched long, quiet and unbroken, safe in the sanctuary they had fought so hard to build, together.