The Witcher: Chimera
Chapter 8: The Three Wishes
…
The morning sun broke through thinning clouds, casting soft light across Veylan's frost-scarred clearing, where melting ice met charred earth, a stark reminder of last night's confrontation. The lingering traces of magic still hummed faintly in the air, though calmer now, quiet but ever-present.
Nilfgaardian soldiers worked methodically, collecting statements and recording damage reports, their expressions steady but grim. Erynn, her fiery hair unbound, spoke carefully to Commander Veyrik, detailing events with calm precision, though her sharp eyes never stopped moving, ever watchful.
Near the stable, Veylan tightened the last strap on Nimrael's saddle, his scarred hands moving steadily, though fatigue burned faintly behind his amber-green gaze. His mind still replayed the encounter, though instinct kept him grounded. There was always another contract, another danger waiting, and dwelling on the past never kept anyone alive.
From the forest trail, hoofbeats echoed, heavy and sharp, cutting through the thawing earth. Graden and Vernon Roach emerged from the misty path, their expressions tense, armor streaked with mud and frost, though determination burned sharply in their steel-gray gazes.
A Nilfgaardian patrolman broke away, lowering his spear slightly, his expression steady but strained. He saluted crisply, his armored gauntlet flashing, and motioned them forward.
"Commander Graden." The soldier's voice was respectful as he greeted him. Though his sharp gaze flicked toward Veylan, still focused on his gear. "We've been expecting you."
"What happened here?" His voice was even, though tension burned faintly beneath the measured tone.
The patrolman hesitated, glancing briefly toward Veylan, then lowered his voice further. "He... pushed back the White Frost."
Roach's sharp gaze flicked upward, expression darkening, though Graden remained still, his mind racing, though his features never shifted.
"We've never seen anything like it," the soldier continued, voice tense, though steady now. "And... there's more."
He nodded faintly toward Veylan, still adjusting his gear, unbothered, though ever-watchful.
"The Emperor..." The soldier's voice dropped, expression tightening. "Has declared... full Imperial protection... for both Veylan and Lady Erynn."
Graden's steel-gray eyes narrowed, calculating sharply. "By whose orders?"
"Directly from the Emperor." The soldier straightened, his expression hardening. "Anyone who can face the White Frost and the Wild Hunt... is someone we cannot afford to lose."
Graden exhaled slowly, though possibilities shifted sharply through his mind. The pieces were moving faster now... the stakes rising.
Near the stables, Veylan mounted Nimrael with practiced ease, his expression unreadable, though his gaze burned sharper, focused and steady.
The Nilfgaardian escort commander approached, saluting crisply, his expression
A Nilfgaardian patrolman broke away from the formation, lowering his spear slightly as he approached the newcomers. His expression was steady but strained, a faint crease of unease lining his brow. He saluted crisply, armored gauntlet catching the early sunlight.
"Commander Graden," he announced with firm precision. "We've been expecting you."
Graden dismounted swiftly, his hand resting loosely near the hilt of his sword. His steel-gray eyes gleamed with hard calculation as he surveyed the scene, sharp as a blade drawn in silence.
"What happened here?" His voice was even, but tension simmered beneath the measured tone.
The patrolman hesitated, his gaze drifting toward Veylan, still busy with his gear, then lowered his voice. "He... pushed back the White Frost."
Roach stiffened, his expression darkening, though Graden remained still, his mind working quickly behind his guarded expression. His eyes flicked toward the frost-scarred ground, noting the faint, dark lines of fire-burned earth cutting through the half-frozen clearing. The ground still steamed where ice and heat had warred.
"We've never seen anything like it," the patrolman admitted, unease leaking into his voice despite his best efforts. "And... there's more."
He nodded faintly toward Veylan, who adjusted his sword belt with calm precision, his every movement steady, unreadable.
"The Emperor," the soldier continued, voice lower still, "has declared... full Imperial protection for both Veylan and Lady Erynn."
Graden's sharp eyes narrowed. "By whose orders?"
"Directly from the Emperor." The patrolman straightened, his expression hardening with reluctant respect. "Anyone who can face the White Frost... and the Wild Hunt... is someone we cannot afford to lose."
Graden exhaled slowly, possibilities shifting rapidly through his mind. The stakes were rising, too fast, and the game was changing with every passing day.
Near the stables, Veylan swung into Nimrael's saddle with fluid ease, his gaze flicking briefly toward Graden and Roach before settling ahead. His amber-green eyes gleamed faintly in the morning light, sharp and unwavering.
The Nilfgaardian escort commander approached, saluting crisply, his tone clipped but respectful. "Witcher Veylan. Your escort awaits for the Novigrad Auction House."
Veylan nodded, adjusting his sword belt one last time. His silver-forged blade glinted faintly, its runes etched in ancient warding symbols that shimmered softly in the rising sun.
"Let's head out."
…
The road to Oxenfurt stretched long, cutting through mud-soaked hills and leafless forests, though Veylan and Erynn rode comfortably with their escort close behind, steel-shod hooves echoing through the morning mist. For the first time since making this place their home , there was a quiet sense of relief, home was finally safe. Nilfgaard's decree ensured official protection, and while Veylan hated politics, he couldn't deny the pragmatic necessity.
Erynn rode close, her fiery hair catching the early sun, though her sharp eyes watched the surrounding woods, ever wary.
"You're brooding," she remarked lightly, her tone soft, though knowing.
"Just thinking," Veylan admitted, his amber-green gaze distant. "Olgierd... he wanted 'the house.' No clue what that meant... but I'll find out."
Erynn nodded thoughtfully, though her eyes softened faintly.
"We'll figure it out together."
The ride continued, mists fading as Oxenfurt's towering spires rose in the distance, framed by the glittering river.
The auction house gates stood open, gold-etched invitations flashing in well-dressed hands, noble patrons, wealthy collectors, and advisors from across the Continent streaming inside.
Veylan dismounted smoothly, Nimrael snorting softly, his scarred hands tightening the rein knots. He adjusted his leather straps, amber-green eyes sharp, his expression unreadable as he approached the entrance, Erynn close by, her runed staff faintly glimmering beneath its worn leather cover.
Near the main entrance, a tall, wiry man in rich red-and-gold attire checked invitations against a long, elegantly scripted ledger. His sharp, calculating gaze flicked briefly toward Veylan, noting the Witcher's armor and blade as he handed them over to the men at the front and signed the paperwork.
"Invitation..." he intoned smoothly, quill poised above the guest list.
Veylan reached inside his coat, producing the heavy parchment, embossed with the auction house's sigil.
The clerk's eyes widened faintly, though he composed himself quickly, checking the name carefully before nodding crisply.
"Welcome... Witcher Veylan. You may proceed."
Veylan nodded once, silent but steady, and stepped inside, Erynn following close, her keen eyes scanning the gilded interior, marble floors gleaming, paintings masterfully displayed, and rich velvet curtains draped across arched entryways.
The main hall was filled with wealthy patrons mingling, servants passing drinks, while Nilfgaardian advisors and bankers discussed politics, land trades, and priceless artifacts.
Near the grand staircase, a stocky dwarf in lavish attire surveyed the crowd, his keen eyes sharp, gold chains gleaming faintly beneath his embroidered coat.
"Well now... what do we have here?" he boomed, approaching swiftly, grinning broadly as his sharp gaze locked onto Veylan.
"Witcher Veylan... the Chimera, eh? I've heard of you... from our mutual friend... Geralt of Rivia!"
Veylan blinked faintly, raising an eyebrow , though he extended his hand calmly.
"And you are...?"
"Vimme Vivaldi..." the dwarf announced proudly, clasping Veylan's hand firmly. "Finest banker in Novigrad... and damned curious about what brings you to this particular gathering..."
Veylan smirked faintly, shouldering his coin-pouch.
"Business."
"Good answer!" Vivaldi chuckled, bright eyes gleaming. "Hope you brought plenty of coin... this lot's cutthroat."
As the auction preparations began, Veylan and Erynn followed the crowd, listening sharply to passing conversations, watchful and silent.
Near a side gallery, a Nilfgaardian portrait appraiser, dressed impeccably, examined five grand paintings, gesturing sharply toward gathered guests.
"Tell me," he intoned smoothly, "which of these is painted by the great Edward van der Knoob?"
The guests hesitated, murmuring faintly, avoiding eye contact, clearly uncertain.
Veylan stepped forward, his amber-green gaze sharp, cutting through the tension.
"The portrait of the merchant... with the earring," he declared coolly.
The appraiser blinked sharply, eyes widening faintly, though he remained composed.
"Indeed..."
Before he could dismiss him, Veylan continued.
"The second painting... the woman with the fruit... by Lorik Narfald, from his late still-life series. The third... the scholar near the window... clearly Henrik Vos, using his signature shadow technique. The fourth... a countryside scene by Marietta Forst, regional works collection... early pieces. And lastly... the boy with the dog... Joran Meiss, a lesser-known master from Verden."
The room fell silent.
Erynn suppressed a faint smirk, her bright eyes gleaming.
The appraiser cleared his throat sharply, expression unreadable, though something like respect flickered faintly in his sharp gaze.
"...Impressive," he admitted, voice measured. "You clearly know your craft... far better than most."
Veylan nodded faintly, "Knowledge... is worth more than coin."
And with that, he turned sharply, leaving the stunned crowd behind.
…
A little while later…
The grand auction hall slowly emptied as wealthy patrons and collectors trickled out, their arms laden with priceless artifacts, paintings, and gilded relics. The flickering chandelier light gleamed across marbled floors, casting dancing shadows over the remaining art displays, while servants bustled to clear the space.
Veylan stood near the bidding platform, his scarred hands resting calmly on the polished counter, watching silently as a carefully wrapped bronze sculpture of elven craftsmanship was secured by an attendant, bound gently in thick velvet. The ancient piece, depicting the Elven Patron of the Lost, shimmered faintly beneath the soft auction house light, a masterpiece of forgotten ages.
Erynn approached quietly, her emerald eyes widening faintly as she took in the wrapped bundle, understanding dawning instantly.
"You bought it," she whispered, voice trembling faintly with affection and warmth.
Veylan smirked faintly, though his sharp amber-green gaze softened, scarred fingers brushing against the velvet wrapping.
"It belongs with you... not forgotten in some vault."
Emotion flickered deeply in her bright gaze, though she stilled herself, nodding silently, grateful in ways words couldn't touch.
Before she could speak, a smooth, measured voice interrupted from the shadowed balcony.
"A sentimental Witcher... now that's a rarity."
Veylan's sharp gaze lifted instantly, settling on a well-dressed figure descending the grand staircase, flanked closely by two armored guards in dark crimson surcoats.
Horst Borsodi, master of the Oxenfurt Auction House, approached smoothly, his calculated smile sharp and carefully measured, dark eyes gleaming beneath his tailored velvet coat.
"I suspected... you weren't here... for the auction alone." His words dripped with intrigue, hands folded neatly behind his back.
Veylan exhaled slowly, steady and unyielding, though he did not deny it. Erynn remained close, fingers brushing faintly against his.
"You've heard things," Veylan stated calmly, his voice low, measured. "From Novigrad... from your rivals... or maybe from Olgierd von Everec."
Borsodi's expression flickered, though he masked it quickly.
"He... did come up," Borsodi admitted, circling slowly, dark gaze sharp. "Word travels fast... especially when it involves you."
Veylan's expression didn't shift, though his fingers tightened faintly near his belt.
"What did he want... specifically?" Borsodi pressed carefully.
Veylan shrugged faintly. "He said he needed... 'the house.' Beyond that... nothing."
The auction master stilled, his calculating gaze narrowing, though realization slowly dawned.
"You don't... know what it means." His tone sharpened, dark amusement flickering.
"I'm guessing you do," Veylan countered smoothly, amber-green eyes burning faintly.
Borsodi exhaled slowly, stepping closer, his guards shifting uneasily.
"The House... is no mere building." His voice lowered, danger darkening every syllable. "It's a vault... beneath this very auction house. Inside... a locked case... shaped like the house itself... containing deeds, fortunes... and the Borsodi family's legacy.*"
Veylan processed sharply, mind racing, though his expression remained unreadable.
"You see now..." Borsodi continued, voice clipped, "...why I cannot hand it over."
Silence stretched, tense and sharp, though Veylan didn't move.
"He only asked..." Veylan spoke slowly, carefully, "...for the house. The house, not what's inside."
Borsodi stilled sharply though he raised an eyebrow in interest.
"What... are you suggesting?"
"Remove the contents," Veylan stated, amber-green gaze piercing. "Keep the documents, the deeds... everything inside. Deliver only the empty box."
His expression hardened, sharp and steady.
"He didn't ask for the will. He only asked for the house."
Borsodi's guards exchanged wary glances, though Borsodi's mind raced, calculating, measuring odds, risk... and potential fallout.
"So..." he mused darkly, voice sharp with grim amusement. "The Chimera leaves sated... but the sheep remain alive... to tell the tale?"
Veylan's gaze burned, though he said nothing.
After a long, tense pause, Borsodi nodded sharply, turning toward his nearest assistant.
"Retrieve the box..." he ordered, voice cutting sharply. "Remove the contents... lock them in the vault... and bring the case... here."
The assistant hurried off, vanishing silently into the auction house's depths.
Borsodi exhaled slowly, dark gaze unreadable, though sharp calculation burned behind his measured calm.
"Consider this..." he muttered coldly. "An... adjustment of terms."
Veylan remained still, silent, though his gaze never left Borsodi's cold stare.
The assistant returned swiftly, hands trembling faintly, though his grip steadied as he presented the box, a masterfully carved relic, its dark oak surface etched with ancient runes and gleaming brass inlays, shaped like a small house, its details intricate and precise. The empty weight of the artifact made it feel heavier still, laden with old secrets and forgotten promises.
Borsodi's sharp gaze flicked over the box, cold and calculating, before he nodded sharply to his guards. "Deliver it," he ordered curtly. "Let the debt... be settled."
His dark eyes settled on Veylan, expression unreadable, though thinly veiled tension flickered behind his measured calm. "Whatever happens next... you'll understand... why trust is currency... far rarer than gold."
Veylan said nothing, his amber-green gaze steady, though something dark and knowing burned beneath his scarred features. He watched silently as the box was sealed, marked with wax-forged sigils, and carried away into the cold night.
As the grand hall emptied, Erynn approached softly, her bright gaze lingering on the bronze-wrapped bundle still securely tied in thick velvet. Relief flickered faintly in her expression, though she held herself steady.
"You'll be careful...?" she whispered, fingers brushing faintly against his scarred hand.
"Always." His voice softened, steady and reassuring. "I'll see you tonight... after this last task."
Before she could speak, he gently pulled her close, pressing a kiss to her forehead, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder.
"Thank you..." she whispered, barely audible, fingers tightening faintly against his armor. He leaned closer, forehead resting briefly against hers, amber-green eyes steady. "Go home... keep it safe..."
She nodded silently, pulling back just enough to meet his gaze, though her fingers lingered, unwilling to let go.
With one last shared glance, she turned and mounted her horse, escorted swiftly by Nilfgaardian riders, disappearing into the fog-veiled trail.
Veylan watched silently, though his breath stilled briefly before he turned sharply, mounting Nimrael.
The cold wind howled faintly, carrying whispers of fate... as he rode hard toward Oxenfurt's distant lights... and The Alchemy Tavern, where Geralt and Olgierd would be waiting.
…
As Veylan approached the tavern known as The Alchemy, rain drizzled steadily from the overcast sky, mist curling through Oxenfurt's winding streets. The air smelled faintly of damp wood and ale, the soft glow of lanterns casting flickering halos in the deepening twilight. His thoughts lingered on Erynn, safe on her way home with the treasured elven artifact he had fought to win for her. The quiet weight of responsibility pressed heavily on his mind.
He adjusted the strap of his worn satchel, its leather still damp from the ride, and stepped inside.
The tavern buzzed with muted conversations, drunken laughter, and the familiar clatter of mugs on weathered oak tables. He let the atmosphere settle over him like an old, half-forgotten memory. His sharp, amber-green eyes scanned the room, calculating, never resting.
Near the hearth, he spotted Geralt of Rivia, leaning back in a sturdy wooden chair, his weathered face illuminated by the dancing flames. A half-finished tankard rested in his scarred hand, his expression as unreadable as ever.
"Geralt." Veylan approached with quiet precision.
The White Wolf's sharp gaze flicked up, recognition sparking faintly. "You're late." His voice was carrying an exhaustion from whatever transpired on his end.
"Had some... negotiations to handle," Veylan replied, resting his hand casually on the back of a nearby chair. "Looks like you've been busy yourself."
Geralt snorted faintly, gesturing for him to sit. "Let's compare notes."
Veylan settled opposite him, allowing a moment of wary silence to stretch before speaking.
"The house," he said carefully, "I have it. Borsodi was surprisingly... cooperative."
Geralt raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Cooperative... how?"
"Let's just say... we came to an arrangement. No blades drawn." Veylan's tone was measured but tinged with amusement.
Geralt nodded slowly, accepting the answer for now. "Wish mine had gone that smoothly."
He exhaled sharply, gaze hardening. "Had to summon Olgierd's brother... Volodimir. Let him possess me for a night. Ended up at a wedding, one hell of a mess. Shani was there too." His tone softened briefly, something like regret flickering behind his eyes. And to top it off I also hunted a boar while being possessed by Olgierd's brother."
"Possession, a wedding... and a boar hunt." Veylan tilted his head thoughtfully. "Sounds like you've had the time of your life."
Geralt huffed a faint laugh. "Volodimir certainly did." He rubbed the back of his neck, clearly still irked by the whole ordeal. "Wrote a letter to Olgierd afterward... in my blood. I suppose... that counts."
Veylan nodded slowly. "So... two tasks down."
Before either could say more, the air shifted, something old, something dangerous settling over the room like a long-forgotten curse being stirred awake.
The tavern door creaked open.
A figure stepped inside, dark eyes gleaming like polished obsidian beneath its shadowed brim.
Gaunter O'Dimm smiled slowly... a hunter's smile.
"Gentlemen..." his voice rang smoothly, cutting through the tavern's noise like steel through silk. "I believe... we have business to conclude discuss."
Gaunter O'Dimm smiled—a slow, knowing curve that promised nothing good.
"Gentlemen..." His voice cut through the tavern's soft murmur like a blade through silk. "I believe... we have business to conclude."
Veylan tensed faintly, his amber-green eyes narrowing as he slowly rose from his seat. Geralt's sharp gaze followed suit, his scarred hand resting lightly on the hilt of his silver sword, though he made no move to draw it—yet.
"You're persistent," Veylan said coldly, his voice steady, calm, despite the tension crackling in the air.
"Persistent?" O'Dimm chuckled softly, adjusting his dark coat with eerie precision. "Let's call it... invested. After all... we're so very close to the end."
His eyes flicked toward Geralt, amusement sparking faintly. "And you... White Wolf. You've performed admirably. Your task is... complete." His smile widened, cold and deliberate. "Two wishes fulfilled. Only one... remains."
Olgierd von Everec leaned back against the worn wooden post near the hearth, his cold, calculating eyes gleaming faintly as he watched Gaunter O'Dimm circle the room like a wolf among unsuspecting sheep. The tension in the tavern thickened like a storm ready to break, though none of the gathered patrons seemed aware of the razor-thin edge they stood upon.
Veylan remained steady, his amber-green gaze never leaving O'Dimm, though his fingers brushed faintly near his sword's hilt, more out of instinct than intent. Geralt shifted subtly, his sharp, weathered features unreadable, though his posture remained coiled—ready.
O'Dimm's gaze finally settled on Olgierd, his dark smile widening just enough to be unsettling. "Ah... Master Everec. How curious... You seem... pleased."
Olgierd's sharp, icy-blue eyes narrowed faintly, though amusement flickered behind them. "I'd be lying if I said I wasn't curious," he admitted slowly. His gaze drifted toward Veylan, studying him with newfound interest. "You... actually managed to retrieve the house... and quickly, too. I expected a bloody mess... not this."
He folded his arms, expression unreadable. "From what I've heard, you talked Horst Borsodi into giving it to you willingly. Impressive."
Veylan's jaw tightened faintly, though he nodded once, his voice calm and even. "The only way to avoid unnecessary complications. He knew you'd sent me the moment I arrived... so I asked for the house, not the contents inside. The alternative... would've been... less diplomatic."
Olgierd blinked, momentarily taken aback, though his calculating mind quickly caught up. He gestured sharply toward the small, rune-etched wooden box resting on the table between them. "Let's see it, then."
The tavern fell silent as Olgierd stepped forward, his long coat brushing the worn floorboards as he reached for the box. His scarred fingers traced its intricate carvings with something almost... reverent, though his expression remained coldly measured.
He unlatched the heavy brass clasps with a practiced motion, lifting the lid slowly.
The box was... empty.
Olgierd's icy eyes burned with sharp intensity as he inspected the hollow interior, expression unreadable. "Are you... jesting with me?" His voice dropped, cold and dangerous.
Veylan met his gaze without flinching, his expression steady, hard as tempered steel. "No jest. This... was the only outcome that didn't end in bloodshed."
The tension hung thick, brittle as frost-laden branches.
For a long, tense moment, Olgierd said nothing, his fingers tightening faintly on the box's edge... before he exhaled slowly, letting the tension bleed away like a distant memory. "Practical... I can respect that." His voice lowered into something almost... thoughtful. "You played the game well... Witcher."
He set the box back down with a faint thud, his gaze still cold, though something like dark amusement flickered faintly behind it.
O'Dimm's slow clap echoed softly through the room, deliberate and mocking. "Such... exquisite work." His voice coiled like silk around steel. "Efficient... calculated... ruthless when needed. I expected nothing less."
His dark gaze shifted toward Geralt. "And you... White Wolf." His smile widened, sharp and dangerous. "I'll admit... I had my doubts. Summoning a dead man's spirit... persuading him to behave... and fulfilling a wish long lost to the sands of time."
Geralt's steel-gray eyes narrowed faintly, though he remained still, expression unreadable.
With a slow, deliberate motion, O'Dimm drew a folded letter from within his coat and placed it carefully on the table. "You performed admirably. Even Volodimir... complimented you." His gaze gleamed with something dark, something twisted. "And trust me... he rarely does."
Olgierd's hand hovered over the letter, his expression hardening briefly... before he carefully unfolded the parchment, scanning its contents. His face remained unreadable, cold and detached, but there was a brief, fleeting flicker of something deeper... something far more personal. His icy-blue eyes softened just slightly, though only for the barest moment.
It was written in Volodimir's unmistakable hand... crude, arrogant... but real.
For the first time in years... Olgierd felt something.
He refolded the letter slowly, tucking it away inside his coat. "You've done well..." he murmured, his voice roughened faintly by something he couldn't quite suppress. His gaze lifted toward Geralt
"Both of you."
The heavy silence lingered, broken only by the faint crackle of the tavern hearth.
"And now..." O'Dimm's voice cut through the air, smooth as ever, dark and commanding. "The final wish..." His gaze burned with twisted delight, sharp as a dagger's edge. "Shall we... conclude this little game?"
The heavy silence stretched through the tavern, the crackling fire the only sound as Olgierd von Everec's cold, calculating gaze burned with something deeper—something far more personal. His scarred fingers traced the worn edge of the wooden box on the table, though his eyes remained fixed on the flickering flames beyond.
For a long, breathless moment, no one spoke.
Finally, Olgierd exhaled slowly, shoulders tense as if bracing against some invisible weight. His icy-blue eyes lifted, burning with equal parts resolve and regret.
"My third wish..." His voice was low, roughened by old memories and long-buried pain. "Bring her back... if you can."
Veylan and Geralt exchanged sharp glances, though neither interrupted. They could see the tightness in Olgierd's jaw, the faint tremor in his hand before he stilled it.
"Her name... is Iris," Olgierd continued, his voice softening faintly, almost reverent. "My wife... though she was far more than that." His expression twisted faintly, though whether from grief, anger, or something far more complex was impossible to tell.
"If you... can't bring her back... then..." He hesitated, his gaze darkening as old wounds bled anew. "Then at least... give her peace."
His voice cracked faintly, though he recovered quickly, masking the moment behind a cold, hardened facade.
"I left a mess in my wake... a curse bound by love and hate." His fist clenched over the table, his knuckles white. "It wouldn't surprise me... if she despises me now. After what I became... what I did." His voice dropped lower, rough and bitter. "But I can't... leave it like this."
He met their gazes head-on, sharp and unyielding. "I've... made peace with my fate. Whatever comes next... I won't run from it." His fingers twitched faintly, resting near the hidden letter from Volodimir still tucked inside his coat.
"But this... I can't... leave undone." His voice steadied, cold and determined. "Go to the estate... the old manor. Find her. Bring her back... or give her the peace I couldn't."
He exhaled slowly, as though forcing the words from his chest like jagged glass.
"If I'm to finally own up... that's one regret I don't want on my conscience." His gaze burned with fierce resolve, though haunted by something far deeper—something even time couldn't erase.
The fire crackled softly, embers drifting faintly through the dimly lit room as fate's hand slowly tightened its grip. There was no going back now. The past could no longer be buried. Only faced... or burned away.
…
The old von Everec estate loomed like a decaying monument to memory's cruelty, its twisted iron gates hanging half-rusted, chains broken long ago. Gnarled trees with claw-like branches twisted upward, skeletal fingers clawing at the gray sky. Dead ivy choked the crumbling stone walls, and shattered windows stared like hollow eyes into the cold, mist-laden grounds. The air reeked faintly of damp earth, mildew, and something far worse, old, forgotten sorrow.
Veylan and Geralt stood just beyond the ruined archway, their sharp eyes scanning the decaying manor with practiced precision. Amber-green and bright yellow gazes burned coldly, taking in every warped detail. The estate's decaying grandeur spoke of power long broken... of love twisted into torment.
The air felt wrong, charged with malicious intent that lingered, watching silently. It wasn't just decay, it was a prison of memory, despair locked in time.
Veylan's sharp senses burned faintly, the Marr essence within him stirring uneasily. He could feel it, a fractured dream... looping endlessly... trapped.
"There's something... wrong about this place," he muttered, his voice low, roughened with something far darker than suspicion. "It's... stuck."
Geralt nodded faintly, hand resting on the wolf-emblazoned hilt of his silver sword.
"Cursed places usually are." His voice was cold, practiced—but even he seemed tense. His Witcher medallion trembled faintly, buzzing sharply with magical intensity.
As they advanced through the rotting courtyard, the earth squelched wetly beneath their boots, half-frozen mud slick with decay. Rust-streaked garden statues stood cracked and broken, forgotten faces twisted in perpetual anguish.
They rounded the corner, passing what remained of a once-proud fountain, its water long gone, blackened weeds clawing through its shattered basin.
Then, movement.
A rough voice cut through the cold stillness. "Oy... You hear that?"
Two ragged-looking men emerged from behind a crumbling stone wall, dirty and pale, expressions twitchy with greed-fueled desperation. They clutched rusted blades, their boots caked with grave-soaked mud.
"Told ya this place still 'ad valuables..." one of them hissed sharply, eyes gleaming with barely contained avarice.
The first thief, a wiry, rat-faced man, sneered. "Rich folks like 'em... always hoardin' treasures, even when they're dead..."
"Maybe not so dead..." the second man whispered nervously, glancing warily toward the looming manor, his hands trembling faintly. "You feel that? Like somethin'... watchin'..."
"Bah!" the first thief spat, kicking a broken urn near the moss-choked steps. "It's just wind... place's old, creaks like a dyin' horse."
His faint bravado faltered, though he hid it poorly.
"'Sides... place like this's bound ta' 'ave valuables... rich folk always do."
Geralt and Veylan emerged sharply, silent as death, and amber-green gazes sharp as ever.
"Looking for valuables...?" Geralt asked suddenly.
Both men froze, their faces draining of color, weapons faltering.
"What th'-" the first thief stammered, scrambling back, though his rusted dagger trembled in his white-knuckled grip.
"Let me guess..." Veylan added coldly, fingers tightening near his silver-forged blade, "Thought you'd try your luck in a cursed manor... see what you could scavenge..."
The second man paled, voice trembling. "W-We didn't know... place is empty... right? Just some... dusty old bones... n-nothin' left..."
"Wrong," Geralt growled, his expression darkening.
The cold deepened sharply... the wind howling faintly, carrying something far darker than just the chill of forgotten memory.
The thieves trembled, panic flashing in their wide eyes.
"We'll... just be leavin'..." the first thief stammered, shuffling backward, boots slipping in the foul mud.
Before they could retreat, Veylan's sharp gaze locked on the twisting shadows near the shattered front steps.
He felt it...
The Dream stirred... watching... waiting...
The cold deepened sharply, the howling wind carrying whispers of something darker than memory. Veylan's sharp amber-green gaze locked on the twisting shadows near the shattered front steps of the Von Everec manor. He felt it, an eerie presence stirring, watching, waiting.
The thieves stumbled backward, their panic more than apparent in their reactions, but before they could flee, the shadows shifted.
From the darkness, two figures emerged, silent as wraiths, yet entirely tangible. A sleek black cat padded forward, its golden eyes gleaming like molten coin, while a broad, dark-furred dog followed, its movements deliberate and calm. The cat leapt gracefully onto the edge of a crumbling fountain, sitting with its tail curled neatly around its paws. The dog stopped a few steps behind, its massive frame outlined in the faint mist curling around the ruined courtyard.
The thieves froze, their breaths hitching.
"G-ghosts!" one of them whispered hoarsely, dropping his rusted dagger with a clatter.
"Not ghosts," Geralt muttered, his expression darkening as he stepped forward, his hand resting on the hilt of his silver sword. "Not... exactly."
Veylan's fingers twitched near his blade, but he didn't draw it. His eyes narrowed as he studied the creatures. "They're not hostile. Not yet, anyway."
The cat's sharp gaze turned toward him, its expression almost amused. "Hostile? To you? Why, that would be... foolish."
"Curious, though," the dog added, its deep, rumbling voice calm yet resonant. "A Witcher who isn't quite human, yet isn't a monster. How peculiar."
Both Witchers stiffened slightly, their attention fully on the strange pair. The thieves, forgotten, took the opportunity to stumble away into the fog, leaving only their bootprints in the mud.
"Where did you come from?" Geralt asked, his tone cautious.
The cat yawned lazily, stretching out its sleek body before responding in a smooth, sardonic tone. "A long way from here..."
The dog glanced at the cat, a faint note of disapproval in its steady voice. "We've traveled far... but where we're from matters less than why we're here."
"And why is that?" Veylan asked coldly, his amber-green eyes flicking between the two.
The cat's golden gaze lingered on him, almost predatory. "To see. To understand. To witness contradictions given form." It tilted its head slightly, its tone turning sardonic. "And you, dear Witcher, are contradiction incarnate."
"You've faced death," the dog said thoughtfully, its tone almost philosophical. "And yet you carry it with you, bound to your being, like a shadow that cannot be cast away."
Veylan's expression hardened, but he said nothing.
The cat leapt lightly from the fountain, circling the two Witchers with fluid, predatory grace. "Your humanity... such as it is... intrigues us. What is a man, after all, but a monster waiting to bloom?"
"And what is a monster," the dog countered gently, its piercing gaze settling on Veylan, "but a reflection of what humanity fears most about itself?"
Veylan crossed his arms, his voice low and cold. "I didn't come here for philosophy. What do you want?"
The cat sat back on its haunches, its tail flicking idly. "Want? Oh, Witcher, you misunderstand. We're not here to take... only to give."
"And to guide," the dog added. Its tone deepened, gaining a grave weight. "The mistress of this place rests uneasily. Regrets cling to her like chains, binding her soul. You'll need strength, and clarity, to free her."
"Or survive her," the cat quipped, its tone light but its gaze sharp. "But first, there's the matter of the caretaker."
Geralt raised an eyebrow. "The caretaker?"
The cat nodded, leaping back onto the fountain's edge with fluid grace. "He's just past the back gate. Poor soul's been... twisted by grief. A dangerous guardian, he is."
"Leave him be," the dog added solemnly, "and he'll only make things worse for you later."
"Deal with him," the cat purred, "and the path will be clearer. Less... interrupted."
Geralt exchanged a glance with Veylan, who remained silent but tense. "Why tell us this?" Geralt asked.
The cat's eyes gleamed with amusement. "Why not? The game is far more interesting with you alive."
"And besides," the dog said softly, "even the restless deserve rest."
Before either Witcher could respond, the cat and dog turned as one, melting back into the shadows. Their voices lingered faintly on the wind, like whispers caught in the fog.
"A long way from here..." the cat's voice purred, fading like an echo.
"...and perhaps closer than you think," the dog finished.
Veylan exhaled slowly, his sharp gaze scanning the shadows where the strange pair had vanished. The oppressive stillness of the courtyard returned, though now it felt heavier, as if the estate itself had taken notice of their presence.
Geralt adjusted his grip on the hilt of his sword. "What do you think?"
Veylan's lips curled into a faint smirk. "I think we've got work to do. Let's find this groundskeeper."
…
The faint creak of iron hinges groaned through the garden as Veylan unlatched the gate, his crimson mist swirling around the mechanisms before materializing on the other side. With a sharp, deliberate motion, he swung the gate open, allowing Geralt to step through. The air behind the manor was colder, sharper, as though the land itself recoiled from their intrusion. Overgrown hedges cast twisted shadows across cracked flagstones, and the scent of damp earth mixed with an unnatural rot hung heavy in the air.
Their boots crunched softly against the moss-covered path as they entered the garden. At its center, hunched over a freshly dug grave, stood a figure cloaked in black. Its broad back was turned to them, its hood concealing its features as it worked silently with a rusted shovel. Around it, a series of other graves lined the space, marked with crude, weathered headstones, each inscribed with a single name, some faded, others freshly carved.
The figure paused, still as death itself, as though sensing their presence. Slowly, deliberately, it turned, the movement agonizingly slow. The shovel it held scraped against the stone edging of the grave, a shrill sound that sent a shiver through the air. As it turned fully, its hood fell back.
Veylan and Geralt froze.
The thing had no eyes, no face at all except for a gaping mouth twisted into an unnatural grimace, as though it had been stitched and fused together from countless pieces of flesh. Its skin gleamed wetly in the faint light, its eyeless gaze somehow locking onto them. It clutched the shovel like a knight would a blade, its grotesque form radiating a cold, suffocating menace.
"Not just a gardener," Veylan muttered under his breath, his scarred fingers tightening around the hilt of his silver sword.
The Caretaker shifted slightly, the motion almost human, as though studying them with unseen eyes. Then, without warning, it gripped the shovel with both hands, raising it with unnatural strength, its stooped frame straightening to an imposing height. The weapon gleamed faintly with dark magic, the etched runes along its blade glowing green.
The two Witchers moved in unison, silver swords drawn in a flash of moonlight. Geralt's expression was grim, his scarred features hardening as he took a defensive stance. Veylan stepped to his right, his amber-green eyes narrowing as he assessed the creature's movements, his blade held in a low, ready position.
"It's not just flesh," Geralt growled, his voice low. "It's bound by something darker."
"Let's unbind it, then," Veylan replied.
The Caretaker moved first, closing the gap with horrifying speed for something of its size. Its shovel came down in a massive overhead swing, the force shattering the ground where Geralt had been standing moments before. The White Wolf sidestepped the blow with a fluid motion, his silver sword slashing at the Caretaker's exposed flank. The blade bit deep into its flesh, but no blood flowed, only a faint, sickly green mist seeped from the wound.
Veylan darted in next, his blade flashing in a series of precise strikes aimed at the creature's legs, trying to cripple its movement. The Caretaker spun with unnatural grace, its shovel swinging in a deadly arc. Veylan leapt back just in time, the weapon grazing his chest armor and sending a shockwave through his body.
The creature roared, an otherworldly sound that seemed to resonate deep in their bones. It slammed its shovel into the ground, and green energy erupted outward in a wave. The Witchers barely managed to evade the blast, rolling in opposite directions as the energy seared the earth, leaving it blackened and lifeless.
Geralt recovered first, his silver sword flashing as he lunged at the Caretaker. The creature met his strike with its shovel, the two weapons clashing with a deafening ring. As Geralt pushed forward, a sickly green light flared from the Caretaker's weapon. The White Wolf's expression twisted in pain as he staggered, his strength visibly draining, the green energy siphoning it from his body.
"Get back!" Veylan barked, raising his hand. Fire erupted from his palm as he cast Igni, a jet of flames washing over the Caretaker. The creature staggered, the flames searing its patchwork flesh, but it didn't fall. Veylan followed up with Aard, a blast of freezing air and magical force slamming into the creature and knocking it back. Ice crystals formed along its malformed limbs, slowing its movements.
Geralt retreated, breathing heavily, his grip on his sword steadying. "That thing's feeding off us."
"Then we keep our distance," Veylan replied, circling the creature, his blade ready. "Wear it down."
The Caretaker shook off the ice, its movements jerky but still powerful. It swung its shovel in a wide arc, forcing both Witchers to retreat. The ground beneath it began to writhe as green energy seeped into the soil, and spectral hands clawed their way out—ghastly apparitions bound to the Caretaker's will. They reached for the Witchers with hollow cries, their incorporeal forms flickering with dark magic.
Geralt raised his hand, casting Yrden. The trap glowed faintly, slowing the specters as they entered its radius. With precise strikes, he dispatched two of the ghostly figures, their forms dissipating into mist. Veylan moved to the other side, his silver sword slashing through another specter as he cast Igni again, the fire engulfing the remaining apparitions and driving them back.
The Caretaker roared, its fury evident as it charged Veylan, its shovel raised high. The Chimera-Witcher waited until the last moment, then sidestepped, his blade slicing through the creature's arm. The Caretaker howled, but its grip on the shovel didn't falter. Veylan's eyes burned red briefly, a flash of his monstrous nature surfacing as he lunged, driving his blade into the Caretaker's torso. Green mist erupted from the wound, forcing him to retreat as the noxious energy burned his senses.
Geralt took the opportunity to strike from behind, his sword slashing across the creature's back. This time, the wound destabilized the dark magic holding the Caretaker together. Its movements grew more erratic, the green glow from its shovel flickering.
"Now!" Geralt shouted.
Veylan charged, his blade glowing faintly as he muttered an incantation in Elder Speech. He struck with precision, driving his sword into the creature's shoulder and forcing it to drop the shovel. Geralt followed up, his sword piercing the Caretaker's chest. The creature froze, its form trembling violently as the magic binding it unraveled.
With a final, deafening roar, the Caretaker collapsed, its body disintegrating into ash and green mist. The garden fell silent, the oppressive energy lifting slightly.
Veylan pulled his sword free, the runes along its blade dimming. He exhaled slowly, wiping the ash from his gauntlet.
"That was... unpleasant," Geralt muttered, sheathing his sword.
Veylan nodded, "Let's hope the mistress of this place isn't worse."
…
The air inside the Von Everec manor was thick with the scent of mildew and old wood. Shadows clung to every corner, broken only by the faint light of the Witchers' torches as they moved through the grand, decrepit halls. The place reeked of sorrow, an unshakable weight that seemed to press down on them with every step.
Veylan's amber-green eyes swept the room ahead, his silver-forged blade drawn and ready. Geralt followed close behind, his own sword held low but steady. The faint creak of the warped floorboards echoed eerily through the stillness.
They passed a sitting room with furniture long left to decay. A shattered tea set lay on a broken table, its porcelain pieces scattered like the remnants of a fractured memory. On one wall, a large portrait of Iris and Olgierd von Everec hung askew. In the painting, they looked happy, genuinely happy. Olgierd's usually grim face was softened by a rare smile, while Iris's expression was radiant with joy. The stark contrast to the desolation of the manor only deepened the sense of tragedy.
Veylan paused, his sharp gaze lingering on the painting. "They weren't always like this."
"Regret twists people," Geralt said quietly, his voice steady but somber. "And places like this... it keeps it alive."
They moved on, climbing the grand staircase, their boots stirring up layers of dust. Partway up, something shifted, a flicker of movement from the corner of Veylan's eye. His head snapped toward a nearby painting of a skeletal tree, its branches jagged and lifeless.
Suddenly, the painting rippled as though the oil within it were liquid. A skeletal wraith-like figure lunged from the canvas, its hollow eyes glowing with malevolent green light.
"Down!" Veylan shouted, shoving Geralt aside as the specter slashed at them with jagged claws. The claws missed by inches, gouging deep lines into the wooden railing.
The two Witchers rolled and recovered in perfect unison, their swords drawn. The specter let out an ear-piercing wail before vanishing into the shadows.
"Keep moving," Geralt muttered, his voice tight. "She's not done yet."
The upper level of the manor was even more decrepit. They moved cautiously, passing a bedroom door that hung loosely on its hinges. Inside, Veylan spotted a small table with a few keepsakes: a sketchbook, its pages filled with delicate drawings of flowers, landscapes, and portraits, along with a small framed picture of Iris and her parents.
"Looks like she was an artist," Veylan said softly, picking up the sketchbook. His touch was careful, almost reverent.
Geralt nodded, his sharp eyes scanning the room. "These might help. If we can give her something she remembers fondly, it could give her peace."
They gathered the items, sketchbook, family portrait, and a smaller drawing of Iris and Olgierd, and secured them in Veylan's satchel before heading down the dimly lit hallway past the bedroom.
As they moved deeper into the upper level, the oppressive atmosphere thickened. The hallway ahead was lined with six paintings of Iris, each depicting her at different stages of life. The faint flicker of their torches illuminated the forlorn expressions in each painting.
Without warning, the lights extinguished.
"Geralt?" Veylan's voice cut through the sudden darkness, but there was no response. His heart pounded as he gripped his sword tighter. Then, just as abruptly, the lights flared back to life.
The corridor was empty, Geralt was gone.
Before Veylan could think, the painting furthest down the hall began to ripple with sickly green energy. The specter burst forth, her skeletal form twisted and enraged, claws slashing toward him in a blur. Veylan barely managed to duck, the claws tearing through the air where his head had been.
The specter came at him relentlessly, her movements unnaturally fast and fluid. Veylan blocked a downward slash with his silver sword, the impact vibrating up his arm. He twisted away, casting Yrden to bind her in place. The glowing trap slowed her movements, giving him a brief reprieve to assess her pattern.
She wailed and lashed out, her claws glowing with spectral energy. Veylan dodged backward, his form dissolving into mist as he used his Foglet abilities to avoid a strike that would have gutted him. He reformed a few feet away, his sword ready.
The specter faltered, her form flickering. Veylan's sharp eyes caught it—she was retreating toward one of the paintings. He watched as she melted into the canvas, the green energy within it glowing brighter.
"A link," Veylan muttered under his breath. Acting on instinct, he cast Igni, the fiery blast slamming into the painting. The canvas blackened and curled, the green light flickering out. A deafening scream tore through the hallway, and the specter reappeared, visibly weaker.
"So that's it," Veylan growled, determination hardening his gaze.
The specter charged again, her claws slashing wildly. Veylan had no room to dodge, so he blocked the strike, bracing against the strength behind it. The specter's energy burned through his guard, forcing him to drop and roll away. She followed, relentless, forcing him to use his higher vampire reflexes to dart around her strikes, moving faster than humanly possible.
As she turned for another attack, Veylan hurled a Dimeritium Bomb, the silver shavings within it exploding on impact. The specter screamed as the magic-laced shrapnel tore into her form, slowing her once more.
Veylan didn't hesitate. He sprinted toward the next painting, casting Igni in a fiery arc that engulfed the canvas. The green energy faded as the painting burned, and the specter wailed, visibly weakening further.
One by one, he targeted the remaining paintings, evading the specter's desperate attempts to stop him. Each time he burned a painting, she grew more sluggish, her attacks less coordinated. By the time he reached the last painting, she was barely standing.
With a final blast of Igni, the last painting crumbled into ash. The specter let out a piercing shriek as her form flickered and dissolved, vanishing into the ether. The oppressive energy lifted, leaving the hallway in eerie silence.
Veylan leaned heavily against the wall, catching his breath. His amber-green eyes scanned the hallway, still half-expecting another attack.
"Veylan."
He turned sharply to see Geralt emerging from the shadows, his silver sword drawn and his chest heaving. The White Wolf looked like he'd just come out of a fight, his hair disheveled and his breathing labored. Green scorch marks on the floor suggested he'd been using Igni.
"You disappeared," Veylan said, his voice rough with exhaustion.
"So did you," Geralt replied grimly. He sheathed his sword, glancing around the hallway. "Looks like we were fighting the same thing... just not together."
Veylan exhaled slowly, nodding. "She's gone. For now."
"Good," Geralt said, his voice tight. "But let's not assume this is over."
The two Witchers exchanged a grim look before turning their attention to the end of the hallway, where the faint outline of another door waited in the shadows.
The grand chamber at the heart of the Von Everec manor felt suffocating, the heavy air pressing down on Veylan and Geralt as they stepped inside. Dust coated every surface, and the once-luxurious furniture lay in shambles, a pale echo of the life it once supported. At the center of the room, draped across a faded chaise lounge, lay the figure of Iris von Everec.
Her body was unnaturally still, as though frozen in time. Her hands rested delicately on her lap, her face serene and unmarked by pain. She looked as though she had simply lain down to rest and never risen again. No blood, no signs of violence—just a silent, eternal repose.
Geralt approached cautiously, his silver sword still drawn, his steps slow and deliberate. He crouched beside her, his sharp gaze scanning for any sign of what might have killed her. "No wounds," he murmured, frowning deeply. "No broken bones... nothing."
Veylan stood on the other side, his amber-green eyes studying her expression. "She looks like she just... gave up," he said quietly, his voice laced with unease.
Before they could say more, a familiar voice purred softly from the shadows. "Because she did."
The black cat and dog emerged from the dark corners of the room, their forms graceful yet imposing. The cat leapt onto the edge of the chaise lounge, its golden eyes gleaming as it stared at Iris's still form. The dog sat beside it, his broad frame shadowed but steady.
Geralt straightened, his eyes narrowing. "What happened to her?" he asked, his voice tinged with suspicion.
The dog spoke first, his deep voice mournful. "Her heart burst."
"That's impossible," Geralt said sharply, crossing his arms. "No one dies from—"
"They do," Veylan interrupted, his tone quieter but knowing. His gaze didn't leave Iris. "When the heart breaks, sometimes it takes the body with it."
The cat's sharp gaze turned toward Veylan, its tail flicking lazily. "You understand," it said softly, almost approvingly. "She wasn't killed. She wasn't cursed. She simply... couldn't bear the weight of her sorrow."
Veylan's jaw tightened as he looked back at the spectral companions. "And while we're addressing things, why are you two helping us? Really?"
The cat stretched, its claws extending briefly before retracting. "We told you. It is our duty to help Iris."
The dog's ears lowered slightly, his voice steady but tinged with melancholy. "She deserves peace, and it is our charge to aid her in finding it."
Veylan narrowed his eyes, his tone turning colder. "Generous demons? I don't buy it." He pointed at them with his sword. "You're demons, aren't you? Summoned by Olgierd when he left her behind. You were bound to serve her, but when she died, your service didn't end. You're stuck here, aren't you? Trapped until someone finds a way to break the bond."
The cat and dog both stilled, their ears drooping slightly in a way that spoke volumes. The cat looked away briefly, its golden eyes dimming, while the dog lowered its head, a faint rumble escaping his chest.
"You're not wrong," the dog admitted finally, his voice low and tinged with shame. "We'll give you that much. You're right. We're bound to this place, to her, even in death."
The cat sighed softly, its sharp tone subdued. "But we are not responsible for her fate. We're just victims, like her, caught in the same cruel web. A game that's gone on too long. A game that never should have been played... if this is what it led to."
For a long moment, there was silence, broken only by the faint creak of the dilapidated house settling. Veylan's mind worked quickly, his sharp gaze flicking between Iris's body and the spectral beings.
"Well," he said at last, his voice deliberate, "could you, hypothetically, use a drop of my blood to purify her? To lift the curse after we bury her? Give her peace, finally?"
The cat and dog both stiffened slightly, their eyes narrowing as they looked at him. A strange silence fell over the room as though the air itself were waiting for their response.
The dog sniffed the air faintly, his ears twitching. "There's something about you... something more than the monsters within."
The cat's golden eyes gleamed, its gaze sharp and probing. "It's not just the blood of beasts you carry. There's something brighter. Something... ancient. A sun that burns away the darkness around it."
Veylan's expression remained calm, though his heart quickened slightly. "I have Elder Blood. If that's what you're sensing, it's nothing new."
The dog nodded slowly, his voice quiet but sure. "Yes. That could work. Elder Blood... purifies. Restores. If we had even a drop of it, we could perform a brief but potent ritual to lift the bonds that hold her, and us, to this place."
The cat tilted its head, its voice thoughtful. "After you bury her, if the blood is given willingly, it could cleanse the remnants of sorrow and regret tied to her spirit."
Veylan sheathed his sword and stepped closer to Iris's body, his gaze softening slightly. "Then let's bury her properly. After that... we'll see if it works."
The cat and dog exchanged a brief glance, their expressions almost hopeful, though tempered by centuries of weariness.
"Very well," the dog said solemnly. "We'll guide you through the ritual once it's done."
As Veylan and Geralt prepared to carry Iris's body to the garden, the room seemed to brighten faintly, as though the house itself approved of their efforts.
The garden was silent, save for the faint rustle of leaves in the cool breeze. Veylan and Geralt had found a suitable spot beneath a cluster of tall, graceful trees, near a patch of flowers that still bloomed stubbornly amidst the decay. They were careful to avoid disturbing the blossoms, instead selecting a space near a weathered canvas that rested on a tilted easel, its surface blank yet marked by faint smudges of paint.
Together, they began to dig.
The soil was soft but heavy, the act of carving a grave for Iris laden with a weight far greater than the physical labor. They worked in silence, their movements precise and deliberate, until the hole was deep enough to lay her to rest.
Veylan lifted Iris's body gently, his sharp features unusually soft as he carried her with great care. She still looked serene, as though she had simply fallen asleep. They placed her within the grave, her hands folded over her chest, her expression unchanged.
Next, they carefully arranged the items they had gathered. Geralt placed her sketchbook beside her, running a calloused hand over its worn cover before setting it down. "Her art," he murmured, his voice quiet. "It's... beautiful. Shame it didn't brought her more peace before."
Veylan added the two pictures: one of Iris and Olgierd in happier times and another of her parents. He lingered over the photograph of her family for a moment, his amber-green eyes distant. "A reminder of who she was," he said softly, placing the photo with care.
Finally, they added the remains of the withered rose they had found on her nightstand, its faded petals crumbling slightly as it was laid with her. It rested just above her heart, a symbol of the love that had once defined her life, and ultimately, her sorrow.
The two Witchers stood over the grave in silence for a long moment, their heads bowed. It was Geralt who spoke first, his voice low and rough with the weight of what had transpired.
"I wish... I could've known her," he said, staring at the fresh grave. "Her paintings, her drawings... they speak of someone who saw beauty even when surrounded by ugliness. She deserved better than this."
Veylan nodded, his arms crossed as he stared down at the earth. His voice was quieter, tinged with regret. "She had talent. A gift. But what good is a gift if there's no joy left to share it with?" He paused, his expression hardening briefly. "We couldn't bring her more joy, but at least... we can give her peace."
Geralt took a moment to digest that as he stared down at the grave and kept his head bowed. "Yeah. Peace." He exhaled slowly, shaking his head. "Shame it's something we can only give her now."
Veylan said nothing for a moment, instead lowering himself into a crouch and pressing a hand to the earth. His amber-green eyes closed, and he remained there in silence for several long seconds, as though offering her a final, wordless goodbye.
When the silence stretched too long, Veylan stood, his movements deliberate as he turned toward the black dog and cat, who sat nearby, watching quietly. The air around them felt charged, as though the garden itself awaited the culmination of their efforts.
"Let's finish this," Veylan said, his voice steady.
The dog nodded solemnly, while the cat's golden eyes gleamed with something like approval. "You know what must be done," the feline said, its tone quiet.
Veylan drew his dagger from its sheath, the blade glinting faintly in the soft light. He held it against his thumb and pressed down, the sharp edge drawing a bead of deep crimson. He let the blood drip into a vial, watching as it pooled within. The blood seemed to shimmer faintly, catching the light in a way that was almost unnatural.
He handed the vial to the cat, who padded over to the magical circle they had prepared earlier. The intricate symbols and runes were etched into the soft soil, glowing faintly with the power of Elder Speech and ancient magic. The dog placed the vial carefully at the circle's center.
Veylan stepped forward, crouching beside the circle. He unsheathed his knife once more and began carving additional runes into the soil, whispering words in Elder Speech as he worked. His voice was low but steady, each syllable resonating with ancient power. These were the final rites—a prayer to end sorrow, to release a soul from its bonds.
As the last rune was completed, the circle flared to life, the symbols glowing with a radiant golden light. The garden seemed to hold its breath, the oppressive weight of sorrow lifting slightly.
The dog and cat stood at opposite ends of the circle, their expressions uncharacteristically solemn. The dog's voice rumbled like distant thunder. "Your blood, bright as the sun, will cleanse what remains. She will rest... as will we."
The cat nodded, its sharp tone subdued. "This place has held too much pain for too long. Let it end here."
Veylan stood, wiping the blade clean before sheathing it. He glanced at Geralt, who stood nearby, his arms crossed as he watched the proceedings with wary curiosity. "This will work," Veylan said, more to himself than anyone else.
"Let's hope so," Geralt replied, his voice quiet.
As the ritual began, the light from the circle grew brighter, and the weight of the garden began to shift.
The black cat and dog stepped into the magical circle, their forms outlined by the golden glow of the Elder Speech runes carved into the soil. The vial of blood at the center began to tremble, a faint hum resonating through the air as if the very essence of the garden were holding its breath.
The cat's golden eyes closed as it began to chant, its voice sharp and cutting, every word of the incantation precise. The dog followed, its deep, rumbling voice grounding the magic with a resonance that seemed to vibrate through the earth itself. Their voices intertwined, weaving a melody of ancient power that filled the air with a profound sense of purpose.
The vial of Veylan's blood lifted from the circle, hovering above the runes as it began to glow with a soft, golden light. The blood within shimmered and swirled, brighter and brighter, until it was almost too radiant to look at. As the chanting continued, the air shifted—the oppressive heaviness of the manor began to lift, as though the garden itself were waking from a long, restless slumber.
The darkness that had festered within the Von Everec manor recoiled, its black tendrils retreating from the light of the ritual. The cloudy, overcast sky began to break, rays of sunlight piercing through the gloom. The suffocating air gave way to a soft breeze, cool and fragrant with the scent of blooming flowers. Around them, the weeds that had choked the garden began to wither and recede, replaced by vibrant blossoms that unfurled in a cascade of color. The trees, once skeletal and barren, regained their leaves, their branches swaying gently in the newfound warmth.
As the chanting reached its crescendo, the light from the vial of blood burst outward in a radiant wave, washing over the garden and manor. The house itself seemed to sigh, its decaying walls no longer a prison but simply the remains of a life long past. The curse was gone.
The cat and dog stepped back as the light within the circle dimmed slightly, their incantations fading to silence. The vial of blood slowly descended, resting gently in the soil, now emptied of its contents. For a moment, there was stillness—then, a soft glow began to coalesce within the circle.
A spectral figure emerged, her form radiant and ethereal. Iris von Everec stood before them, no longer dressed in black but in a flowing gown of soft lavender, her hair cascading in loose waves, her face peaceful and free of the sorrow that had once marred it. She seemed to glow from within, a beacon of light in the restored garden.
Her gaze fell on Veylan first, her expression warm and grateful. She stepped toward him, her translucent form as graceful as it had been in life. "Thank you," she said softly, her voice carrying a gentle strength. "For freeing me from this pain."
Veylan stood still, his amber-green eyes meeting hers. He inclined his head slightly, his voice low but steady. "It was the least I could do. You deserved better."
A soft smile graced her lips, her expression bittersweet. "You gave me what I could not give myself. Peace."
She glanced toward the cat and dog, her expression softening further. They remained at the edge of the circle, their forms growing fainter, their edges blurring as they began to fade. "Thank you, my guardians," Iris said, her voice filled with quiet affection. "You stayed with me... longer than you should have."
The dog bowed his head, his voice resonating deeply. "It was our duty... and our honor."
The cat, for once, looked subdued, its golden eyes dim as it nodded. "We are glad... to see you free."
The two spectral guardians faded further, their forms dissolving into golden motes of light that drifted upward, carried by the gentle breeze. As they vanished completely, the garden seemed to shine even brighter, as though their departure marked the final release of the curse that had bound this place.
Iris turned back to Veylan, her gaze thoughtful. "When you see Olgierd again," she said softly, "tell him... I still love him." Her voice trembled faintly, though her expression remained steady. "In spite of everything... I love him."
Her form began to fade, the golden light around her dimming as her time in this world came to an end. She looked at Veylan one last time, her smile radiant and full of peace. "Goodbye... and thank you."
With that, Iris's spectral form dissolved into the light, her essence rising toward the sky. The garden fell silent once more, but it was a different silence, one of peace, not sorrow.
Veylan and Geralt stood in the restored garden, their swords sheathed, the air around them no longer heavy but serene. The flowers swayed gently in the breeze, their colors vivid against the soft sunlight. The curse was lifted, and with it, the weight of Iris's pain.
Geralt let out a slow breath, his voice quiet. "She deserved better... but at least now, she's free."
Veylan nodded, his gaze lingering on the spot where Iris had vanished. "And Olgierd will know... she never stopped loving him."
The two Witchers turned toward the manor's exit, their task complete.