The Witcher: Chimera
Chapter 9: The Identity of The Devine
…
The two Witchers stand in the now peaceful garden of the Von Everec manor, the lingering light of the restored flowers reflecting in their tired eyes. As they prepare to leave, Geralt sheathes his sword and turns to Veylan, his tone practical yet thoughtful.
"Before we head to the Alchemy," Geralt begins, "there are two stops I need to make."
Veylan raises an eyebrow, his posture relaxing slightly after the weight of their encounter with Iris. "This about more cursed paintings?" he asks dryly.
Geralt smirks faintly but shakes his head. "Not quite. First, I need to check on Shani. It's been a while, and I'd rather not leave her without a visit, considering everything that's happened. Second..." He hesitates briefly. "I might have a lead to check out in Oxenfurt. Someone I need to meet before we deal with Volodimir. Could be useful."
Veylan nods, though his expression remains guarded. "Makes sense. You're planning to head out now?"
"It's late," Geralt replies, glancing at the sky, where the sun is beginning to set. "You should rest up first. I'll run these errands and meet you back at the Alchemy when I'm done. Won't be long."
"Alright," Veylan says, his tone steady. "But don't get yourself into trouble without me."
"Wouldn't dream of it," Geralt quips, the faintest smile tugging at his lips as he mounts his horse, Roach. He looks back at Veylan briefly. "Rest up. We've got a long night ahead of us soon enough."
With that, Geralt rides off, leaving Veylan to make his way back to his home.
…
The streets near Veylan's home are quiet, the sky painted with hues of dusk as the stars begin to emerge. As he approaches, the nearby Nilfgaardian guards stationed along the road recognize him immediately. Their polished armor gleams faintly in the fading light, and they straighten, saluting him as he passes.
"Master Veylan," one of the guards says, his tone respectful. "A notice came in from Oxenfurt earlier today, another contract for the next week."
Veylan pauses, his amber-green eyes flicking to the guard. "What kind of contract?"
"Necker and Drowner remains," the guard replies. "Seems the scholars in Oxenfurt are in need of fresh samples. They've set the deadline for three days from now, should you choose to pursue it."
Veylan nods thoughtfully. "Thanks for the information. I'll keep my eyes peeled for any Necker dens or signs of Drowners at the riverbanks whenever I pass by."
The guards salute once more as he continues on, their disciplined demeanor shining through once more as they returned their patrol. The faint noise of his boots against the cobblestones soon gives way to the softer sounds of the natural world as he approaches his secluded home on the outskirts of the city.
The soft glow of candlelight greets Veylan as he opens the door to his home. The familiar warmth of the space is a welcome reprieve after the chaos of the Von Everec manor. Setting his swords carefully against the wall near the entrance, he steps further in, the scent of incense catching his attention.
In the center of the room, Erynn kneels before a bronze statue of her elven patron that he got her at the auction house, its intricate design glowing faintly in the flickering light Offerings of fruit, herbs, and small trinkets are carefully arranged at the base of the statue, and she is reciting a prayer in Elder Speech, her voice melodic and serene.
Veylan watches her for a moment, a rare softness crossing his features. He steps forward quietly and kneels beside her, joining her in the prayer. His voice, deeper and rougher than hers, matches her rhythm as he speaks the sacred words in Elder Speech. The corners of Erynn's mouth lift into a warm smile, her eyes opening briefly to glance at him before returning to the statue.
As the prayer concludes, Erynn places her hands together, bowing her head slightly. She turns to Veylan, her smile widening. "You've been practicing," she says teasingly.
He smirks faintly, his amber-green eyes meeting hers. "Only because I've got a good teacher."
They share a brief, quiet laugh before Erynn shifts closer to him, resting her head on his shoulder. The moment is peaceful, unmarred by the chaos that often surrounds them. For a while, they simply sit there, the warmth of the room and the glow of the candles wrapping around them like a protective cocoon.
As the night deepens, Veylan allows himself to relax fully for the first time in what feels like days. The weight of his swords is gone, the heaviness of the past few days temporarily lifted.
"I'm looking forward to a long night with you," he murmurs, his voice soft.
Erynn tilts her head up, her foxlike eyes shimmering in the candlelight. "And I with you," she replies, her voice equally tender.
For now, the night is theirs, and the rest of the world can wait.
…
The room was still, the soft light of the moon filtering through the window as Veylan lay in bed. Erynn rested against his chest, her breathing steady and calm as she curled around him. Her presence was grounding, a rare comfort that eased his otherwise restless mind. But tonight, sleep came with a weight heavier than usual.
As Veylan drifted off, he became aware of a dream, no, not just a dream. It felt sharper, more vivid, like a memory clawing its way back to the surface. He knew it wasn't real, but the sensations were too precise to ignore. The cold dampness of the stone floor beneath him. The smell of rot and metal in the air. The faint glow of alchemical lights casting shadows in his cell.
He was back. Back in the prison where they had made him, twisted him.
Veylan stood, his amber-green eyes scanning the space. He knew every inch of this place, every mark he'd left on the walls in his desperation to survive. Yet, as he stepped closer to one of the carvings, he noticed something, someone, standing there, studying his work.
Gaunter O'Dimm. The Man of Glass.
He wasn't a memory. He was here, in Veylan's mind, as real as the scars on his body.
O'Dimm turned, his expression calm yet tinged with amusement, as though he had been waiting. "Ah, Veylan," he said, his voice smooth as silk. "What an interesting place. I must say, your craftsmanship is... compelling."
Veylan's fists clenched instinctively. "You're not supposed to be here."
O'Dimm chuckled softly, his hands clasped behind his back as he strolled along the walls, admiring the carvings. "And yet, here I am. Dreams are such fascinating things, aren't they? Memories, hopes, fears... all blending into one." He turned, his sharp gaze locking onto Veylan. "But this? This is a memory, isn't it? A moment burned into the very fabric of your being."
Veylan's jaw tightened. "What do you want?"
O'Dimm smiled faintly, his head tilting slightly as though genuinely curious. "What drives you, Veylan? After all, you've already accomplished more than most could ever dream of. You've faced death and monsters alike. You've become the stuff of legends. And yet..." He gestured to the walls. "You carry this place with you still."
Veylan's voice was low, steady. "I don't forget where I came from."
"Ah," O'Dimm said, nodding as though considering the thought. "Humility. Or perhaps stubbornness. Either way, it's... humbling, in its own way." He stopped, turning to face Veylan fully. "Tell me something. Humor me." With a wave of his hand, a chair appeared—a finely crafted piece of dark wood, simple yet elegant. O'Dimm sat down, resting one leg over the other as he leaned back. "What do you think I am?"
Veylan stared at him for a long moment, his sharp mind working quickly. He'd heard rumors of the Man of Glass, Gaunter O'Dimm. Stories of a being who granted wishes at terrible costs. Ancient legends spoken in whispers throughout the Continent. He stepped forward, and with a shrug, conjured his own answer.
"You're powerful," Veylan said slowly, sitting down across from him on another chair that materialized without fanfare. "You've done things no ordinary man could do. Given all the crazy shit you've pulled, and the power you hold, you're either a post- or pre-Conjunction creature. Insanely powerful, at that."
O'Dimm smiled faintly, his expression unreadable as he listened.
"But that's not the only option," Veylan continued, his voice sharper now. "Back at the Von Everec estate... those two demons, those guardians, used sigils during the ritual. Very specific ones. One of the most prominent runes was the symbol of Chernobog. The Black God."
The corners of O'Dimm's mouth twitched upward into a wider smile.
"So," Veylan said, leaning forward slightly. "That's what you are, isn't it? A being ancient civilizations knew as the Black God. Chernobog."
For a long moment, O'Dimm said nothing. Then, slowly, he began to clap. The sound echoed strangely in the stone cell, each clap deliberate and measured. "Well done, Veylan. Well done." His smile widened, sharp and dangerous. "Few mortals have such insight. Fewer still can face the gods and hold their own wills against them. Least of all me."
He stood, his presence looming even as he remained calm. "You've earned something for that. A reward, if you will. Not out of pity or obligation, mind you, but out of... respect. You've impressed me, Master Witcher. And that, I assure you, is no small feat."
With a flick of his hand, a small object appeared in the air—a simple, unassuming ring. Its band was dark and smooth, inscribed with faint, nearly imperceptible runes. It floated toward Veylan, hovering just above his palm.
"A sign of authority," O'Dimm explained, his voice smooth. "Subtle, but powerful. Demons, spirits, and other denizens of the darker realms will know it for what it is—and they will heed it."
Next, a dagger appeared beside the ring, its blade gleaming faintly with a silvery-black sheen. Its hilt was ornate but practical, fitting perfectly into Veylan's hand when he reached for it.
"And this," O'Dimm continued, "a blade far superior to what you currently carry. It will cut through more than flesh and bone, through enchantments, bindings, and even the fabric of reality itself, should the need arise."
Veylan examined the items carefully, his expression guarded. "What's the catch?"
O'Dimm smiled, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "No catch. Use them well, and perhaps you'll surprise me again." He stepped closer, his voice lowering slightly. "Consider this... an investment."
The cell around them began to fade, the memory unraveling as O'Dimm's form became less distinct. His voice lingered, even as the dream began to dissolve. "Farewell, Veylan. For now."
When Veylan awoke, the ring was on his finger, and the dagger lay on the table beside his bed. The faintest trace of a smile crossed his lips as he stared at the objects. Whatever game O'Dimm was playing, Veylan had no intention of being anyone's pawn, but he would play along, for now.
…
A few hours later, before dawn…
The moon hung low in the sky as Veylan adjusted the worn leather straps of his reinforced gear. His Witcher medallion faintly trembled as he crouched near the mist-covered riverbank. He had spent hours setting up the silver-laced nets submerged just beneath the water's surface, anchored by sharpened stakes driven into the riverbed.
A faint ripple broke the stillness, followed by the unmistakable guttural croaks of approaching Drowners. Their twisted, waterlogged forms waded into the shallows, drawn by the scent of bait he had placed further upriver. Veylan watched patiently from the shadows, hidden beneath a cloak dusted with earth and river mud.
The first Drowner snarled as it lunged, triggering the closest net. The enchanted silver cords coiled around its limbs with unnatural precision, binding its grotesque, thrashing body. Two more Drowners surged forward, only to be ensnared in similar traps, their claws useless against the Witcher-forged steel and silver weave.
With calculated ease, Veylan drew a small metal injector from his belt. It resembled a thick, dart-like bolt with a sharp, hollow tip filled with a specialized alchemical toxin. He approached swiftly, driving the injector into the nearest drowner's chest with practiced precision. It let out a gurgling screech before falling limp.
One by one, he dispatched the rest, injecting them through exposed gaps in their hardened, scaly hides. The concoction, an alchemical blend of dimeritium extract, ghoul's bile, and bloodroot oil, paralyzed their hearts while preserving their organs. A clean harvest for study.
He dragged the lifeless bodies a safe distance from the water's edge, laying them out in an orderly line. With a deep breath, Veylan raised a small hunting horn from his belt and blew three sharp notes. Moments later, torches appeared from the nearby road as Oxenfurt's collection team approached, well-armored and ready.
The scholars examined the bodies closely, nodding with satisfaction. "Completely intact... impressive." They handed over a pouch of extra coin, acknowledging the pristine condition of the specimens. "Your work is appreciated, Witcher."
Veylan gave a curt nod, already thinking of the next task.
…
The dark woods were alive with faint rustling and the distant howls of wild creatures. Veylan moved with fluid grace, his steps silent over leaf-strewn earth. He approached a small clearing where he had prepared a series of steel-reinforced, silver-laced cages disguised with branches and foliage.
A deep, guttural growl caught his ear, followed by sharp, clicking noises—the telltale sound of neckers communicating. He adjusted his crossbow, loaded with specialized bolt-darts filled with a paralytic toxin.
One nekkering screeched in triumph as it lunged at what it thought was an easy kill—a snare baited with fresh meat. The hidden cage snapped shut, slamming it inside with a violent clatter. Its claws scratched frantically against the silver bars, causing sparks to fly.
The commotion triggered an ambush. Six more neckers emerged from the underbrush, their twisted, sinewy bodies darting through the shadows. Veylan loosed three rapid shots from his crossbow, the alchemical darts finding their marks. Two neckers collapsed immediately, their twitching bodies paralyzed by the toxic brew.
The others charged, forcing Veylan to draw his serrated steel sword. The blade gleamed faintly under the moonlight, its jagged edge perfect for cutting through their tough hides. He dispatched two with precise, brutal cuts before sidestepping a vicious swipe from the last remaining beast—a nekkering leader, larger and more feral than the rest.
With a snarl, the creature lunged, forcing Veylan back against a tree. Its claws raked across his armored chest, sending a flare of pain through his ribs. He gritted his teeth and used the momentum to drive his knee into the beast's gut, forcing it off balance. In one swift motion, he seized another injector from his belt and rammed it into the nekkering's exposed neck.
The beast thrashed violently before its limbs stiffened and it collapsed into a twitching heap. Its chest rose and fell faintly, the paralytic agent keeping its heart active just long enough to ensure a "fresh" capture.
Veylan exhaled, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth before dragging the bound neckers into the center of the clearing. Seventeen in total.
After securing the last cage and ensuring the creatures wouldn't break free, he once again raised his hunting horn and blew three sharp notes. Torchlight emerged from the woods as the Oxenfurt collection team arrived, visibly impressed by the harvest.
"By the gods... you caught the whole den."
One of the more experienced handlers examined the large nekkering leader with awe. "This one will be... valuable."
The coin pouch they handed over was noticeably heavier this time. Veylan nodded without comment, slinging his gear over his shoulder as he faded back into the woods, leaving the team to their work. His task was complete, and the forest fell silent once more.
Now came the next order of business, talking to Geralt.
…
The streets of Oxenfurt were alive with the familiar sounds of bustling scholars, merchants hawking wares, and distant hammering from the university's smithy. The faint scent of roasted meats and ale drifted through the air as Veylan approached the tavern where he was supposed to meet Geralt. His silver-forged Witcher sword rested comfortably on his back, the new black dagger sheathed securely across his of Form
He stepped into the dimly lit common room, his sharp gaze immediately catching Geralt sitting at a table near the corner, nursing a tankard of ale. The White Wolf noticed him at once, raising an eyebrow in acknowledgment. Veylan made his way over, pulling out a worn chair and settling into it without a word.
"You're earlier than expected?" Geralt said, his voice gruff but familiar.
"Had work," Veylan replied evenly, motioning for the barkeep. "Took out a few drowners and neckers, Oxenfurt scholars wanted fresh specimens."
Geralt nodded approvingly. "Good coin in that."
The barkeep arrived, placing a worn tankard of dark ale in front of Veylan before retreating. He took a slow sip, savoring the familiar bite of Oxenfurt brew. Geralt watched him carefully, his yellow eyes gleaming faintly in the dim firelight.
"While you were busy with contracts," Geralt said, his tone measured, "I spoke with someone at the university... a professor. Claimed to know something about O'Dimm."
Veylan's sharp gaze lifted. "Did he?"
Geralt nodded slowly, his expression darkening. "Didn't learn much, though. The old man was paranoid, drew a protective circle, wouldn't step outside of it." He paused, his brow furrowing. "Right before he died... he warned me. Said O'Dimm isn't... human."
Veylan's hand tightened faintly around his tankard, but his face remained impassive. "What killed him?"
"He stepped outside the circle." Geralt's voice was low, grim. "Whatever power kept him safe was gone... and the blindness that took his eyes... finished the job."
The two Witchers sat in silence for a moment, the crackling fire the only sound between them.
"Anything else?" Veylan finally asked.
Geralt shook his head. "Not much more. But if we're going to help Olgierd, if we choose to help him, our best bet might be to wager... with O'Dimm." He met Veylan's gaze steadily. "Dangerous game, though."
As he spoke, Geralt's sharp eyes caught something new, a dark, intricately designed ring glinting faintly on Veylan's index finger. Its engraved runes shimmered faintly when the firelight hit them, their meaning just out of reach. His gaze drifted briefly to the black dagger sheathed at Veylan's belt, its curved hilt radiating quiet menace.
"New gear?" Geralt asked casually, though his voice carried an edge of suspicion.
Veylan followed his gaze, exhaling slowly. He twisted the dark ring thoughtfully, its cold metal pressing into his skin. "I had... a visit," he admitted. "From O'Dimm himself."
Geralt stiffened, his jaw tightening. "In your dream?"
"Yes." Veylan leaned forward, his expression dark. "He entered my head while I was asleep, made it seem like I was back... in that cell." His voice grew colder, steel-hard. "Studying my carvings. Watching."
Geralt's expression turned grim. "What did he want?"
Veylan met his gaze without flinching. "Said he wanted to make... an investment." He tapped the dagger's hilt. "This... and the ring."
"Just like that?" Geralt frowned deeply. "No price?"
"Not yet." Veylan's voice dropped to a quiet growl. "He doesn't play by mortal rules."
The two Witchers sat in tense silence, their shared understanding unspoken but clear. They were walking the edge of something ancient, something dangerous.
Before either could speak further, the tavern door creaked open. A tall, scarred man wearing the Von Everec sigil stepped inside, scanning the room with practiced ease. His gaze settled on the two Witchers, and he nodded sharply, gesturing toward a back room.
"Looks like our contact's here," Geralt muttered, downing the rest of his ale and adjusting his worn leather armor. "Let's see what mess we're being dragged into now."
Veylan rose fluidly, his gloved hand brushing the hilt of the black dagger as though seeking reassurance. They exchanged a brief, knowing glance before moving toward the back room, leaving behind the warmth of the fire and stepping into the uncertain dark once more.
The back room of the tavern was dimly lit, illuminated only by a sputtering lantern hung from a rusted hook. The thick scent of stale ale and smoke lingered in the air as Geralt and Veylan stepped inside. A tall, scarred man clad in worn leather bearing Olgierd's sigil leaned against a heavy oak table, his arms crossed. His sharp, calculating eyes tracked their approach.
"Witchers," he greeted with a faint nod. "You're earlier than expected."
"We don't waste time," Veylan replied evenly, his tone clipped but not hostile.
The man chuckled dryly and straightened. "Good. Olgierd wanted me to relay something... though frankly, it's the strangest order I've ever received."
Geralt's gaze narrowed. "Go on."
The contact exhaled, scratching the stubble along his jaw. "O'Dimm told Olgierd... who told me... to tell you this." He held their gaze steadily. "You get to decide the place where you'll meet."
Veylan frowned. "Decide... how?"
The man shrugged. "He said Veylan would 'receive the communication through a random thought that pops into his mind.'" His lips twisted into a dry smirk. "Whatever that means."
Before Veylan could react, something sharp and vivid bloomed in his mind—a memory or perhaps something older, more instinctive. The image of an ancient, crumbling structure surfaced clearly: The Temple of Lilvani.
The thought felt weighted, deliberate—far too specific to be a coincidence. He clenched his jaw for a moment, considering the implications, then spoke the words aloud.
"The Temple of Lilvani."
The contact raised an eyebrow but didn't question the choice. "Good as anywhere, I suppose."
Geralt folded his arms. "Why there?"
"Not sure yet," Veylan admitted, his tone steady despite the strange sense of inevitability hanging in the air. "It just... came to me."
The contact nodded, seemingly satisfied. "You'll need to be there by midnight." His expression turned serious. "O'Dimm doesn't care what you do in the meantime, as long as you arrive on time."
Geralt exchanged a brief glance with Veylan before asking, "Anything else?"
"Just this." The contact's eyes glinted with something unreadable. "O'Dimm said... he's curious to see how this will play out."
The room fell into a tense silence, broken only by the distant murmur of the tavern's patrons beyond the closed door. Veylan's mind remained fixed on the image of the ancient temple, weathered stone walls covered in forgotten symbols, tangled vines snaking through crumbling archways. He could almost feel the weight of its presence pressing against his senses.
Geralt's voice cut through his thoughts. "Any reason O'Dimm might want us there?"
"Could be symbolic... or practical," Veylan replied grimly. "He doesn't do anything without a reason."
The contact chuckled darkly. "If I were you... I'd settle your business before you head there."
Veylan adjusted the leather strap of his sword sheath, his expression serious. "We will."
With a final nod, the contact stepped back into the shadows, disappearing through the rear exit without another word. The heavy silence that followed weighed heavily on both Witchers.
Geralt let out a slow, measured breath. "We've got some time before midnight."
Veylan nodded absently, still lost in thought. "We'll need to be ready for... anything."
"We always are," Geralt replied, though even his voice carried an edge of uncertainty.
…
As Veylan left Oxenfurt, the road stretched dark and winding ahead, hemmed in by ancient oaks and dense undergrowth. The sunlight struggled to pierce the heavy canopy, casting flickering light that seemed to shift with the wind's restless sigh. He moved with purpose, senses honed to unnatural sharpness.
He'd heard rumors from passing travelers of wolves prowling these parts—larger and more aggressive than usual. Even Nilfgaardian patrols had taken casualties. If he had time before the midnight meeting at the Temple of Lilvani, he might as well make good use of it.
The first low growl confirmed his decision. Veylan stopped in his tracks, hand resting instinctively on the hilt of his serrated steel sword. Amber-green eyes scanned the dark forest's edge, picking out subtle movement among the shadows.
"Come on, then," he muttered, drawing his sword with a hiss of steel. "Let's end this."
A savage snarl erupted from the darkness as the first wolf lunged, a massive, scraggly beast with matted fur and blood-streaked fangs. Veylan sidestepped smoothly, the edge of his blade flashing in the moonlight as he drove the weapon through the beast's ribs.
It hit the ground with a wet thud, twitching once before going still. But six more shapes emerged from the shadows, low and snarling, eyes gleaming with predatory hunger.
Veylan fought with practiced precision, his sword flashing in wide, lethal arcs. One wolf came at him from the side, but he turned with inhuman speed, the blade severing its neck in a single, fluid strike.
A second wolf circled behind, jaws snapping dangerously close to his leg before he drove his dagger into its throat, dark blood spraying across his gauntlet. He yanked the blade free and twisted just in time to parry another lunging beast, driving his sword deep into its chest.
Breathing steadily, he backed into a defensive stance, eyes narrowed as the last three wolves paced in a cautious half-circle. They were learning, testing his limits. One let out a sharp bark, signaling an attack.
The pack surged forward. Veylan dropped into a low crouch, sweeping his blade upward in a deadly arc. The first wolf fell, gurgling as blood spilled from a deep neck wound. The last two lunged together.
He rolled, driving his dagger into one's skull while twisting sharply to impale the last on his sword. Its body went limp, and the forest fell silent save for the rustling of leaves in the wind.
Breathing heavily, Veylan cleaned his blade with practiced ease, casting a wary glance at the blood-soaked ground. Seven wolves dead. He sheathed his weapons, stepping back as the scent of death permeated the air.
The distant sound of marching boots and clinking armor caught his ear. He straightened, hand resting on his sword's hilt out of habit. Within moments, a Nilfgaardian patrol emerged from the darkened road, spears held high. Their officer, a lean, stern-faced man with a black-and-gold breastplate, raised his hand for the unit to halt.
"Master Veylan?" the officer asked, clearly recognizing the Witcher.
"Wolves," Veylan explained simply, motioning to the bodies scattered across the bloodstained clearing. "They were hunting the road. Won't be a problem anymore."
The officer surveyed the scene, nodding approvingly. "We've lost a few men to these beasts. You've done the villagers a great service."
Veylan stepped aside, gesturing toward the fallen wolves. "Take the pelts and the meat, distribute it to the nearby settlements."
The officer barked orders to his men, who immediately set to work collecting the bodies. "I'll see that our commander is informed," the officer added, offering a respectful nod. "You've done us a great favor tonight."
Veylan said nothing, simply returning the nod before turning away. He adjusted his gear and set off toward the distant, crumbling outline of the Temple of Lilvani, its ancient spires barely visible in the daylight mist.
The ancient ruins loomed ahead, a forgotten relic of a distant age. Overgrown vines snaked up shattered columns, and worn stone steps led to a moss-covered altar framed by collapsed archways. The night air was cold and still, thick with an almost sacred silence.
Veylan ascended the steps, resting his hand on the cold stone as he surveyed the ruins. He could feel the faint pulse of something ancient lingering in the air—like the echo of forgotten prayers.
With practiced patience, he found a position near the temple's entrance, leaning against a cracked pillar as he waited. The soft rustling of leaves and distant hoot of an owl were the only sounds as he stood watch, his senses sharp and alert.
He didn't have to wait long. A faint shimmer of torchlight flickered at the edge of the winding forest path, two familiar figures making their approach.
Geralt and Olgierd had arrived.
…
The quiet night was broken by the faint echo of boots on ancient stone as Geralt and Olgierd emerged from the darkened forest path. Their faces were set in grim determination, Geralt's sharp, calculating gaze scanning the temple's shadowed edges while Olgierd walked with a slow, measured pace. He seemed resigned, as though already bracing for the inevitable.
Veylan pushed off the weathered column he'd been leaning against, stepping forward to meet them. "You're on time."
Geralt nodded. "Figured O'Dimm wouldn't appreciate us being late."
Olgierd's expression remained distant, though his gaze lingered on the crumbling temple, taking in the long-forgotten symbols of devotion etched into the ancient stone. "Before this... ends," he said slowly, "I want to know how... how things went with Iris."
His voice was steady, but there was something fragile beneath it, like a thread stretched too thin.
Veylan exchanged a glance with Geralt, whose expression softened ever so slightly. "We couldn't... bring her back," Geralt admitted, his he said steadily. "But we did give her peace."
Olgierd stiffened, his shoulders drawing back. His eyes darkened with unreadable emotion. "How...?"
Veylan spoke next, his tone measured but sincere. "We used a ritual involving my blood... with the help of the black dog and cat you left behind. They were bound to her, but in the end, they fulfilled their duty." He took a step closer, his voice steady but quieter. "She's free now, Olgierd... she's finally at peace."
There was silence, thick with unspoken words, until Veylan added gently:
"She asked us to tell you... that she still loves you." His voice softened. "In spite of everything... she still loves you."
The hardened warlord staggered back a step, his eyes widening in disbelief. "She... still loves me...?" he whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of emotions long buried. "After all that's happened... after everything I've done...?"
He stared at the ground, fists clenching and unclenching as his breath came in ragged bursts. His mind seemed to reel under the enormity of it. "Oh, Iris... I... I made a mess of everything... ruined her life... destroyed everything good she had."
His voice trailed off, trembling under the weight of guilt and loss. Suddenly, he gasped, clutching his chest as if pierced by a burning blade.
"Wha-?!" Olgierd staggered, his eyes wide with shock. "It's like... a hot iron's pierced my chest!"
A familiar, chilling voice echoed from above:
"Why... you have your heart back."
The two Witchers and Olgierd snapped their heads upward as Gaunter O'Dimm emerged from the air itself, walking down invisible steps as though descending from the clouds. His polished shoes tapped against the unseen path as he strolled casually onto the ancient stone platform, hands clasped behind his back, his sharp smile as cold as ever.
"Or rather... you've learned how to feel its pull again."
He spread his arms in a mockingly gracious gesture. "And yes, she is at peace. She sends her regards... and her love."
His smile widened into something far more dangerous. "Devana is seeing that she is well cared for... and the Elven goddess Lilvani, who watches over this sacred place, is witnessing this magnificent gathering of souls as we speak with her friend Morona."
Veylan remained still, his gaze unreadable, though Geralt's eyes felt like dinnerplates. "Those are... gods' names," he muttered warily.
O'Dimm's eyes sparkled with dark amusement. "Indeed." Before he seemed to make a decision then and there as he nodded faintly and looked directly at Geralt.
O'Dimm clasped his hands, pacing slowly as though delivering a practiced speech. "You asked me once who I am, Geralt... and I told you I'd spare you that one wish... that one time." His sharp, predatory grin widened. "But I suppose it wouldn't hurt... to tell you the truth now."
He stopped, his voice deepening into something far older, far more commanding. "You've earned it, after all. You... like Veylan... and Olgierd, whose fate still hangs in the balance."
The air thickened, and dark clouds began gathering unnaturally fast overhead, twisting like ink spilled across the sky. Lightning crackled in the distance, illuminating O'Dimm's sharp features. His voice rolled like thunder:
"I am Master Mirror."
Lightning struck again.
"Man of Glass."
The wind howled, whipping through the ancient ruins.
"Gaunter O'Dimm."
The air grew colder, the chill of death itself seeping into their bones.
"Master of Chaos... in all its forms... natural and unnatural..."
The storm intensified, swirling with raw, elemental power.
"But mostly... the unnatural."
The three of them tensed as thunder cracked directly overhead, sending shockwaves through the ancient stone.
"Darkness..."
The words boomed like a war drum.
"Magic... known... and forgotten."
A final, deafening clap of thunder shattered the silence.
"DISORDER!"
The lighting was striking so fast now that it fell every second.
"I HAVE WAS THERE WHEN THE SPHERES FIRST TOOK FORM BY THE HANDS OF ROD AND SVARLOG!"
The lightning was striking so wildly that the whole landscape was lighting up with deafening explosions in the sky.
"I AM THE BROTHER OF BELEBOG WHO REPRESENTS EVERYTHING I AM NOT, AND WHO EVEN NOW IS OFF IN SOME OTHER SPHERE FIGHTING A HOARD OF DEMONS WITH PERUN BY HIS SIDE!"
The storm reached its peak as O'Dimm's voice rose in terrible triumph, becoming a force of nature itself.
"FOR I AM... CHERNOBOOOOOOGGG!"
The earth trembled, and for one brief, horrifying moment, the sky itself seemed to tear open.
A towering, cloud-formed figure emerged, wings like roiling storm clouds stretching across the heavens, its humanoid form outlined in flickering lightning. It mirrored O'Dimm's silhouette but magnified to a divine, impossible scale, a monstrous being forged of shadow, vapor, and raw power.
The Black God Himself. Chernobog.
As quickly as it appeared, the storm began to recede, leaving the ruins still... silent... watching.
And in the sudden, deafening quiet, O'Dimm's smile remained... cold, sharp, and knowing that the truth has finally been revealed.
Geralt stood motionless, his amber cat-like eyes locked on the swirling, dissipating storm above. His chest rose and fell steadily, but his expression was strained, hardening with wary understanding. He had faced wraiths, vampires, ancient curses, and beings powerful enough to reshape reality, but this was different.
"Gods?", he muttered under his breath, his fingers twitching toward the hilt of his silver sword out of instinct. His mind raced as he replayed old tales, legends dismissed as superstition or metaphor. He had always kept an open mind, cautious, skeptical, but grounded.
What he had just seen defied all reason.
His gaze snapped back to O'Dimm, Chernobog, who still stood with that maddening, knowing smile.
"I never put much stock in gods," Geralt admitted, his voice low and edged with steel. "But you...", he felt his heartrate quicken.
"Not a god of men. A god of things... of the broken... forgotten... cursed."
His hand tightened on his sword hilt, though he knew full well the weapon meant nothing here. "What are we to you?"
O'Dimm chuckled, stepping forward with unnerving ease. "What are you to me?" His eyes gleamed with dark amusement. "You... are interesting. One of the few who has walked the line between fate and free will... and survived."
Geralt held his gaze, his voice steady despite the chill in his bones. "And Veylan?"
O'Dimm's smile widened. "He is something... even more interesting."
Olgierd staggered back a step, his face pale, his breath hitching as though the air itself had turned to ash in his lungs. His hands trembled, still clutching his chest where the searing pain from his returned heart lingered.
"Chernobog...?" His voice cracked, tinged with disbelief and growing dread. "No... that... that can't be... you're a demon... some trickster spirit..."
His mind reeled as old superstitions and forbidden tales clawed their way from the depths of his memory, stories his family's elders whispered around dying fires, warnings long dismissed as the ramblings of the old and fearful.
But this...
He clenched his jaw, fists trembling at his sides. "You... you used me... made me... this!" His voice rose, raw and ragged. "All for... what? A game? A damned game?!"
O'Dimm regarded him coolly, unfazed by his outburst. "Everything is a game, Olgierd." His voice dripped with icy certainty. "You set the stakes when you made your wish."
"You lied!" Olgierd shouted, surging forward. "You... twisted... everything!"
O'Dimm's gaze darkened, his voice deepening into something far more dangerous. "Did I?" His words echoed like distant thunder. "I gave you exactly what you asked for. Eternal life... power... freedom."
Olgierd stumbled back, his breathing ragged, his expression twisted with rage and dawning horror.
Geralt finally spoke, cutting through the tense silence. "What do you want... really?" His voice was low, steady, but edged with a challenge. "You could've ended this long ago. But you're still here."
O'Dimm's smile returned, colder than ever. "Why... because this..." He gestured broadly to the ruined temple, the broken, cursed souls before him. "This is precisely where I belong."
He chuckled softly, a sound like cracked glass. "Disorder. Regret. Suffering." His gaze burned like molten glass. "I am their god... whether they believe in me or not."
Lightning flickered faintly in the darkened sky as he tilted his head, his smile widening into something monstrous. "And tonight... we see how this story ends."
O'Dimm's piercing gaze turned toward Veylan, the stormy skies above still crackling faintly with residual energy from his declaration. The smirk on his lips held more than amusement—it was intrigue, the kind of curiosity one might have for a wild beast that had somehow learned to outwit its captors.
"Veylan," O'Dimm began, his voice carrying the weight of countless eons, "you've surprised me before, and it's not often I'm left... uncertain. You tread the line between chaos and order, a creature both bound by mortal instincts and set free by the chaos within you."
He took a slow step forward, his shadow stretching unnaturally across the ruined temple.
"You see, my dear brother Belebog, ever the shining beacon of balance, and Perun, the tempestuous lord of storms, have held a consensus in the pantheon." His tone became almost conversational, but his words carried immense gravity. "Even the elven deities have taken notice, and they too are... invested. A chaotic creature such as yourself, capable of defying gods and expectations alike... well, they wish to see you remain in their good graces."
O'Dimm's gaze sharpened, like a blade honing in on its mark. "So I propose a wager. A fair one, by my own standards."
The air grew taut as he gestured toward Olgierd, who stood frozen in a mix of rage and fear, clutching his chest.
"If you win, Olgierd goes free, a clean slate, until the day he might reunite with his beloved Iris in the realms beyond." His smile grew darker. "But if you lose, Olgierd is mine. As the contract dictates."
The ruins fell silent, save for the faint rumble of thunder.
"The game is simple. You will face my champion. A creature from a long-forgotten era, crafted in a time before men told tales of gods. A being whose very existence defies comprehension. So, Veylan... will you face a god's game once more? Will you take up the challenge and risk everything?"
The tension hung heavy, the weight of O'Dimm's question pressing down on the ruined temple like a physical force. Geralt's hand instinctively tightened around the hilt of his sword, but his sharp gaze flicked toward Veylan.
Olgierd's breathing was ragged, his eyes darting between O'Dimm and Veylan as though the Witcher might somehow refuse.
But Veylan didn't flinch. He didn't hesitate.
He met O'Dimm's godly gaze without fear, his voice steady and unyielding as he said: "Let's do this thing."
For a moment, there was silence. Then, O'Dimm's grin widened, filled with genuine delight.
"Wonderful!" he exclaimed, clapping his hands twice.
The world shifted violently, the ruined temple fading into darkness as if consumed by a swirling void. Veylan, Geralt, and Olgierd were suddenly standing in the stands of a vast, shadowy arena. The structure seemed infinite, its jagged stonework pulsing with an otherworldly light.
Above them, the sky churned with dark clouds, streaked with crimson lightning. The air hummed with anticipation as rows upon rows of monstrous spectators emerged from the shadows. Leshens with antlers like twisted trees. Wraiths floating in eerie silence. Trolls, nekkers, and even a few hymns sat respectfully in their seats, their glowing eyes fixed on the arena below.
Some creatures were unrecognizable, their forms nightmarish and alien, as though they had been plucked from another plane of existence. Yet all of them sat quietly, bearing witness to the event unfolding before them.
Olgierd stared at the crowd, his face pale. "What... what is this?"
Geralt's expression was grim, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "It's not just a fight. It's a spectacle."
Veylan, however, was calm. His hand drifted to the hilt of his silver sword, and he drew it smoothly, the faint runes along its blade glowing faintly in the dim light. He stepped forward, his boots crunching against the sand-like floor of the arena.
The crowd fell silent, the oppressive weight of their gaze turning toward the center of the arena. Veylan held his ground, his stance steady as he scanned the darkened space before him.
O'Dimm's voice echoed through the air, his tone rich with amusement. "Ladies and gentlemen, beasts and wraiths, forgotten nightmares and timeless gods... tonight, we witness a clash of wills unlike any other. A Witcher who defies the natural order... against a champion of the ancient chaos."
The crowd let out a low, rumbling murmur of approval as O'Dimm's voice continued:
"Veylan of the Chimera School... let us see if your blade can carve through the very fabric of time itself."
The ground trembled, and a massive, shadowy figure began to rise from the center of the arena. Its form was indistinct at first, but as it solidified, the outline of an impossibly large humanoid creature came into view. Its skin seemed to shimmer like liquid shadow, and its eyes burned with a pale, unnatural light.
Veylan tightened his grip on his sword, his heart steady despite the enormity of the creature before him.
"Let's end this," he muttered to himself, stepping forward as the crowd roared in of Form
…
The roar of the monstrous crowd echoed through the dark arena as Veylan stepped forward, his silver sword gleaming faintly in the dim crimson light. Across from him, the massive armored warrior stood motionless, a hulking figure of blackened steel and malice. Its glowing pale eyes locked onto Veylan through its visor, and its rune-covered blade rested against the sand as though daring him to make the first move.
The silence between them stretched thin, broken only by the low hum of energy in the arena. Then, without warning, the warrior moved.
The armored giant surged forward with unnatural speed, its massive blade slicing through the air with a deafening whoosh. Veylan barely sidestepped in time, the blade carving into the sand where he'd stood moments before. The sheer force of the swing sent a shockwave rippling outward, forcing Veylan to leap back further.
"Fast," he muttered, his grip tightening on his sword. The warrior was far quicker than anything its size should be, its movements precise and calculated despite the bulk of its armor.
The warrior pressed the attack, swinging its blade in a brutal horizontal arc. Veylan ducked low, the edge of the sword passing inches above his head. He retaliated immediately, thrusting his blade toward the warrior's exposed side. The strike connected but glanced off the thick plate, sending sparks flying.
The warrior responded with a vicious kick to Veylan's midsection, the impact sending him sprawling backward. He rolled with the momentum, coming up in a crouch with his hand extended.
"Aard!"
A shockwave of telekinetic force erupted from his palm, slamming into the warrior. It staggered back a step but held its ground, its glowing eyes narrowing in recognition of the Witcher's power.
The two combatants circled each other, their movements precise and deliberate. The warrior feinted left, then lunged with its blade in a thrust aimed at Veylan's chest. Veylan sidestepped again, pivoting sharply to deliver a counterstrike. This time, he aimed for the joints in the warrior's armor, driving his blade into the gap at its knee. The warrior let out a low, guttural sound, whether a growl or some otherworldly response, Veylan couldn't tell.
It swung its blade downward with terrifying force, and Veylan raised his sword to parry. The impact sent vibrations through his arms, nearly numbing his hands. He twisted away, creating distance as he called upon another sign.
"Igni!"
Flames erupted from his outstretched hand, engulfing the warrior in a torrent of fire. The crowd roared in approval as the flames licked at the dark armor, but the warrior merely stood there, unfazed. Its blade swept through the flames in a wide arc, dispersing the fire as it advanced once more.
Veylan switched tactics, casting Yrden to lay a glowing trap in the sand beneath him. The runic circle pulsed with light, slowing the warrior's movements as it stepped into the trap. With its speed momentarily hindered, Veylan seized the opportunity to unleash a flurry of strikes. His blade found its mark, carving into the weaker points of the armor at the shoulder and thigh. Dark ichor seeped from the wounds, but the warrior did not falter.
With a guttural roar, the warrior broke free of the trap, swinging its massive sword in a wild arc that forced Veylan to retreat again. Sweat dripped down his brow as he assessed his opponent. This wasn't just a fight—it was a battle of endurance, and both combatants were beginning to show the strain.
The warrior charged again, its blade coming down in a vertical slash. Veylan rolled to the side, narrowly avoiding the devastating strike, and thrust his hand forward. This time, he didn't use a Witcher sign. Instead, he drew upon the latent power within him—the Elder Blood.
A burst of energy rippled outward, creating dozens of glowing illusions of himself. Each illusion darted around the warrior, their movements chaotic and unpredictable. The warrior hesitated, its glowing eyes darting between the illusions as it tried to determine which one was real.
Seizing the moment, Veylan moved in. He ducked beneath the warrior's guard and drove his blade into its exposed side, twisting the sword to deepen the wound. The warrior let out a furious roar, swinging its arm in a wide backhand that sent Veylan skidding across the sand.
As Veylan struggled to his feet, he could feel the monstrous essence within him stirring. His senses sharpened further, his vision narrowing as his vampiric instincts took hold. The warrior charged again, its blade raised high, but Veylan blurred forward in a burst of speed. He ducked beneath the swing and slashed upward, his claws briefly extending as he raked them across the warrior's chest.
The crowd erupted into cheers and growls, the monstrous spectators reveling in the brutal display. Veylan cast Quen, the protective shield absorbing a glancing blow as the warrior's blade nicked his side. Blood seeped from the wound, but the shield held long enough for him to regain his footing.
The two combatants clashed again and again, each strike a test of strength and skill. Veylan used Igni to scorch the warrior's exposed joints, Aard to stagger it, and Axii to briefly disrupt its movements. He even cast Yrden again, forcing the warrior to slow as he unleashed another barrage of strikes.
But the warrior was relentless. Its attacks came with brutal precision, and every missed dodge left Veylan with another cut or bruise. The air around them grew heavy with the scent of blood and burnt ichor, the ground littered with scars from their battle.
Desperate to gain an advantage, Veylan drew upon the Marr essence within him. He crafted a field of powerful illusions, transforming the arena into a chaotic landscape of shifting shadows and false targets. The warrior's movements faltered, its glowing eyes scanning the illusions with growing frustration.
Veylan used the distraction to close the distance, his blade flashing as he drove it into the back of the warrior's knee. The massive figure stumbled, its movements slowing as dark ichor poured from its wounds.
The warrior turned, its blade rising for a final, desperate strike, but Veylan was faster. With a burst of energy, he leapt forward, driving his sword deep into the warrior's chest. The crowd fell silent as the hulking figure let out one last, echoing roar before collapsing to the ground.
The arena was still, save for the sound of Veylan's labored breathing. He stood over the fallen warrior, his sword still embedded in its chest. The crowd erupted into a deafening roar, their monstrous voices reverberating through the darkened sky.
O'Dimm's voice cut through the chaos, his tone dripping with satisfaction. "Well done, Master Witcher. Well done indeed."
The arena fell eerily silent as Veylan's blade pierced the warrior's chest. The massive armored figure faltered, staggering under the weight of its wounds, yet it did not collapse. Instead, it let out a low, guttural sound, not a growl of defiance, but something deeper, something almost mournful.
With great effort, the warrior lowered its massive blade, planting it in the ground for support. Its towering frame wavered before slowly, deliberately, sinking to one knee. Its head bowed, the pale glow of its eyes dimming as though it no longer sought to fight.
The monstrous crowd rumbled with murmurs of surprise and intrigue. Even Geralt narrowed his eyes, his hand drifting from his sword as he studied the unexpected display.
Olgierd, pale and wide-eyed, whispered hoarsely, "It... it's yielding?"
Veylan stood motionless, his breath ragged as he stared down at the kneeling figure. The armored warrior, a being forged of chaos and forgotten eras, had surrendered. It waited, head bowed, as though submitting to its fate.
The Witcher's instincts clawed at Veylan's mind. The Witcher way was clear—monsters were to be slain. They were dangerous, unpredictable, and unnatural. No quarter, no hesitation. This was what he had been taught, drilled into him through years of relentless training.
And yet...
Veylan's grip tightened on his sword as his mind drifted to all he had endured, all he had become. The twisted experiments, the monstrous essence within him, the unrelenting struggle to forge his own path outside of what others dictated. He had survived that prison not just to kill, but to prove he could be something greater.
He thought of Iris, of her quiet plea for peace, and of Olgierd's torment and regret. He thought of the words O'Dimm had spoken, about disorder, suffering, and regret. Was he, too, bound to that cycle, destined to perpetuate it forever?
The warrior waited, unmoving. It would not resist if he struck it down.
Veylan let out a shaky breath, his amber-green eyes closing briefly as he centered himself. Slowly, he stepped back, releasing his grip on his silver sword and raising it to the sky. With deliberate care, he sheathed the blade.
"I refuse," he said, his voice steady but raw with emotion. He turned to the kneeling warrior, his words cutting through the silence. "I refuse to kill this being. He's surrendered... there's no need for more blood."
The crowd of monstrous spectators erupted in a cacophony of growls and murmurs, their voices a mix of confusion and reluctant approval. Even Geralt looked momentarily stunned before his lips tightened into a faint, approving frown.
Olgierd, however, stared in disbelief. "You're... sparing it?"
Veylan turned his gaze to Olgierd, his expression unwavering. "It's not a matter of sparing or mercy. It's honor." He gestured to the warrior. "He's no mindless beast. He fought because he was commanded to, not because he sought to harm. To kill him now would be no better than slaughtering a bound man."
A slow, deliberate clap echoed through the arena, silencing the crowd. O'Dimm stepped forward, his ever-present grin wide with satisfaction. "Well done, Master Witcher. Well done indeed."
The air shifted, the oppressive weight of the arena lightening as O'Dimm's voice rang out. "You've passed the true test."
Veylan turned sharply toward O'Dimm, his eyebrow raised.
"Test?"
O'Dimm spread his hands, his tone dripping with amusement. "What did you think this was? A simple brawl? A mere trial of strength? No, no... it was always about this moment." He gestured toward the kneeling warrior. "Whether you could see beyond the chaos and the blood... whether you could rise above instinct and choose a path not out of fear, nor duty, but conviction."
The warrior's form began to shimmer, its massive frame dissolving into a cloud of dark mist. Slowly, the mist rose, coalescing into a smaller, humanoid figure—an ethereal being with features reminiscent of the ancient elven gods. It nodded once to Veylan, a silent acknowledgment of respect, before vanishing completely.
O'Dimm clapped his hands again, the sound sharp and final. "Congratulations, Veylan. You've proven once again why even gods are curious about you."
Veylan's jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing. "So Olgierd goes free?"
O'Dimm chuckled, his smile as cold as ever. "Oh, yes. A deal's a deal." He turned to Olgierd, his tone shifting to one of mock benevolence. "You've earned your freedom, dear Olgierd. A clean slate, just as promised."
Olgierd's knees buckled, tears streaming down his face as he clutched his chest. "I... I don't know what to say..."
O'Dimm's gaze flicked back to Veylan, his grin widening. "But you, Master Witcher... I suspect your story is far from over."
With a snap of his fingers, the arena dissolved into shadow, leaving them standing once again in the ruins of the Temple of Lilvani under a calm, starless sky.
…
The night was calm, the air heavy with the faint scent of rain lingering from the earlier storm. Veylan walked the winding road back toward his home, his steps steady despite the exhaustion settling deep in his bones. The events at the Temple of Lilvani weighed heavily on his mind, but for the first time in what felt like an eternity, there was a sense of closure.
As he approached the outskirts of a nearby village, a group of Nilfgaardian soldiers patrolling the road spotted him. Their leader, a captain clad in black and gold armor, stepped forward with a cautious but respectful nod.
"Master Witcher," the captain said, his voice steady but carrying an edge of curiosity. "You were near the temple ruins tonight, yes?"
Veylan paused, his sharp gaze flicking over the group. "I was," he replied simply.
The captain hesitated, glancing at his men before speaking again. "That... light. The storm. It wasn't natural. The men are still talking about it. What could have caused such a thing?"
The soldiers behind him murmured in agreement, their unease evident.
Veylan tilted his head slightly, considering the question. Then, with a faint, knowing smirk, he said: "Only the gods know."
The captain frowned, as though trying to process the answer, but eventually nodded. "Perhaps," he said, though his voice carried lingering doubt. The soldiers exchanged wary glances but seemed to accept the response, though it was clear they would spend many sleepless nights puzzling over what they had witnessed.
Veylan offered no further explanation, his strides resuming with measured purpose. The weight of their questions remained behind him, swallowed by the quiet of the road.
The familiar sight of his home came into view as Veylan passed the final bend in the road. The modest but well-kept structure stood framed by the surrounding trees, its warm glow from within beckoning him like a sanctuary. He pushed open the door, stepping inside with a sigh of relief as the scent of herbs and firewood greeted him.
Erynn looked up from where she had been arranging a small altar to her elven patron. Her fiery red hair caught the light of the hearth, and a warm smile spread across her face as she saw him. Without a word, she crossed the room and wrapped her arms around him, resting her head against his chest.
"You're home," she murmured, her voice soft with relief.
"I am," Veylan replied, his arms tightening around her. He kissed the top of her head before stepping back, leading her to the chair by the fire. He sank into it heavily, letting out a low groan of exhaustion.
Erynn perched on the arm of the chair, her eyes searching his face. "Rough night?"
Veylan let out a short laugh, the corners of his mouth tugging upward. "You could say that."
Erynn slid onto his lap, her arms draping around his shoulders as she studied him. "What happened?"
Veylan rested his forehead against hers for a moment, closing his eyes. "Too much," he said softly. "But it's done now. Olgierd's free... and I think he'll make the most of it."
Erynn smiled faintly, her fingers brushing against his jawline. "And you?"
Veylan's eyes opened, his gaze meeting hers with a quiet intensity. "I need a break," he admitted, a rare vulnerability in his voice. "Maybe we take a trip. Skellige, perhaps?"
Erynn's eyes lit up with excitement. "The Skellige Isles? You mean it?"
He nodded, a small smile forming on his face. "You'd love it there. The cliffs, the sea, the people... all of it."
Erynn leaned in, pressing a kiss to his cheek before resting her head against his shoulder. "Then it's settled," she said softly. "A vacation. Just us."
Veylan wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer as he stared into the flickering flames of the hearth.
…
The moon hung low in the sky, its pale light filtering through the dense canopy of trees, casting fractured beams of light onto the forest floor. In the quiet darkness of the woods, two figures stood concealed, their presence masked from mortal perception. One of them, tall and imposing, carried himself with the grace of nobility, Maric van Brezkin, a Higher Vampire of great renown. His sharp features were softened by an uncharacteristic expression of quiet pride as he gazed at the distant glow of his grandson's cottage.
Beside him, cloaked in an aura of ancient power, stood the Unseen Elder. His presence was more felt than seen, the very fabric of the air around him seeming to shift and darken. He stood silently, his crimson eyes glowing faintly as he observed the scene.
Maric let out a quiet breath, his voice barely above a whisper. "Look at him... he's built a life for himself, even after all that he's endured."
The Unseen Elder tilted his head slightly, his tone contemplative. "A remarkable feat, given the nature of his trials. Few survive what he has faced... fewer still emerge stronger."
Maric's gaze remained fixed on the cottage, where a faint silhouette of Veylan could be seen through the window, seated by the fire with a red-haired woman nestled close. The warmth of the scene contrasted sharply with the cold night, a quiet testament to the peace his grandson had carved out of chaos.
"I wasn't there when he needed me most," Maric murmured, his voice tinged with regret. "But he survived. He fought through the darkness, made it his own, and now... he's found something worth living for."
The Unseen Elder's crimson gaze lingered on the cottage before shifting back to Maric. "He has defied expectations, not only of mortals but of us as well. His fate is now tied to forces far greater than most can comprehend."
He stepped closer to the edge of the shadowed treeline, his tone taking on a curious edge. "The powers that govern all spheres watch him now. Few are granted such notice, and fewer still bear the weight of such responsibility." He turned his gaze back to Maric. "You should be proud of him."
Maric's expression softened further, a faint smile touching his lips. "I am," he said quietly. "In spite of all the darkness, he persevered. He's more than I could have ever hoped for."
The Unseen Elder nodded faintly, his expression inscrutable. "It is rare to witness such resilience... such balance between chaos and order. Your bloodline has always carried strength, but he is something... different."
Maric tilted his head slightly, his tone curious. "Different how?"
The Elder's gaze returned to the cottage. "He walks a line that few can. Chaos and order pull at him in equal measure, yet he does not break. Instead, he bends, reshapes himself, and finds purpose in the struggle. It is no small feat."
He paused, his crimson eyes narrowing slightly. "I am curious to see how he will handle the responsibilities that lie ahead. They will be far greater than even he realizes."
Maric folded his hands behind his back, his posture straight and regal despite the quiet reverence in his voice. "If anyone can bear such a burden, it's him."
The two ancient beings stood in silence for a long moment, their gazes fixed on the warm glow of the cottage. Though they remained hidden, their presence was not one of malice but quiet observance, two immortals witnessing the life of one who had defied odds neither had thought possible.
The Unseen Elder finally turned away, his voice calm but edged with finality. "He will be tested, as all who carry such destinies are. But for now, he has earned his peace. Let him have it."
Maric inclined his head, a quiet acknowledgment of the Elder's wisdom. "He has earned more than that. He's earned the right to live."
The Elder's lips curved into a faint, enigmatic smile before he stepped back into the shadows, his form dissolving into the darkness like mist.
Maric remained for a moment longer, his gaze unwavering as he watched Veylan through the window. Finally, he let out a quiet breath, his voice carrying softly into the night. "Live well, my grandson. You have already made me proud."
With that, he turned and vanished into the forest, leaving the cottage bathed in the soft glow of peace and possibility.