The Witcher: Chimera

by abcd12344321

Veylan is not a normal Witcher. He's from the school of the chimera, which resembles more of a prison than a school. It's been years since he escaped, but now he's searching for answers. Answers of why he was chosen, and who made him. Follow his journey across the continent and beyond as he seeks answers, and the occasional monster contract.

10. Chapter 10

The Witcher: Chimera

Chapter 10: All Hail the King, Long Live the King…

…

The bustling streets of Novigrad greeted Veylan and Erynn with a cacophony of sounds: merchants hawking their wares, children darting between crowds, and the faint clang of forge hammers ringing in the distance. The city, now firmly under Nilfgaardian control, carried a sense of optimism. Gone were the days of Radovid's cruelty; in its place was the iron hand of Nilfgaard's fairness, a rule that was strict but just enough to make people breathe easier.

As the couple made their way through the winding streets, whispers followed in their wake.

"That's the Witcher, isn't it? The one who captured those Kikimoras whole?"

"They say he took down a whole nest of Wyverns single-handedly and delivered them to Oxenfurt."

"I heard he paralyzed a Basilisk with just a bolt to the spine! The scholars in Nilfgaard are still dissecting it."

Veylan didn't acknowledge the murmurs, his sharp gaze sweeping over the crowd as though scanning for threats. Beside him, Erynn walked with the quiet grace of her elven heritage, her fiery hair catching the sunlight like embers. She glanced up at him, her lips curving into a faint smile.

"They're talking about you again," she murmured.

"Let them," Veylan replied evenly. "They've got nothing better to do."

The air grew cooler as they approached the docks, the salty tang of the sea mixing with the scent of fresh fish and tar. Among the crowd of laborers and sailors, a cluster of Nilfgaardian officials stood out, their black-and-gold uniforms immaculate even amidst the chaos of loading cargo.

A clerk, a thin man with a neatly trimmed beard, stepped forward as they approached. He carried a stack of documents and bowed slightly before speaking. "Master Witcher, Lady Erynn. The preparations for your voyage are nearly complete. If you'll review and sign these manifests, we'll ensure everything is ready by dawn."

Veylan accepted the documents, his sharp eyes scanning each page. The manifests detailed everything: cargo, diplomatic permissions, and the ship's itinerary to Skellige. He signed with quick, precise strokes before handing them back.

The clerk nodded, his movements brisk. "The ship is one of our finest. King Bran's passing has left the jarls divided, but many have expressed curiosity about your visit. With your reputation and Geralt of Rivia's recommendation, you'll be received well... mostly."

"Mostly?" Erynn asked, her tone carrying a hint of amusement.

The clerk hesitated. "Some of the jarls are... suspicious. But Nilfgaard has ensured that your journey will be met with respect. Even their druids have sent word that your presence is welcomed, Master Witcher."

Veylan nodded, his expression unreadable. "Good to know."

With the paperwork completed, the pair had some time to spare. They moved back into the heart of Novigrad, the vibrant markets drawing them in with their colors and sounds.

Veylan paused at a stall selling alchemical ingredients, his practiced hands sorting through bundles of dried herbs and jars of strange minerals. The merchant, an older woman with sharp eyes, leaned forward eagerly. "Master Witcher, I have some rare finds from Zerrikania. This-" she held up a vial of golden powder, "-comes from their desert blossoms. Perfect for potions."

Veylan inspected it, nodding once before handing her a few crowns. "I'll take it."

Further down the street, Erynn was drawn to a display of jewelry crafted by elven artisans. She picked up a delicate bracelet inlaid with emerald stones, holding it up to the light.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" she asked, glancing at Veylan.

He nodded, a rare smile tugging at his lips. "It suits you."

They continued through the market, pausing to listen as a trader spun exaggerated tales about the Skellige Isles. "Their warriors wrestle bears for sport!" the man proclaimed, gesturing wildly. "And their jarls drink more ale in one sitting than a Novigrad tavern stocks in a week!"

Erynn laughed softly, casting a sidelong glance at Veylan. "Sounds like your kind of people."

"We'll see," he replied, though there was a hint of amusement in his tone.

As they walked, Veylan's mind wandered briefly to the past few days. The contracts he had completed weighed on him, not in regret, but in sheer exhaustion. Each job had been demanding, requiring the full breadth of his skills.

He thought of the Wyvern nest, where he had paralyzed two adults and a juvenile, delivering them intact to Oxenfurt. The scholars had been overjoyed, their praise barely masking their awe at the precision of his work.

Then there was the Basilisk, a massive beast whose venom sacs were already being studied by Nilfgaardian alchemists. And the Cockatrice, whose mineralized feathers and preserved remains had been shipped to Kaedwen.

The Kikimora den had been one of the most challenging. Lacing deer carcasses with his paralysis concoction had been a gamble, but it had worked. The creatures were captured whole, their writhing forms now stored safely for study in Novigrad.

He remembered the Foglets, the Leshen fragments, the specter essences, each contract had pushed him to his limits, but it had been worth it. The scholars from Nilfgaard to Ban Ard were well-stocked for years to come.

As the sun dipped low, casting the city in warm golden hues, Veylan and Erynn returned to their lodgings near the docks.

Erynn sat beside him, her hand resting lightly on his arm. "Skellige will be a change of pace," she said softly. "Rugged cliffs, the sea... it sounds beautiful."

Veylan nodded, his gaze distant for a moment before he turned to her. "You'll love it there," he said. "And if nothing else, it'll be good to get away from all this for a while."

Erynn smiled, leaning her head against his shoulder. "Then let's make the most of it."

…

The ship set sail at dawn, its black sails catching the brisk wind as it cut through the choppy waters of the Pontar and out into the great expanse of the ocean. The crew was efficient, moving like a well-oiled machine, their Nilfgaardian discipline evident in every task. Though the seas ahead were known for their treachery, the sailors seemed emboldened by the two passengers aboard: Veylan, the Witcher, and Lady Erynn, whose presence exuded both mystery and quiet strength.

The first few days passed uneventfully, with calm waters and a steady breeze propelling the vessel toward the Skellige Isles. Veylan spent much of his time on deck, his sharp eyes scanning the horizon while Erynn stood beside him, her fiery hair whipping in the wind. She seemed captivated by the sea, her gaze often lost in the endless blue.

By the fourth day, the crew's rhythm was interrupted by a sharp cry from the crow's nest.

"SIRENS! HARPIES APPROACHING FROM THE EAST!"

The shout sent a ripple of tension through the sailors, who scrambled to prepare the ship for defense. The winged creatures were a common menace in the waters near Skellige, their shrill cries a prelude to chaos.

Veylan and Erynn exchanged a glance, their calm demeanor standing out as appose to the crew's rising panic.

"Looks like we've got some company," Veylan muttered, already unsheathing his silver sword and checking the tension on his small, one-handed crossbow.

Erynn smirked, raising her hand to let faint tendrils of magical energy spark between her fingers. "Nothing we can't handle."

"Looks like we've got some company," Veylan muttered, already unsheathing his silver sword and checking the tension on his small, one-handed crossbow.

Erynn smirked, raising her hand to let faint tendrils of magical energy spark between her fingers. "Nothing we can't handle."

The Battle at Sea

The sirens and harpies descended upon the ship in a chaotic flurry, their talons scraping against the masts as their shrieks pierced the air. The sailors fought valiantly, but their efforts were often wild and uncoordinated. Fortunately, Veylan and Erynn were far more adept at handling such threats.

Veylan stood at the ship's edge, his silver sword flashing as he cleaved through a diving harpy. In his other hand, his modified crossbow let loose a trio of bolts, each finding their mark in the leathery wings of a siren that plummeted into the waves below.

Erynn moved with elegant precision, weaving spells that sent bursts of energy into the flock. A well-timed Aard from Veylan sent several creatures careening off course, leaving them open for Erynn's finishing blow, a crackling arcane blast that shattered their fragile bones.

One siren managed to swoop low, its claws aiming for a sailor scrambling to reload a ballista. Before it could strike, Veylan was there, his sword slicing cleanly through its neck. "Keep focused!" he barked at the crew, who nodded and redoubled their efforts.

As the fight wore on, the creatures seemed to realize they had underestimated their prey. Their numbers dwindling, they let out a final chorus of shrieks before retreating into the clouds and waves.

The deck was littered with the remains of the fallen creatures, their twisted forms quickly tossed overboard by the sailors. The crew, though shaken, seemed reinvigorated by the ease with which the monsters had been dispatched.

The captain approached Veylan and Erynn, his expression a mixture of awe and gratitude. "Master Witcher, Lady Erynn, we owe you our lives. Without you, we wouldn't have made it through."

Veylan wiped the blood from his blade and sheathed it with a practiced motion. "Just doing my part. These waters are dangerous. Next time, you might want to hire more protection."

Erynn chuckled softly, her hand still faintly glowing with residual magic. "It's not every day we get to clean the skies above Skellige."

The captain bowed deeply before returning to his post, shouting orders to get the ship back on course.

The sight of the Skellige Isles was breathtaking as the ship approached the rugged cliffs and snow-capped mountains that rose dramatically from the sea. Small fishing villages dotted the coastline, their wooden homes built to withstand the harsh elements. The harbor at Kaer Trolde, their destination, was bustling with activity, the air filled with the sounds of creaking ships, seagulls, and the gruff voices of Skellige warriors.

As the ship docked, a group of warriors and druids awaited them, their expressions ranging from curiosity to respect. Among them was Crach an Craite, the head of one of Skellige's most powerful clans. He stepped forward, his imposing frame and sharp eyes radiating authority.

"Veylan," he greeted, his voice like rolling thunder. "Geralt spoke highly of you. Welcome to Skellige."

Veylan inclined his head in response. "An honor, Jarl. I appreciate the welcome."

Erynn stepped forward, her presence drawing the attention of several druids. One of them, a wizened old man with a staff adorned with feathers, bowed slightly. "Lady Erynn, your presence was foretold. The gods themselves have spoken of you and your companion."

She raised an eyebrow, her voice calm. "Foretold, you say? That's... interesting."

The druid smiled faintly. "The gods see much. They have great expectations for you both."

With the formalities complete, Veylan and Erynn were led to their accommodations within Kaer Trolde, a sprawling fortress overlooking the harbor. Though they were guests of honor, the pair wasted no time exploring the rugged beauty of the Isles, eager to make the most of their stay.

…

A little while later…

Veylan and Erynn arrived early at the shores where the king's funeral preparations were underway. The Skelligers worked tirelessly, carrying timbers, assembling the ceremonial longboat, and preparing offerings for the gods. The king's body, wrapped in fine furs and adorned with runic carvings etched into strips of bone, lay on a raised platform near the shore.

Veylan joined the men gathering large timbers, his strength making the labor seem effortless. He carried logs on his shoulders, moving them toward the half-constructed pyre on the boat. The Skelligers, used to brawny warriors, nonetheless watched him with quiet admiration as he worked tirelessly alongside them.

One of the warriors, a broad-shouldered man with a braided beard, clapped Veylan on the back. "Yer stronger than you look, Witcher. Good to have you here."

Veylan gave a faint smirk. "I'm just here to pay my respects."

Meanwhile, Erynn stood near the druids, assisting them in preparing the ritual elements. She wove fragrant herbs into bundles, tying them with strands of braided horsehair, and carefully arranged them along the edges of the pyre. Her soft chanting in Elder Speech caught the attention of the druids, who paused to listen.

"Your words," one of them murmured, his weathered face filled with curiosity, "they carry power. Perhaps the gods themselves guided you here."

Erynn smiled gently. "Perhaps. But today, they guide all of us to honor your king."

…

The Skelligers gathered near an altar carved into the cliffside, where offerings to Freya, Svalblod, and Hemdall were laid. Veylan joined a group of hunters heading into the nearby forest, their goal to secure fresh game for the offerings. He moved silently through the underbrush, his enhanced senses guiding him to a herd of dear grazing in the distance. With a single, precise bolt from his crossbow, he felled a large buck.

When they returned with their kill, Veylan helped prepare the animal, offering its heart and antlers to the gods. The warriors murmured their thanks, impressed by his skill.

Erynn, meanwhile, worked with the women and druids to prepare symbolic offerings. She carved intricate runes into small wooden totems, each representing a god's blessing. She also sprinkled herbs and oils over the animal sacrifices, ensuring the gods would find them pleasing.

As the smoke from the offerings rose into the sky, the druids chanted prayers in Skellige's ancient tongue. Erynn joined in, her voice weaving through the chants, creating an almost hypnotic harmony that even the hardened warriors couldn't ignore.

…

In the longhouse, Veylan and Erynn worked with the villagers to prepare traditional mourning garments. Veylan used his steady hands to assist the smiths in etching runes of protection into simple iron armbands. His knowledge of runic patterns, gleaned from his extensive reading, impressed the Skelligers, who nodded in approval at his precision.

"Not bad for a Continental," one of the smiths said with a grin.

Erynn focused on the fabric, embroidering tunics and cloaks with delicate designs. Her stitches formed intricate patterns of waves, mountains, and Freya's symbols, reflecting the Skelligers' connection to their land and sea.

As they worked, a young girl approached Erynn, holding a scrap of cloth. "Can you make one for my father?" she asked timidly. "He was a friend of the king."

Erynn knelt, her smile warm. "Of course. Tell me about him, and I'll make something special."

…

High on a windswept hill overlooking the sea, the Skelligers began building a stone cairn to commemorate their king. The stones, each brought by a different clan, bore runes, symbols, or words carved into them, reflecting the king's legacy.

Veylan helped haul the heaviest stones into place, his strength proving invaluable. He arranged the rocks carefully, ensuring the cairn was sturdy and aesthetically pleasing.

Erynn worked alongside him, inscribing blessings into the stones using Elder Speech. One of the druids approached her, watching her work with a mixture of respect and awe.

"Your words honor him," the druid said. "The gods will remember this."

Erynn simply nodded, focused on her task.

…

As night fell, the villagers and jarls gathered in the longhouse to share stories of their fallen king. The air was thick with the smell of mead and the sound of laughter, tears, and the crackling fire.

Veylan stood to speak, his voice calm but resonant. "I didn't know your king personally," he began, "but I've read of his deeds. A warrior who led with strength, a leader who commanded respect. He was a man who stood tall in the face of adversity, embodying what it means to be Skelliger."

The room fell silent, the Skelligers listening intently. Veylan's words carried weight, his reputation lending them credence.

When he finished, Erynn stepped forward, her voice soft but melodic. She sang an elven lament, her words in Elder Speech blending seamlessly with the somber atmosphere. The Skelligers watched in silence, many moved by the beauty of her voice and the depth of her emotion.

…

The day before the ceremony, Veylan joined the hunters and fishermen to procure food for the feast. He brought down a massive stag with a single shot from his crossbow, and later helped the fishermen haul in a large catch of cod and herring.

Erynn worked with the women to prepare the feast hall, decorating it with wreaths of evergreen and arrangements of wildflowers. She enchanted small charms to hang above the tables, offering protection and blessings to those who would attend.

The feast itself was a sight to behold, with long tables laden with roasted game, fresh fish, hearty stews, and endless barrels of mead. The Skelligers toasted to their king, their voices rising in song and celebration, even as their hearts mourned.

…

The day of the king's funeral was grim but dignified, the shores of Kaer Trolde alive with the sound of crashing waves and the somber murmurs of those gathered to pay their final respects. The late King Bran's longboat sat on the water, tethered to the dock and laden with treasures, weapons, and offerings meant to accompany him on his final journey. The smell of sea air mingled with the fragrance of herbs and oils that Erynn had helped prepare the day before, now carefully placed among the offerings.

Veylan and Erynn stood near the gathered jarls and villagers, a respectful distance from the longboat. The air was heavy with reverence, each person present a living testament to Bran's impact on Skellige. Warriors stood solemnly, their weathered faces grim, while druids murmured chants under their breath. Even Geralt and Yennefer were present, the White Wolf's expression unusually serious as he observed the proceedings.

Near the boat stood Crach an Craite, his imposing frame and stoic demeanor embodying the weight of his clan's loss. By his side, the king's personal servant, a middle-aged woman with streaks of gray in her hair, adjusted the king's ceremonial furs for the final time. Her hands trembled, and her eyes glistened with unshed tears.

When all was ready, Crach stepped forward, his voice strong but solemn. "King Bran of Clan Tuirseach, husband, warrior, leader. He leaves us now to join his ancestors in the halls of the gods. May his journey be swift, his soul forever remembered."

The gathered crowd let out a low murmur of agreement, heads bowing as Crach turned to the servant. Her shoulders were stiff, and though she tried to mask her grief, it was evident in every line of her face. Crach's brow furrowed slightly as he regarded her.

"You've done well to serve him, Ingrid," he said, his voice softer. "But now your task is done. You can rest."

The woman shook her head, stepping closer to the boat. "No, Jarl," she said, her voice cracking with emotion. "My place is with him. He was more than my king... he was like a father to me."

A ripple of murmurs swept through the crowd, but Crach held up a hand to silence them. He looked at Ingrid, his blue eyes searching her tear-filled gaze. "Are you sure?" he asked gently.

She nodded, her chin trembling as she wiped at her tears. "Aye, I'm sure. He's taken care of me all my life... it's my turn to take care of him."

For a long moment, the only sound was the rhythmic crashing of the waves. Then, Crach stepped aside, nodding in solemn approval. "So be it."

Ingrid climbed onto the boat with slow, deliberate movements, settling herself beside the king's shrouded body. She adjusted the furs around him one last time, her fingers lingering on the edge of his cloak. Then she sat back, her hands folded in her lap, her tear-streaked face calm but resolute.

The druids stepped forward, their chants rising in a haunting, harmonious chorus that carried across the water. The sound seemed to make the air itself hum, and even the most hardened warriors bowed their heads in reverence.

Veylan and Erynn stood among the crowd, watching in silence as the longboat was gently untethered and pushed away from the dock. The oars, laid alongside Bran's body, would never touch water again. The boat drifted slowly out to sea, its form growing smaller against the vast, gray waves.

Crach, his jaw set, took up a ceremonial bow and notched a flaming arrow. He hesitated for the briefest moment, his expression betraying the deep well of emotion he kept hidden. Then, with a steady hand, he loosed the arrow.

The flaming projectile arced through the air, its reflection flickering on the waves below, and struck the kindling piled high on the boat. The fire caught instantly, spreading quickly until the entire vessel was ablaze. The crowd watched in silence, the glow of the flames reflecting in their somber faces.

Erynn reached for Veylan's hand, her fingers slipping into his as the fire roared, consuming the boat. He didn't look at her, his sharp eyes fixed on the pyre as it drifted farther out to sea. She could feel the tension in his grip, the way his normally unshakable demeanor seemed weighted by the gravity of the moment.

From her place beside the king, Ingrid remained still, her figure silhouetted against the blaze. She did not move or cry out, even as the flames climbed higher. Instead, she sat upright, her head held high as though determined to face her end with the same dignity as the man she served.

The boat continued its journey, carried by the waves, until it was no more than a speck on the horizon. The fire burned bright and fierce against the gray sky, and then, as the crowd continued to watch in reverent silence, it disappeared entirely into the vastness of the sea.

…

The gathered Skelligers lingered on the shore, their voices low as they murmured prayers and words of remembrance. Veylan stood quietly, his expression unreadable as he watched the horizon. Erynn stepped closer, her voice soft.

"It was a good farewell," she said.

Veylan nodded, his eyes still on the sea. "They honor their dead better than most."

Behind them, Crach an Craite began addressing the crowd, his strong voice calling for unity and strength in the days to come. But Veylan's focus remained on the sea, the faint scent of smoke still lingering in the air.

For a brief moment, he thought of the souls that had passed through his own life—some lost, some saved, but all leaving their mark. He let out a slow breath, the tension in his shoulders easing as he felt Erynn's hand in his.

"Come," she said gently. "There's still much to do."

Veylan gave a faint nod, allowing himself to be led away from the shore. For now, the mourning was complete, but the grief would remain for some time.

…

As Erynn gently guided Veylan away from the somber shore, the faint whispers of the Skelligers began to fade into the background. The sky hung heavy with clouds, casting long shadows across the gathered mourners. Yet, even amidst the quiet solemnity of the moment, something pricked at Veylan's finely honed instincts—a subtle shift in the atmosphere, like the stirring of a predator in the tall grass.

His amber eyes flicked across the crowd, scanning faces that bore expressions of grief, reverence, or stoic detachment. Then, he found it: a pair of cold, scrutinizing eyes watching him from the far side of the gathering.

Birna Bran, the widow of the late king, stood apart from the others, her face a mask of composed dignity, yet her gaze betrayed something darker. Her lips were pressed into a thin line, and though her posture remained regal, her eyes burned with disdain. She did not look at Erynn, Geralt, or even the druids, but directly at Veylan.

For a moment, the two locked eyes. Veylan's expression remained neutral, but inside, his instincts bristled. It wasn't the first time he'd seen that look: a mix of judgment and barely veiled contempt. Birna's gaze lingered a moment longer before she turned away, her dark fur cloak sweeping behind her as she made her way toward the cluster of jarls.

Veylan let out a quiet breath, his shoulders subtly tensing. Beside him, Erynn noticed the shift in his demeanor.

"What is it?" she asked softly, her fiery hair catching the pale light of the overcast sky.

"Nothing yet," Veylan murmured, his gaze following Birna as she disappeared into the crowd. "Just something... to keep an eye on."

As they moved away from the main gathering, Veylan felt another presence approach. Turning his head slightly, he saw Crach an Craite striding toward him, his imposing figure cutting through the crowd like a ship through water. The Jarl's face was grave, his sharp eyes glinting with the weight of unspoken words.

"Veylan," Crach said quietly, his voice low enough that only the Witcher and Erynn could hear. "A word."

Veylan stopped, gesturing for Erynn to linger nearby. Crach leaned in slightly, his tone still hushed.

"I saw her too," Crach said, his eyes briefly darting in the direction Birna Bran had gone. "The queen. There's something... off about her."

Veylan's gaze narrowed, his mind already racing. "You've noticed it as well?"

Crach nodded grimly. "Aye. And I'm not the only one. The jarls... the warriors... even the druids. Everyone's been on edge since King Bran's passing, and it's not just grief. There's a tension in the air, and it's only grown worse around her."

Erynn stepped closer, her expression curious but guarded. "What are you saying, Jarl?"

Crach glanced around, ensuring no one was within earshot before speaking again. "I can't say for certain, but there are whispers. Some say she's pushing for someone specific to ascend the throne, someone who'd serve her interests, not Skellige's." His voice lowered even further. "I don't trust her."

Veylan's gaze remained steady, his voice calm. "And you think she might act against the jarls?"

Crach hesitated, his jaw tightening. "It's possible. Which is why I want to speak to you and Geralt at the feast. There's a private matter I need to discuss regarding the succession. Skellige needs a leader who'll honor Bran's legacy, not one who'll tear it apart."

Veylan tilted his head slightly, studying Crach's face. The Jarl's concern was genuine, his usual confidence tempered by unease. "You're sure you want to bring me into this?" Veylan asked. "I'm not exactly a politician."

Crach smirked faintly, though it didn't reach his eyes. "No, but you're an outsider with a sharp mind and sharper instincts. And I know Geralt will hear reason. Between the two of you, we might stand a chance of keeping this from spiraling into something worse."

Erynn spoke up, her voice thoughtful. "And what of Birna? If she's as dangerous as you suspect, she might not sit idly by if she feels her plans are threatened."

Crach's smirk vanished, replaced by a hard, wary expression. "I'd be extra careful at the feast," he said, his tone almost a growl. "I can't say for sure, but... something about her sets my teeth on edge. I've seen warriors face death with less malice in their eyes."

Veylan nodded slowly, his senses still tingling from the earlier exchange. "We'll tread carefully. But you're right, Skellige can't afford to falter now."

Crach placed a firm hand on Veylan's shoulder, his grip strong but not unkind. "Good. I'll make sure Birna is out of earshot when we speak."

The Jarl straightened, his sharp gaze flicking back toward the crowd. "Until then, keep your wits about you. The gods only know what she's planning."

As Crach walked away, Veylan turned to Erynn, his expression thoughtful. "It seems our work here isn't done yet."

Erynn smiled faintly, her voice laced with dry humor. "When is it ever?"

Veylan exhaled through his nose, his sharp gaze drifting toward the horizon. "True. But something tells me this feast will be more than just food and drink."

And as the clouds churned faintly in the sky, a flicker of unease gnawed at the edges of his thoughts. Skellige was a land of storms, both in nature and in politics, and it seemed another tempest was on the horizon.

…

Veylan and Erynn began their preparations for the feast with care, aware of the significance of their attendance. The feast wasn't merely a gathering for celebration; it was an opportunity to honor Skellige's traditions, foster alliances, and maintain respect among the jarls and warriors. Their attire and demeanor would be as important as their actions, especially with tensions still simmering in the aftermath of the king's of Form

In their modest chambers, Veylan stood before a small table where his gear was laid out: his silver and steel swords, a few carefully prepared potions, and the dagger gifted to him by Gunther O'Dimm, Chernobog. The dagger's blackened blade glinted faintly in the candlelight, its runes almost seeming to pulse with life. He picked it up, running his thumb over the hilt thoughtfully.

Erynn glanced over at him, adjusting the clasp of her fur-lined cloak. "You're bringing that?" she asked, her voice curious but without judgment.

"I'm not leaving it behind," Veylan replied, , turning the blade over in his hand. "It's... precious. Too much so to leave unattended."

He slid the dagger into its sheath, fastening it to his belt alongside the two rings he wore, his Ofeiri ring, a token of gratitude and respect, and the ring gifted by O'Dimm, a far darker memento of his dealings with forces few dared to comprehend. Both rings stood out, their presence symbolic in ways only Veylan fully understood.

Erynn approached him, her own preparations complete. Her forest-green dress was adorned with intricate golden embroidery, the runes stitched along its edges shimmering faintly in the firelight. Her family amulet, as always, hung around her neck, its silver surface catching the light.

"You clean up well," she teased, her smile soft.

Veylan smirked faintly. "You don't look too bad yourself."

As they made their way to the keep, the murmurs of Skelligers filled the air around them. Villagers and warriors alike whispered about the Witcher, recounting tales of his recent exploits, the drowners, the neckers, the wyverns he had captured for study. Some even spoke of the storm at the temple ruins, speculating whether Veylan had been involved in the god-like display of power that had left them both awed and uneasy.

Erynn noticed the glances and leaned closer to Veylan. "They're curious about you," she said quietly.

"Let them be," he replied evenly, his amber eyes scanning the path ahead. "Curiosity's better than fear."

The path to the keep wound along the cliffs, the roar of the sea below mingling with the cold, biting wind. When they arrived at the gates, two Skellige guards stepped forward, their stern expressions softening slightly as they recognized the Witcher and his companion.

One of the guards stepped forward, gesturing toward Veylan's weapons. "All arms must be surrendered at the gate," he said, his voice carrying authority but not unfriendly. "It's tradition."

Veylan gave a faint nod, his amber eyes calm. "I've left my swords at the hut," he replied, his tone steady. "I came unarmed, mostly."

With deliberate care, he reached to his belt and unfastened the small dagger gifted to him by Gunther O'Dimm. Its dark, ornate hilt glinted faintly in the firelight, the blade itself seeming to hum with unspoken power. He held it out to the guard, whose brow furrowed as he took it into his hands.

The guard turned the blade over, examining its craftsmanship. "This one's... different," he murmured, his curiosity evident. "Looks valuable. A relic, maybe?"

Veylan's gaze remained steady. "It is," he said simply. "It's precious to me. Leaving it unattended at the hut didn't feel right." He met the guard's eyes, his tone calm but resolute. "I'm trusting you to keep it safe while I attend the feast. Can I count on that?"

The guard straightened, clearly recognizing the weight of the request. He gave a firm nod. "You have my word, Witcher. No harm will come to it."

Veylan inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment. "That's all I ask."

Satisfied, the guard stepped aside, motioning for them to enter. "Enjoy the feast, and may Freya watch over you both."

As they passed through the gates, Erynn glanced up at Veylan, her expression curious. "You really trust them with that?"

"I don't have much of a choice," Veylan replied evenly, his sharp gaze already scanning the keep's interior. "But Skelligers take honor seriously. They'll keep their word."

Erynn gave a faint smile, brushing her fingers over the amulet at her neck. "Fair enough. Let's hope the rest of the evening goes as smoothly."

Ahead, the warm glow of firelight spilled out from the hall, accompanied by the murmur of voices and the clink of tankards. The scent of roasted meat and spiced mead filled the air, mingling with the salty tang of the sea.

The hall was alive with the sights, sounds, and smells of Skellige's traditions. Long tables lined the great room, laden with roasted meats, spiced stews, and fresh bread. Tankards overflowed with ale, the frothy liquid gleaming in the flickering firelight. Warriors shared boisterous stories of their victories, while druids and elders offered quieter words of wisdom to those who sought them out.

Veylan and Erynn found themselves seated near Crach an Craite, who waved them over with a warm yet solemn expression. The jarl's presence commanded respect, his sharp eyes flicking between the gathered guests with an air of watchfulness.

"Veylan," Crach said, raising a tankard in greeting. "You've made quite the impression already. Skellige doesn't often host a witcher who takes contracts and pays his respects to our traditions. You honor us."

Veylan inclined his head. "I do what I can. Besides, Skellige has a way of reminding you what's important." His gaze briefly swept across the room, noting the relaxed demeanor of the warriors and the shared camaraderie among the clans. It was a rare moment of unity, one he hoped wouldn't fracture too soon.

Erynn smiled politely beside him, her amulet catching the firelight as she spoke. "Your hospitality has been most generous, Jarl. It's clear how deeply your people honor their traditions."

Crach chuckled, his booming laugh cutting through the din. "Aye, and tonight's feast will be no exception. The ale's already flowing, and the bards will soon have the floor. Just wait until the drinking contests begin."

Veylan smirked faintly, though his sharp senses remained alert. His heightened perception picked up every detail, the subtle shift in the air, the faintest rustle of movement beyond the edges of the room, and the overlapping scents of food, drink, and people. It was second nature for him to remain vigilant, even in the midst of celebration.

As the night wore on, servants began carrying out large cauldrons of ale to refill the many tankards scattered across the tables. The aroma of the spiced drink wafted through the air, mingling with the scent of roasted meats. The warriors cheered, raising their empty tankards high in anticipation.

But something pricked at Veylan's senses—a faint, sour tang beneath the warm, heady scent of ale. His nostrils flared slightly as he leaned forward, sniffing the air with a sharp intensity that caught Erynn's attention.

"What is it?" she asked quietly, noticing the way his shoulders tensed.

Veylan didn't answer immediately. He stood abruptly, his gaze narrowing as he focused on the cauldrons being carried to the tables. A faint coppery note reached his heightened senses, mingled with something earthy and bitter. His heart quickened as realization struck.

"Blood," he muttered under his breath. "And... mushrooms."

Erynn frowned, her voice hushed but urgent. "Mushrooms? What kind?"

Veylan's jaw tightened as he began striding toward the nearest cauldron, weaving between tables and ignoring the puzzled looks from the guests. "The kind that shouldn't be anywhere near ale."

Crach noticed Veylan's sudden movement and stood, his expression questioning. "Witcher? What's going on?"

Veylan's voice was sharp, cutting through the growing murmurs of the crowd. "Something's wrong with the ale."

The hall grew quieter as the words spread, the gathered warriors and jarls turning their attention to Veylan. He reached one of the cauldrons just as a servant was about to ladle out another round of drinks. Without hesitation, Veylan grabbed the ladle and set it aside, plunging his hand into the steaming liquid.

The servant gasped in surprise. "What are you doing?"

Ignoring the protest, Veylan rummaged through the liquid until his fingers closed around something soft and slimy. He pulled his hand free, lifting a clump of dark, misshapen mushrooms from the cauldron. Red streaks dripped from the fungi, the unmistakable scent of blood filling the air.

Turning toward the gathered crowd, Veylan held the clump of mushrooms high, his voice ringing out with urgency. "NO ONE DRINK THE ALE!"

The hall erupted in startled gasps and murmurs. Veylan's sharp gaze locked onto Crach as he strode forward, holding the mushrooms out as proof. "Someone spiked it."

Crach's face darkened, his sharp features hardening into a scowl as he took in the sight of the bloodstreaked fungi. "Spiked it... with what?"

Veylan set the mushrooms on the table, his expression grim. "These are the kind of mushrooms used to make berserkers, people driven mad with bloodlust. Add the blood to the mix, and anyone who drinks this ale would lose all control. They'd tear through the hall like rabid beasts."

A ripple of alarm spread through the crowd. Warriors exchanged uneasy glances, and the druids moved closer to inspect the mushrooms.

Crach slammed a fist on the table, his voice booming over the noise. "Who would dare do this? In my hall?!"

Veylan's sharp eyes scanned the room, his instincts on high alert. The culprit was here, he was certain of it. "Someone who doesn't care if this feast ends in bloodshed."

Erynn stepped forward, her voice calm but baring a seriousness. "We need to search every cauldron, every barrel. This may not be the only one."

Crach nodded grimly, barking orders to the guards. The hall buzzed with tension as the warriors and servants moved to investigate, the festive atmosphere replaced by a growing sense of unease.

Veylan's hand lingered near the empty sheath on his belt. He didn't have his swords, but he didn't need them to know one thing for certain: this was no accident. Someone wanted chaos, and whoever it was, they were prepared to turn Skellige's feast into a battlefield.

Cerys and her brother, Hjalmar, were quick to act when Crach barked his orders. The siblings moved with purpose, rallying warriors and servants alike to inspect every barrel and cauldron in the hall. Though their approaches differed, Cerys methodical and calm, Hjalmar brash and forceful, they worked in tandem, their focus sharp.

"We'll get to the bottom of this," Cerys said as she approached one of the barrels near the head of the table, motioning for a servant to open it. Her sharp eyes narrowed as she leaned in, sniffing carefully. The earthy, bitter scent of the mushrooms was unmistakable.

"This one's spiked," she confirmed, her voice steady despite the tension. She moved on to the next barrel, repeating the process.

Meanwhile, Hjalmar slammed his fist against another keg, demanding it be opened. "If I find out who's behind this-" he muttered, cutting himself off as the lid was pried loose. He sniffed, then hesitated. "This one's clean."

As the investigation continued, the results became clear: most of the barrels and cauldrons were tainted, but not all. Cerys and Hjalmar exchanged a glance as they reconvened near the center of the hall.

"It doesn't make sense," Hjalmar growled, his fists clenched. "Why not spike all of them? Why leave some untouched?"

Cerys nodded, her expression thoughtful. "Whoever did this wanted chaos, but... maybe they didn't have time to spike everything."

Geralt, who had been quietly observing, stepped forward, his cat-like eyes sharp. "No," he said, "It's not about time. The scent leads through the keep." He motioned toward the far end of the hall, where the stone corridors twisted deeper into the fortress. "The kegs themselves were tampered with... before they were brought in."

The room fell quiet as the weight of his words sank in. The saboteur wasn't someone outside the keep, they were already within its walls.

Crach's face darkened, his expression thunderous. "Someone in the keep betrayed us." He glanced toward his children. "Find out who. Now."

As the hall buzzed with tension, Veylan and Erynn exchanged a glance before slipping away from the growing crowd. Veylan's instincts hummed with unease, his heightened senses catching subtle details that others might overlook.

They followed the corridor Geralt had pointed out, the scent of blood and mushrooms lingering faintly in the air. Veylan's sharp eyes scanned the floor and walls, searching for anything out of place. It didn't take long for him to spot it—a scrap of torn cloth caught on the edge of a rough stone corner.

He knelt, carefully plucking the cloth free. It was dark blue, the material fine and delicate—far too refined for a warrior's garb. He held it up for Erynn to see.

"From a woman's dress," she murmured, her voice thoughtful. "Whoever it belonged to must have been in a hurry to tear it like this."

Veylan nodded, his sharp gaze sweeping the floor. A few feet away, a faint discoloration caught his eye. He moved closer, his fingers brushing against the damp stone.

"Someone cleaned up here," he said, his voice low. "There was a spill—ale, probably." He straightened, his nostrils flaring as he sniffed the air. Faint, almost imperceptible, a sweet, floral scent lingered above the earthy musk of the mushrooms.

"Perfume," Erynn said, catching it as well. Her expression shifted, a flicker of recognition crossing her face. "That scent... it's familiar."

Veylan's jaw tightened as the pieces began to fall into place. "Let's find Geralt," he said, his voice steady but edged with steel. "If this is who I think it is, we'll need to act fast."

They returned to the hall just as Geralt was explaining his theory to Cerys and Hjalmar. The Witcher gestured toward the barrels. "The kegs were spiked before they were brought here. Whoever did this wanted to stay close enough to watch it all unfold."

Veylan stepped forward, holding up the torn cloth. "And whoever it was left this behind."

Geralt took the cloth, his sharp eyes narrowing as he examined it. He sniffed, his expression darkening. "Perfume." He glanced toward Veylan. "You smell it too?"

Veylan nodded. "It's faint, but it's there. And it's familiar."

Cerys frowned, her gaze darting between the two Witchers. "Familiar how?"

Erynn spoke up, her voice calm but pointed. "It's a noblewoman's perfume. I've smelled it before... on someone in this keep."

The room fell silent as the implications settled over them. Crach stepped forward, his expression stormy. "If you have a name, now's the time to share it."

Veylan hesitated, his mind racing. The scent, the torn cloth, the calculated sabotage, it all pointed to someone who had both the access and the motive to carry out such a plan. And as the pieces came together, one name lingered on the edge of his thoughts.

The saboteur wasn't just someone in the keep. It was someone they had all trusted.

The hall grew deathly quiet as Veylan stepped forward, his sharp amber eyes locking onto Birna Bran, who stood near the far side of the room, every breath held as warriors, druids, and nobles turned their attention toward the Witcher.

"Birna Bran," Veylan said, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. He held up the torn cloth, his tone cold and deliberate. "This belongs to you, doesn't it?"

Birna's eyes widened ever so slightly before narrowing, her expression quickly shifting to one of indignant disbelief. "This is preposterous," she snapped, her voice sharp and defensive. "You dare accuse me of... of sabotage? In my own hall? Among my people?"

Veylan didn't flinch, his gaze unwavering. "I saw you earlier," he said calmly, his voice like iron. "You were wearing a blue dress. The same shade as this cloth." He held it up for all to see, the dark blue fabric catching the firelight.

Crach an Craite's face darkened as he took a step forward, his sharp gaze shifting between Birna and Veylan. "Is this true?" he demanded, his voice low and dangerous. "I saw you in blue earlier as well. You've changed since then, haven't you?"

Birna opened her mouth to respond, but before she could form another protest, a young voice rang out from the far side of the hall.

"Mother?"

All eyes turned as Birna's son, Svanrige Bran, stepped hesitantly into the room. His face was pale, his wide eyes flickering with disbelief and confusion. He had clearly been hiding just out of sight, his expression one of a boy who had overheard far more than he should have.

"Svanrige," Birna began, her voice softening as she reached out toward him. "Go back to your room-"

"No!" he interrupted, his voice trembling. "I heard everything. You told me to avoid the ale. To stay away from the mead hall. You knew!" His voice cracked as he took a step closer, his eyes now wide with horror. "How did you know?"

Birna faltered, her usually composed demeanor cracking for a split second before she forced herself to stand tall. "I was protecting you," she said quickly, her voice firm. "I would never put you at risk—"

"At risk?" Svanrige's voice rose, his horror turning to anger. "What about everyone else? What about the warriors, the jarls, the people who trusted you? Did you... did you do this?"

The hall erupted into murmurs, the tension mounting with every word. Cerys and Hjalmar exchanged a glance before stepping closer to their father, their expressions a mixture of confusion and mounting suspicion. Crach an Craite's gaze was fixed on Birna, his fists clenched as he awaited her response.

"This is ridiculous," Birna snapped, her composure faltering further. "I would never harm my people. This is a baseless accusation, built on nothing but a piece of torn fabric and a Witcher's word."

Veylan stepped forward, his voice low and cold. "And the perfume, Birna. The scent of it was on the cloth. The same perfume you're wearing now." His sharp gaze flicked toward her dress. "You changed to hide it, but you missed one crucial detail."

He pointed to the hem of her current dress, where a faint smear of dampness was visible. "You cleaned up the spill from the ale. But the evidence is still there."

Birna took a step back, her face pale but her voice rising. "This is slander! Lies! You have no proof-"

"Mother," Svanrige's voice broke through again, softer this time, but filled with pain. He stared at her, his expression now one of betrayal. "Please... tell me this isn't true."

Before Birna could respond, the room descended into chaos. Warriors shouted accusations, jarls demanded explanations, and druids stepped forward, their expressions grim as they murmured among themselves. The air was thick with tension, the betrayal cutting deeper than any blade.

Crach an Craite slammed his fist on the table, his voice booming over the clamor. "SILENCE!"

The room fell quiet, all eyes turning to the jarl. His gaze was fixed on Birna, his expression a mixture of anger and deep disappointment. "You will answer these accusations, Birna Bran. Here and now."

Birna stood frozen, her hands clenched at her sides as she looked around the room. Her usual air of confidence had all but crumbled, leaving only a woman backed into a corner. Her gaze flicked toward Svanrige, who stared at her with tear-filled eyes, and for a moment, her mask slipped entirely.

But then, she straightened, her voice regaining its sharp edge. "You're all fools," she hissed, her eyes narrowing. "Do you think I would risk everything for some... petty sabotage? This is a plot against me—a plot to discredit my family!"

Veylan's voice cut through her protest like a blade. "And who would have gained from the chaos that berserkers would have caused tonight? Who would have stood to benefit from the destruction of this feast?"

The room fell silent again as the implications of his words settled over them. Birna's lips tightened, her silence speaking louder than any denial.

Svanrige stepped back, his face pale as he whispered, "It's true... isn't it?"

The tension in the hall was thick enough to cut with a blade. Veylan's sharp gaze remained on Birna, while Crach, his children, and the gathered jarls all waited for her next move. The stakes were clear, whatever happened next would determine the course of not only the feast but Skellige's future.

For the first time, Birna Bran found herself with no escape, her carefully constructed web of lies unraveling before the eyes of her son and her people.

The hall was silent, the weight of the accusations pressing down like a stormcloud ready to burst. All eyes remained on Birna Bran, her once-commanding presence now reduced to a fragile mask of defiance. Veylan's steady, unyielding gaze bored into her, and Crach an Craite loomed nearby, his expression thunderous.

Birna's son, Svanrige, stood frozen a few steps away, his face pale and his hands trembling at his sides. The young man's voice, shaky but tinged with anger, broke the silence.

"Mother..." His words faltered, his tone caught between disbelief and desperation. "Please... just tell me the truth. Did you do this?"

Birna's composure finally cracked. She drew in a sharp breath, her shoulders trembling as the mask she had clung to shattered into pieces. Her eyes darted to her son, and for a brief moment, the room could see the vulnerability, the desperation, beneath the facade.

"Svanrige..." Her voice trembled, barely above a whisper. Then it grew louder, rising with emotion as her words spilled out in a frantic rush. "I did it for you! All for you!"

Her voice echoed through the hall, the raw confession cutting through the stunned silence. She turned fully toward her son, her hands outstretched as though pleading for his understanding.

"Everything I've done... it was for your future!" she cried, her voice thick with desperation. "So you could finally rule Skellige like you were always meant to! They wouldn't let you have it—they'd choose Cerys or Hjalmar, or someone else entirely. They'd never see you for what you are, never give you the chance you deserve!"

Svanrige flinched as though struck, his face contorting in anguish. His voice broke as he whispered, "But... at what cost, Mother? Chaos? Death?" He shook his head, his words trembling with disbelief. "You betrayed our people. You betrayed me."

Birna stepped forward, desperation written across her face. "I did it to protect you!" she insisted. "To secure your future! Can't you see? Everything I've done was to make sure you ruled, so you could lead Skellige into greatness!"

Svanrige stared at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable as the hall held its collective breath. Then, without a word, he turned and walked away.

Birna's eyes widened in shock. "Svanrige!" she called after him, but he didn't stop. The young man's steps were slow, almost unsteady, as though the weight of her words had drained him completely. He pushed through the gathered crowd, ignoring their whispers and stares.

Finally, he reached the edge of the hall, leaning heavily against a tall wooden pillar. His legs gave out beneath him, and he slid down to the ground, his head falling into his hands as the overwhelming reality of the moment crushed him. His shoulders shook, though no sound escaped him.

Back in the center of the hall, Crach an Craite's expression turned cold as he stepped toward Birna. "You've done more than just betray your people," he said, his voice low and sharp, like the edge of a blade. "You've stained your son's name and legacy with your schemes. There's no excuse for this."

Birna turned toward him, her defiance flickering weakly. "You don't understand—"

"Enough!" Crach barked, his voice booming across the hall. The jarls murmured amongst themselves, their shock and fury evident. "You've shamed not only yourself but the very throne you sought to control. Your actions have no place in Skellige."

The guards stepped forward at his command, their expressions grim as they awaited his orders. Veylan watched silently, his sharp gaze flicking between Birna and the others. This wasn't his fight to resolve, but he couldn't ignore the impact of her confession.

Erynn placed a hand lightly on Veylan's arm, her expression somber. "This is a wound that will take time to heal," she murmured. "For all of them."

Svanrige remained slumped against the pillar, his head still buried in his hands. For all his mother's ambitions, all her plotting, she had only succeeded in tearing apart the very foundation of their family. Veylan glanced toward the young man, his expression unreadable, before turning back to the unfolding chaos in the hall.

The truth was out, but the scars it left behind would linger long after the night had ended.

…

The hall was heavy with silence after Birna's damning confession. The jarls, druids, and warriors sat in stunned disbelief, their faces pale and expressions grim. The room seemed to hum with the weight of the moment, the air thick with the realization of how far Birna's treachery had gone.

Svanrige sat slumped against the pillar, silent and unmoving, as though every ounce of strength had been sapped from his body. Even the murmurs of the gathered crowd—voices debating his fate, lamenting his mother's betrayal, or pitying his shattered spirit—barely reached his ears. He was utterly still, lost in the depth of his despair.

Crach an Craite finally broke the silence, stepping forward with authority. His voice rang out, carrying the weight of the laws and traditions of Skellige. "The jarls have spoken, and their judgment is clear. By our laws, Svanrige Bran is to be exiled. The sins of his bloodline have left him unfit to remain among us."

There was no malice in his tone, only the cold, unwavering voice of tradition. Even Crach, who had been a staunch ally of Bran's lineage, looked pained by the verdict. But the laws of Skellige were absolute, even when they cut into the heart of those who enforced them.

Svanrige lifted his head slowly, his face pale and his eyes hollow. He said nothing to challenge the verdict, no argument or plea for leniency. He simply nodded, the weight of his exile settling over him like a shroud.

"I will go," he said quietly, his voice hoarse. "There is nothing left for me here."

The jarls exchanged solemn glances. Though many pitied him, their duty to uphold Skellige's laws left no room for compassion. Cerys and Hjalmar watched silently, their expressions grim. Even they, as rivals to his claim, found little satisfaction in his fall.

As the verdict was being carried out, a druid entered the hall, his face pale with urgency. He approached Crach an Craite and whispered in his ear, his voice too low for the others to hear. Crach's eyes widened slightly, then darkened with an anger that bordered on rage.

Turning back to the crowd, he raised a hand for silence. "Before we finalize this matter, another truth has come to light." His voice was sharp, cutting through the murmurs. "The druids have searched Birna Bran's quarters... and what they found confirms the depth of her treachery."

All eyes turned to Birna, who stood stiffly, her defiance flickering but not yet extinguished. Crach continued, his tone like steel. "Among her possessions, they found vials of poison. A slow-acting venom... one used to weaken and kill over time. These vials were used on none other than King Bran himself."

The hall erupted in gasps and shouts of disbelief. The revelation hit like a thunderclap, the full scope of Birna's betrayal leaving even the most hardened warriors shaken. She had not only betrayed her people but had murdered her own husband, the late king, to further her ambitions.

Svanrige's face twisted in horror, the final blow landing squarely on his shoulders. "You poisoned Father?" he whispered, his voice breaking. He stood unsteadily, staring at his mother with wide, disbelieving eyes. "You killed him... for this?"

Birna, for all her composure, seemed to falter. Her lips tightened, and her hands clenched into fists. But even now, she refused to crumble entirely. "I did what needed to be done," she hissed. "Bran was weak. His time had passed. Skellige needed strength, needed you!"

Her words only deepened the horror etched across Svanrige's face. He stepped back as though struck, his hands trembling. "You... you don't understand anything," he muttered, his voice barely audible. "You destroyed everything."

The hall was silent as the jarls conferred, their decision swift and unanimous. Crach turned to Birna, his expression as cold and unyielding as the northern seas.

"Birna Bran," he said, his voice steady but filled with righteous fury. "By the laws of Skellige, you are hereby sentenced to death for your treason and the murder of King Bran. You will be bound to a rock and left for the birds. Let your end serve as a warning to all who would betray our people."

Birna's defiance crumbled at last. Her face twisted in fury and fear, her voice rising in a desperate, venomous shout. "You fools! You blind, weak-minded fools! Without me, Skellige will fall into chaos!"

The guards stepped forward, their expressions grim as they moved to carry out the sentence. Birna struggled briefly, her protests turning into screams as they seized her arms and began leading her away.

The crowd watched in silence, their expressions a mixture of relief and sorrow. The weight of the night's revelations was heavy, but there was no denying that justice had been served.

Svanrige stood apart from the crowd, his shoulders slumped as he stared at the ground. His mother's final screams echoed faintly as she was dragged from the hall, but he didn't move, didn't react. He was hollow, a man whose world had been shattered beyond repair.

Cerys approached him cautiously, her expression soft. "Svanrige..." she began, but he shook his head, cutting her off.

"Don't," he said quietly. "There's nothing left to say."

Without another word, he turned and walked toward the door, his footsteps heavy. The warriors and jarls parted to let him pass, their faces a mixture of pity and respect. He was no longer their rival, no longer a threat. He was simply a man leaving behind the only home he had ever known.

As the heavy doors closed behind him, the hall remained silent, the weight of the night's events settling over all who remained. Skellige would heal, in time, but the scars left by Birna's betrayal would linger for generations.

…Bottom of Form

The docks were quiet, the early morning mist rolling in from the sea and clinging to the wooden planks. Ships bobbed gently in the harbor, their sails flapping faintly in the breeze. Svanrige Bran stood near one of the larger vessels, his belongings gathered in a modest bundle at his feet. His once-proud posture was slouched, his gaze distant as he stared at the endless expanse of water before him.

The young man had no destination, no plan. The world beyond the Skellige Isles stretched before him like an uncharted void, and for the first time in his life, he felt utterly adrift. His father was gone, his mother condemned, and his legacy tarnished. He had no family left, no home to return to, and no purpose to guide him.

As he adjusted the bundle at his feet, a familiar voice broke through the quiet.

"Svanrige."

The young man turned to see Veylan approaching, his tall, imposing figure cutting through the mist like a specter. Behind him, the faint glow of a magical projection faded, evidence of a recent conversation with the Nilfgaardian diplomat. Veylan's amber eyes softened as he regarded Svanrige, his expression far less stern than usual.

"Witcher," Svanrige said, his voice weary. He offered a faint nod of acknowledgment. "I didn't expect to see you here."

Veylan stopped a few feet away, crossing his arms as he studied the young man. "I wanted to speak to you before you left."

Svanrige frowned faintly, his shoulders slumping further. "There's nothing left to say. I've been exiled. I'll find a place on the continent, work where I can, and... figure things out." His tone was heavy with resignation, as though he didn't truly believe his own words.

Veylan stepped closer, "No one should have to go through what you've endured, Svanrige. You lost everything, your father, your mother, your home. But you don't have to face this alone."

The young man blinked, caught off guard by the unexpected kindness in Veylan's words. He glanced up, his expression uncertain. "What are you saying?"

Veylan sighed softly, his amber gaze steady. "I'm saying you have a choice. If you're willing, you can stay with me and Erynn at our cottage near Novigrad. It's quiet, safe, and you'll have a roof over your head while you figure out your next steps."

Svanrige stared at him, his brow furrowing as he processed the offer. "Why would you do that? After everything my mother did, after... everything that happened..."

Veylan's expression softened further. "Because no one deserves to be cast out into the world with nowhere to go. What your mother did is not a reflection of you, Svanrige. You're young, and your life isn't over. Staying with us will give you the chance to start over, to rebuild, without fear or judgment."

Svanrige looked away, his gaze drifting back to the sea. For a long moment, he said nothing, the weight of the decision pressing heavily on his shoulders. He had always been proud, stubborn even, but now... now he was just lost. The thought of wandering the continent as a beggar, with no direction and no purpose, sent a cold shiver down his spine.

Finally, he let out a shaky breath, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "I don't have anywhere else to go," he admitted. "I don't want to live like a beggar, scraping by just to survive." He turned back to Veylan, his expression filled with a mix of gratitude and uncertainty. "If you're sure... then I'll accept."

Veylan nodded, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Good. When you arrive in Novigrad, follow the boat captain who'll greet you. He'll take you to a Nilfgaardian captain, a friend of mine. He'll escort you to my home."

Svanrige's raised an eyebrow. "Nilfgaardians?"

"Yes," Veylan replied evenly. "They keep watch over the area and ensure the safety of those under my care. If you need anything while you're there, speak to the guards. They'll make sure you're provided for."

Svanrige nodded slowly, the faintest flicker of hope returning to his eyes. "Thank you," he said quietly, his voice earnest. "I won't forget this."

Veylan clapped a hand on his shoulder, the gesture reassuring. "Take this time to heal, Svanrige. You've been through more than most men ever will. Use this as a chance to find your path, whatever that may be."

With that, Veylan stepped back, giving the young man space as he returned to his belongings. Svanrige watched him for a moment, the Witcher's words lingering in his mind. He didn't know what the future held, but for the first time since the verdict was passed, he felt a glimmer of something he thought he'd lost: hope.

As the boat prepared to depart, Veylan remained on the dock, watching as Svanrige boarded. The young man turned back once, offering a faint nod of acknowledgment before disappearing onto the vessel.

Veylan stood there for a moment longer, the mist curling around him as the ship began to drift out to sea. When it was out of sight, he turned and began walking back toward the village, his thoughts already turning to the next task of helping Crach an Craite decide on who will be the successor of his two children.