The Witcher: Chimera

Chapter 18: Innovation and Alchemy, Old Wounds and New Ones

…

Two days later…

The sewers beneath Novigrad were a labyrinthine network, damp and dark, but tonight they were far more than a hiding place for rats and filth. Days of meticulous planning had transformed this space into a trap, one crafted with precision and care. Guards and Nilfgaardian troops had sealed every entrance and exit, while sorceresses stationed above wove spells to lock teleportation pathways. It was a perfect cage for the rogues who had caused so much chaos.

Doctor Silas Veylor arrived first, his grotesque form emerging from the shadows. His mottled green skin glistened with puss-like moisture, and every step he took left a faint, damp residue behind. His presence made the few guards he passed turn pale, doubling over with nausea. He smirked, enjoying the effect he had on others.

Behind him, Lord Ferid Drakovich descended into the sewer with an air of disdain, his fine clothing contrasting sharply with the filth around him. He was a nobleman with ties to Radovid's dark experiments, a financier of horrors that most dared not even whisper about. His expression was one of mild interest as he observed the crates being opened.

Around them were a handful of mercenaries, paid to ensure the goods reached their supposed buyers without interference. Little did they know that every move they made was being watched.

The crates were pried open under the dim torchlight, revealing a treasure trove of deadly innovations. Doctor Silas Veylor's grotesque form hovered over the cache, his sickly green skin glistening with a faint sheen of moisture. Lord Ferid Drakovich stood beside him, his aristocratic demeanor a stark contrast to the grimy setting. Across from them stood the three most powerful figures in Novigrad's criminal underworld: Dijkstra, Cleaver, and the King of Beggars. The atmosphere crackled with tension as the sellers presented their wares.

One of the mercenaries began unpacking the first crate, pulling out a small rack of primitive firearms. The flintlock-style rifles were reinforced with glowing runes, their craftsmanship crude yet effective.

The lead seller held one of the rifles up, his voice confident. "Gentlemen, what you see here is a prototype. A flintlock, yes, but not just any flintlock. Reinforced with rune magic, it boasts enhanced durability and accuracy. A skilled marksman could punch through steel plate with a single shot."

Cleaver raised an eyebrow, his fingers twitching near his axe. "And how many shots before it's useless?"

The seller smirked. "Enough to turn the tide of a battle, if used wisely. Reloading takes time, but the power more than makes up for it."

The second crate was opened, revealing rows of bullets with faint, glowing etchings. The seller plucked one out, holding it up for all to see.

"These are no ordinary projectiles. We've developed two special types of ammunition."

The seller displayed a bullet with red glowing runes carved into its surface.

"These," he said, holding it aloft, "are explosive rounds. Once fired, they pierce through armor effortlessly. Upon entering a target, the runes activate, creating a vacuum effect that shreds internal tissues in less than a second. If that wasn't enough, it detonates upon exit, leaving nothing but carnage in its wake."

The King of Beggars adjusted his scarf, his face impassive but his sharp eyes gleaming with interest. "How many of these can you produce?"

"That depends on the resources your... esteemed associates are willing to provide."

The seller pulled out another bullet, this one glowing faintly gold with spiraling runes.

"These are incendiary rounds," he continued. "Upon impact, they ignite, burning hotter than dragonfire. They'll melt through metal and flesh alike. Water won't extinguish them, they burn until there's nothing left."

Cleaver let out a low whistle, his eyes narrowing. "Nasty."

The third crate was opened with a satisfying crack, revealing blocks of gray, clay-like material neatly packed alongside copper wires and a rune-inscribed detonator.

The seller molded a piece of the putty in his hand, grinning. "This is the ultimate in controlled destruction. Burn it, shape it, even cut it, it won't detonate unless triggered by this." He held up the rune-inscribed rod.

"And when it goes off?" Dijkstra asked, his tone calm but his eyes glinting with hidden calculation.

The seller's grin widened. "The explosion can level a stone wall, or take down a rock troll. Silent until it's not, and then everything in the radius is obliterated."

The King of Beggars leaned closer, his voice a low murmur. "And how much of this can you supply?"

"As much as you can afford," the seller replied.

While the sellers boasted about their creations, Dijkstra's sharp mind worked behind the scenes. Every word, every demonstration, was being carefully noted by his associates positioned in the shadows. The crates, the prototypes, and the plans, each was critical evidence to ensure the conspirators would face justice.

Cleaver, ever the opportunist, played his part perfectly. "I could see these beauties working wonders in the right hands. But I'll want to see what else you've got before we talk specifics."

The King of Beggars nodded in agreement, his voice calm but firm. "We need assurances that these weapons are as effective as you claim. Demonstrations are one thing, but production and reliability are another."

Lord Drakovich chuckled, stepping forward with a smooth gesture. "Gentlemen, I assure you, these weapons are not only effective, they are revolutionary. Together, we can shape the future of warfare."

As the sellers began unpacking another crate, Dijkstra subtly nodded toward a shadowed alcove. The message was clear: the time was near. Guards stationed at every sewer entrance signaled their readiness, while the sorceresses above tightened the teleportation wards.

Doctor Silas Veylor sniffed the air suddenly, his twisted face turning toward the nearest grate. "Something's off," he murmured, his voice a rasping growl.

Lord Drakovich waved a dismissive hand. "Paranoia will be your undoing. Focus on the deal."

Unbeknownst to them, Burt the rock troll was quietly securing their escape boat, ensuring no one could flee by water. Eskel and Graden's Church of Eternal Fire students moved silently into position, ready to block any escape route.

Aboveground, Nilfgaardian troops awaited Dijkstra's signal to seal the sewers completely. The sorceresses readied their spells for any attempt at resistance.

As the sellers demonstrated the mechanisms of the flintlock rifles, their voices calm and confident. Each rifle was placed carefully into the hands of Dijkstra, Cleaver, and the King of Beggars. Doctor Silas Veylor watched with his mottled green face contorted into a smug grin, certain the deal was nearing its close. Lord Drakovich stood nearby, arms crossed, his aristocratic arrogance exuding confidence.

"Simply pull back the flintlock here," one of the sellers explained, his hands gesturing deftly to the mechanisms. "Load the powder, insert the ball, cock the hammer, and fire."

Dijkstra nodded thoughtfully, his large hands maneuvering the weapon with unexpected ease. He exchanged a glance with Cleaver, whose calloused hands toyed with the rifle's hammer, and then with the King of Beggars, who feigned admiration for the craftsmanship.

Dijkstra smiled, an expression that didn't reach his calculating eyes. "Mind if we examine them for ourselves? I'm eager to see how smoothly they load."

The seller, oblivious to the trap tightening around him, gestured encouragingly. "Be my guest. You'll find they fire true."

Dijkstra turned the rifle over in his hands, testing the weight and balance. The silence in the room grew heavier. Then, with a sudden movement, he cocked the hammer back—not to admire it, but to aim it directly at Doctor Silas Veylor.

"Now!" Dijkstra barked, his voice reverberating down the sewer corridors.

The room erupted into chaos. Guards stationed at the entrances poured in, their swords drawn and shields raised. From above, the chanting of sorceresses reached a crescendo as spells snapped into place, locking down the area with magical wards. The faint shimmer of protective barriers flickered against the torchlight, ensuring no teleportation was possible.

Cleaver and the King of Beggars swung their rifles toward the stunned sellers, their expressions cold and unyielding. "Hands where we can see them!" Cleaver growled, his axe resting on his hip but his finger firmly on the rifle's trigger.

Doctor Veylor hissed, his twisted body tensing as his eyes darted around for an escape route. His hand began to inch toward the crate containing the C4-like putty.

"Don't even think about it," Geralt's voice cut through the din, calm and menacing. He stepped forward with Veylan at his side, their swords drawn and glinting in the dim light.

Veylan shook his head slowly, his amber eyes glowing faintly in the low light. "You're finished," he said, his voice steady. "Don't make this worse."

Doctor Veylor snarled, his mottled face twisting into a sneer. "You think this will stop me? My work is already—"

The sound of Cleaver's rifle cocking silenced him. "Spare us the monologue, doc," Cleaver muttered. "It's over."

Lord Drakovich raised his hands, a nervous laugh escaping him. "Gentlemen, surely we can come to an arrangement. I have resources—"

"You have nothing," Dijkstra interrupted, his rifle still aimed squarely at Drakovich's chest. "And now, you're going to pay for your crimes. All of them."

In the background, the Nilfgaardian soldiers secured the remaining crates, their precise movements ensuring none of the dangerous weapons or materials could be tampered with. One of the soldiers approached Dijkstra, nodding. "The area is secure. All entrances are covered."

Doctor Veylor's eyes darted toward the remaining crate, his hand twitching toward the latch.

Geralt's voice was a growl as he stepped closer. "I wouldn't."

Doctor Silas Veylor's snarl was a guttural, animalistic sound, his mottled face twisting into a grotesque mask of rage. In a blur of motion, he unsheathed a dagger from his belt, the blade gleaming wickedly under the dim torchlight. With a bellowing cry, he lunged forward, aiming directly at Dijkstra, Cleaver, and the King of Beggars.

The three men reacted instantly.

"Enough of this!" Cleaver roared, pulling the trigger of his flintlock rifle. His incendiary round ignited on impact, striking Veylor's arm. The limb was engulfed in an intense burst of flame, melting flesh and burning to the bone in seconds.

Simultaneously, Dijkstra and the King of Beggars fired their rifles. Both had chosen explosive rounds. The first hit Veylor square in the chest, detonating with a thunderous, 'CRACK!' The shockwave flung chunks of flesh and shattered bone outward, leaving a gaping, smoking hole where his torso had been. The second explosive round found its mark on Veylor's head. It erupted with such force that his skull shattered like glass, splattering the walls and floor with a grisly mix of blood and brain matter.

The remains of Doctor Veylor were flung backwards, his flaming, dismembered arm still twitching as it landed several feet away from his smoldering torso. The dagger clattered harmlessly to the ground, now a twisted, bloodied shard of steel.

The room fell silent save for the faint crackling of flames from Cleaver's incendiary round. Smoke hung heavily in the air, mixing with the acrid stench of burned flesh and gunpowder.

Dijkstra stood frozen, his rifle still raised, his eyes wide as they darted between the charred arm and the shattered remains of Veylor's torso and head. His lips parted, but no words came out. The brutality of the weapon in his hands was unlike anything he'd ever seen. A single squeeze of the trigger had rendered one of the most dangerous men alive into an unrecognizable heap of smoldering ruin.

"Bloody hell," he finally whispered, his voice tinged with genuine disbelief.

Cleaver lowered his rifle slowly, his usually unshakable demeanor cracked. He glanced at the weapon in his hands, his knuckles white against the stock. "I've seen men cleaved in two, gutted, burned alive... but this," he said, shaking his head as if trying to clear the image from his mind. "This isn't war, it's... far worse!"

The King of Beggars, always the calm and calculating one, took an unsteady step back. His gaze flicked to the walls, still slick with blood and brain matter, and his face paled. "One shot. Just one shot... and that's what it does?" His voice wavered as he looked at the rifle in his hands as if it were a cursed artifact. "What have we gotten our hands on?"

Dijkstra forced himself to lower his weapon, his grip still tight. He stared at the explosive round's aftermath, a smoking crater where Veylor's chest used to be, with fragments of his ribs scattered across the floor like jagged shards of glass. "This... this is what they're trying to mass produce?" His voice cracked slightly, a rare display of raw emotion. "Gods, if this gets out..."

Geralt stepped forward, his boots crunching on broken bone and ash. He glanced at the rifles with a grim expression before turning his attention back to the remains. "Now you see why we can't let this spread," he said, he said seriously. "This isn't just another weapon. This is carnage on a mass scale wrapped in iron."

Cleaver shook his head, exhaling shakily. "Carnage is putting it lightly, Witcher. This is... this is a damned apocalypse in a barrel."

Veylan, standing just behind Geralt, tightened his jaw as he surveyed the scene. His amber green eyes glowed faintly in the dim light, a reflection of his own grim determination. "This is what they're after," he said quietly, his voice cutting through the haze of shock. "They're not just playing with power, they're trying to change the very nature of warfare. If these weapons make it to the wrong hands, no one, no kingdom, no force, will be safe."

Dijkstra finally found his composure, though it was thinly held. "We've got the evidence. The weapons, the rounds, the notes, it's enough to make sure these bastards can't operate in the shadows anymore." He glanced back at the Nilfgaardian soldiers, who were carefully packing away the remaining crates. "But gods help us if anyone else figures out how to make these."

The King of Beggars nodded grimly, his earlier composure returning in measured breaths. "We need to move quickly. Secure this, lock it down, and make sure the knowledge dies with Veylor."

Cleaver looked at his rifle one last time before handing it over to a nearby soldier. "I don't ever want to see one of these again," he muttered. Clearly horrified by what he just saw.

Now the real challenge presented itself.

Dismantling those accursed weapons.

…

The group worked methodically in the dimly lit forge below Novigrad, where the best alchemists and blacksmiths were assembled. Everyone from Veylan to Vesemir had a role in ensuring that the dangerous artifacts were broken down safely and repurposed into something constructive. The Nilfgaardian soldiers stood by, assisting with heavy lifting and security, while sorceresses like Yennefer and Keira used their magic to stabilize volatile materials.

Dijkstra stood at the center, issuing commands to his men, while the Nilfgaardian soldiers moved swiftly, ensuring no piece of the dismantled weaponry was left unattended. The sorceresses, Yennefer and Keira among them, worked alongside Veylan and his Witcher companions to disassemble the stolen arsenal and neutralize its dangerous components.

The first task was simple in concept but delicate in execution: breaking down the firearms. Each rifle was carefully disassembled piece by piece under the watchful eyes of Vesemir and Eskel, who inspected the mechanisms with equal parts awe and caution.

"This metal?," Vesemir muttered as he held a disassembled barrel, his fingers tracing the swirling patterns of Damascus steel. "This craftsmanship... it's leagues ahead of anything we've seen."

"Not for long," Veylan replied grimly, carefully setting aside a firing pin. "We're not here to marvel. We're here to make sure no one ever sees anything like this again."

The barrels and firing mechanisms were melted down in a massive forge, their steel glowing red-hot as Vesemir oversaw the process. The Damascus steel was particularly striking, its dark and light layers shimmering like liquid silver in the firelight. Veylan couldn't help but admire the intricate patterns that emerged as the molten metal was poured into new molds.

From the glowing steel emerged new creations: swords that shimmered with unnatural beauty, their edges honed to perfection. One blade, christened "Whisperfang," had an almost ethereal quality, its Damascus steel patterns flowing like water along the blade. Another, "Shadowspike," was heavier and built for armor-piercing strikes, the runes along its hilt glowing faintly with Yennefer's enchantments.

The firearms' stocks, made from a tough and exotic wood, were repurposed into crossbow handles. The artisans worked meticulously, reinforcing the designs for durability and balance. Eskel hefted one of the newly forged crossbows, his eyebrow raising in surprise. "It feels... alive," he said, testing the string's tension. "Almost like it wants to hit its target for you."

Meanwhile, Yennefer and Keira focused their efforts on the volatile ammunition. Rune-inscribed rounds that once housed explosive or incendiary properties were carefully neutralized. The sorceresses worked tirelessly to render the ammunition inert, locking its dangerous energy into magical containment jars.

A particularly tense moment arose when they dealt with the C4-like substance. The putty, glowing faintly under the sorceresses' spells, was broken down into its base components with precision alchemy. "This stuff could've leveled a city block," Keira murmured, sweat beading on her brow as she carefully applied a purification spell. "Whoever thought it up must've been deranged."

Despite the danger, the alchemists successfully neutralized the substance, leaving behind harmless residues. Geralt, ever the pragmatist, suggested burning it for good measure, and the team watched as the remaining material dissolved into ash in a controlled fire.

By the end of the process, the team had not only dismantled the weapons but also repurposed their materials into something far more constructive. Swords, armor, and reinforced tools emerged from the chaos, their quality far surpassing anything the Witchers had worked with before. Even Lambert, known for his biting sarcasm, couldn't hide his appreciation as he examined a newly forged set of chainmail.

"This isn't just good," he said, running a hand over the polished links. "It's damn near perfect."

As the group surveyed the results of their labor, Dijkstra strode forward, his gaze sweeping over the array of finished weapons and armor. For once, his usual sardonic demeanor was replaced with quiet admiration. "You Witchers... always turning disaster into an art form," he said, his voice low. "Let's hope this is the last time we see anything like those guns. We've done enough damage control for a lifetime."

Veylan nodded, his expression somber. "If we're lucky, no one will ever see these designs again. But we'll be ready if they do."

The sorceresses sealed the containment jars holding the last of the neutralized ammunition, while the Nilfgaardian soldiers prepared the finished weapons for transport back to Kaer Morhen. The group's work had turned a horrifying glimpse of the future into a reminder of their world's vulnerability and how close they came to disaster.

…

The evening air in Novigrad carried a cool breeze as Veylan leaned back in his chair, his gaze fixed on the horizon. The city had begun to quiet after days of chaos, the streets settling into a rare moment of peace. Though their mission to apprehend the rogue sorceress, Magister Alzeth, remained incomplete, there was a sense of temporary relief. Four of the five responsible for his creation were dealt with, and the weapons that could threaten their world had been neutralized.

For now, Veylan's focus was on Erynn. Inside their rented quarters, she sat at a table, calmly sipping a potion that would have killed an ordinary human outright. Her fiery red hair glinted in the candlelight, her fox-like ears twitching as she caught his approach. She smiled warmly at him, placing her hand gently on her stomach.

"These cravings are... unsettling," she admitted, her tone light but tinged with curiosity. "Who would've thought I'd enjoy something so bitter?"

Veylan chuckled, walking over to her side. "You're carrying my child," he reminded her, his voice soft. "Part Witcher, part Elder Blood, part Kitsune, and whatever else I'm made of. Your body knows what it needs."

"And apparently, it needs more White Raffard's Decoction," she teased, holding up the vial.

He sat beside her, watching her closely. "If it helps, I'll brew more. Anything you need."

Erynn reached out and cupped his cheek. "You always say that. But don't forget to take care of yourself too."

Veylan leaned into her touch, a rare moment of peace settling over him. "As long as you're safe and healthy, I'm fine."

News of unexpected pairings and pregnancies spread quickly. At a quiet corner of a Nilfgaardian estate, Letho and Fringilla sat together, enjoying a bottle of wine. Fringilla leaned into Letho's broad frame, her hand resting on his.

"You're not the man I expected to end up with," Fringilla mused, her voice playful.

Letho smirked, his scarred face softening. "Guess I've got a knack for surprises."

"And yet, here we are," she replied, placing a gentle kiss on his cheek.

…

At a small garden near the Eternal Fire chapel, Phillipa and Graden stood close, their hands entwined. Graden, ever the composed investigator, seemed almost out of place with the enigmatic sorceress beside him. Yet, the way they looked at one another told a different story.

Phillipa tilted her head, her sharp blindfolded eye sockets watching him. "You know, when we started working together, I thought you'd be insufferable."

Graden smirked. "And I thought you'd burn me alive."

She laughed, the sound rare and genuine. Then, she took his hand and placed it gently on her stomach. Graden's eyes widened slightly, his usually calm demeanor breaking for just a moment. He glanced at her, his voice barely above a whisper. "You're...?"

Phillipa nodded, her expression softening. "We're having a child."

…

The news spread quickly among their companions, shocking even Geralt, who rarely found himself surprised by anything. "Well, that's one for the books," he muttered to Yennefer as they shared a drink later that evening.

Back at their quarters, Veylan brewed another batch of potions and elixirs, carefully measuring each ingredient. Erynn rested nearby, her hand absently rubbing her stomach as she hummed a soft tune. Veylan brought her the freshly prepared vial, watching her drink it with ease.

"Think this one will satisfy you for now?" he asked, a teasing grin on his lips.

"For now," she replied, leaning against him. "But you'd better not let your guard down. Who knows what else I'll crave tomorrow."

Veylan laughed, pulling her close. "Whatever it is, I'll get it."

…

The next morning brought a familiar rhythm to Veylan's life: preparation. Today, he was scheduled to oversee a unique capture for academic study—an Earth Elemental that had been causing trouble near some ruins, along with a pack of elusive foglets. These captures were lucrative, ensuring not only his income but also the stability of relations between the regions and the universities that relied on such specimens for study.

With his equipment meticulously prepared, including experimental rune-inscribed cables and an enhanced paralytic concoction, Veylan set out. The capture would be challenging, even for someone of his skill, but he thrived on such tests of ingenuity.

Erynn watched him go, a mixture of pride and apprehension in her eyes. She knew the risks he faced every time he stepped into the field, but she also knew the depth of his resolve.

…

Veylan stood at the distribution center, the air buzzing with the combined efforts of scholars, alchemists, and workers moving with purpose. Behind him, the massive, paralyzed form of the Earth Elemental loomed, restrained by a web of glowing rune-inscribed cables. The foglets, eerily silent in their individual containment barrels, were stacked on reinforced carts, their translucent forms faintly visible through the enchanted glass lids.

As he tightened the last of the bindings on the Elemental, Veylan couldn't help but take a moment to marvel at the success of the operation. It had taken every ounce of his skill—and more than a few sleepless nights of preparation—to ensure these captures went flawlessly. The experimental paralytic powder had worked better than anticipated, seeping through the Elemental's dense form and rendering it motionless without compromising its structural integrity. The foglets, notorious for their ability to dissipate into mist, had been immobilized by precise injections, their vaporous forms condensed and contained.

"Steady now," Veylan called to the workers . "The cables are strong, but don't test them. This thing wakes up, and you're looking at a bad day."

The workers nodded, their movements cautious as they loaded the Elemental onto a specially reinforced cart. Even paralyzed, its sheer weight required a team of draft horses to pull. The foglets followed, secured in their barrels, the alchemists inspecting each seal to ensure no vapor could escape.

A senior scholar approached, his robes fluttering as he gestured to his team to take detailed notes. His eyes shone with a mix of excitement and awe as he surveyed the scene. "Remarkable work, Witcher. Truly. A live Earth Elemental, fully restrained, and foglets in perfect condition? It's unheard of."

Veylan smirked faintly, wiping his hands on a rag. "Not easy, I'll admit. The Elemental was a stubborn one. Had to shove the powder right down its throat while it was thrashing. The foglets weren't much easier—those things don't like staying solid for long."

The scholar chuckled, motioning for his assistants to bring over a ledger. "Your efforts are appreciated, as always. Let's talk payment."

They moved to a table where a group of scholars and accountants had already begun calculating the value of the specimens. The Elemental alone drew gasps of admiration, its pristine condition making it a rare and invaluable subject for study. The foglets, each perfectly preserved, were no less impressive.

"An intact Earth Elemental, paralyzed but alive," one of the scholars murmured as he scribbled in the ledger. "That alone… let's see… factoring in the costs of transportation, preservation, and study, we're looking at nearly 5,000 crowns."

Another scholar chimed in, gesturing to the foglets. "And these five? Perfectly preserved, no degradation or signs of struggle. That's an additional 1,500 crowns each."

The head scholar glanced at Veylan, his expression a mixture of respect and disbelief. "In total, Witcher, your work today is valued at 12,500 crowns."

Veylan raised an eyebrow. Even he hadn't expected the total to climb so high. "Generous sum," he remarked, crossing his arms. "But I trust you're handling the transfer?"

The scholar nodded, gesturing to an accountant. "Of course. We'll deposit the majority into your accounts in Novigrad and Oxenfurt as per usual. A portion will be sent to Kaer Morhen to cover your requested contributions there. And-" He reached into a pouch and produced a small sack of coins. "-here's 50 crowns in advance for your immediate expenses."

Veylan took the pouch, weighing it briefly before tucking it into his belt. "Appreciated. And make sure the Elemental is handled carefully. It wakes up, and you'll be dealing with more than paperwork."

The scholar nodded earnestly as his team busied themselves with loading and securing the specimens. Veylan stayed for a while longer, overseeing the operation until he was satisfied everything was in order. Finally, he turned to head back home, knowing Erynn would be waiting. As he walked away, the scholars marveled at the haul, whispering about the unprecedented success of the capture and the skill of the Witcher who had made it of Form

Later that evening, Veylan learned he had some visitors, including Vesemir, Yennefer, and Geralt who were summoned through letters…

…

The aroma of roasting venison and simmering herbs filled Veylan's cottage as Svanrige and Ravienne busied themselves in the kitchen, their occasional laughter cutting through the tension lingering in the air. At the table, Veylan, Erynn, Vesemir, and Geralt sat opposite their guests: two women of striking presence. The elder of the pair carried herself with a haughty air, her icy gaze sweeping over the room as if the very walls offended her. Her daughter, though younger and seemingly calmer, shared the same piercing violet eyes and a similar aloofness.

"Thank you for hosting us," the elder woman said, her voice clipped, as if politeness were a foreign concept she was begrudgingly attempting. "It's... quaint."

Erynn, ever gracious, offered a warm smile. "We're glad to have you. Dinner should be ready shortly."

The younger woman's eyes drifted to Veylan, studying him intently. "You're not what I expected."

Veylan leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. "I get that a lot. What exactly did you expect?"

Her lips curved into the faintest of smirks, but before she could reply, her mother interjected. "Enough pleasantries. We're not here for idle conversation. We have business to discuss, and it concerns all of you... particularly your kind." Her gaze flicked disdainfully to Vesemir, her venom apparent.

Geralt stiffened but remained silent, his golden eyes narrowing slightly. Vesemir, however, held her gaze, his expression unreadable. "You've made your disdain clear, madam. But perhaps you'd like to explain what this is about."

The elder woman's nostrils flared, and she pointedly ignored the question, instead turning her attention to Veylan. "Your reputation precedes you. A Witcher, but... something more. It's no wonder you've garnered such a following. But let's not mistake reputation for trust."

"And here I thought you'd come with good intentions," Veylan said evenly, his tone sharp enough to draw her focus back to him. "If you're here to insult me and my kind, I suggest you turn around."

Her daughter placed a hand on her arm, gently but firmly. "Mother, please." The elder woman sighed heavily but fell silent, her thin lips pressed into a tight line.

At that moment, Svanrige and Ravienne entered, carefully setting steaming dishes on the table. "Dinner's served," Svanrige announced, his cheerful tone doing little to lift the heavy atmosphere.

Ravienne's amber eyes flicked between the guests and her companions, her instincts picking up on the unspoken tension. She lingered by Svanrige's side, subtly protective, as everyone began serving themselves.

The meal progressed with stiff politeness, the clinking of cutlery and the occasional scrape of a chair filling the uncomfortable silence. Finally, the elder woman broke the quiet.

"You've done well for yourselves," she said, her tone dripping with condescension. "It's almost... domestic. I wonder if your predecessors envisioned this when they butchered their way through my family's lands."

The room froze. Vesemir set his fork down slowly, his hand trembling ever so slightly. "What did you say?"

The younger woman leaned forward, her voice steady but firm. "You heard her, Witcher. You and your kind left scars that never healed. And now, we're here to ensure history doesn't repeat itself."

Vesemir's weathered face paled, his eyes narrowing as he scrutinized the pair more closely. "Your names," he demanded, his voice a low rumble. "Who are you?"

The elder woman straightened, her pride evident. "I am Lady Serentha Gildcrest," she said coldly. "And this is my daughter, Elissandra."

The silence that followed was deafening. Vesemir's eyes widened, and his breath caught as the weight of the name hit him like a blow. "Gildcrest," he murmured, his voice hollow. "Tetra's... family."

Elissandra's gaze burned into him, her smirk long gone. "So, you do remember."

Vesemir closed his eyes, his shoulders slumping under the weight of old wounds reopened. "I remember," he said quietly. "More than you could possibly know."

The tension in the room was suffocating. Geralt leaned forward, his golden eyes narrowing as they flicked from Vesemir to the two Gildcrest women. Yennefer sat beside him, her normally sharp demeanor softened by an unease that mirrored everyone else's.

"What is this all about?" Geralt asked finally, his voice a low rumble. "You've been dancing around something, and I think it's time we heard it."

Vesemir, who had been avoiding everyone's gaze, seemed to shrink further under the weight of Geralt's question. The elder Witcher's hands trembled slightly as he rubbed them together, his knuckles whitening.

Lady Serentha Gildcrest's lips curled into a thin, humorless smile. "You didn't tell them, did you?" she asked, her voice dripping with derision. "Very well, Vesemir. Either you enlighten them, or I will."

Vesemir let out a long, shaky breath, his shoulders sagging with the weight of years. "I'll tell them," he said quietly, his voice rasping with age and regret. He raised his eyes just enough to meet Geralt's, but the pain in his gaze was almost too much to bear. "You deserve to know."

Vesemir let out a shaky breath, his age-worn face reflecting a deep inner turmoil. "I'll tell them," he murmured, his voice heavy with regret.

He looked around the table, meeting the eyes of his companions before his gaze settled on Geralt. "There are shadows in my past, deeds I'm not proud of. This concerns the Gildcrest family, a name that might not mean much to you, but to me..." He paused, collecting his thoughts.

"Decades ago, our order faced a crisis. Monsters were becoming scarce, and with them, the contracts that sustained us. Unbeknownst to many, a predecessor at Kaer Morhen began creating hybrids, abominations, to ensure a steady flow of work. These actions were hidden from most of us, but the consequences..."

He swallowed hard, his voice faltering. "The townsfolk discovered the truth. In their fear and anger, they stormed Kaer Morhen, burning it to the ground. Many of our brothers perished that day."

Vesemir's eyes glistened with unshed tears as he continued. "But my sins are more personal. In my youth, I was reckless, driven by the lure of coin. I accepted a contract from a Redanian priest who believed he was cursed. To fulfill it, I deceived him, making him think his ailment was due to a sorceress, Tetra Gildcrest's mother."

He paused, his voice breaking. "I bribed the cook to poison his meals, reinforcing the illusion of a curse. Then, under the guise of lifting it, I... I drove my sword through her heart."

A gasp escaped Yennefer's lips, her hand covering her mouth in shock. Geralt's expression hardened, a storm brewing in his eyes.

Vesemir's shoulders sagged under the weight of his confession. "What I didn't know was that Tetra, just a child then, was hiding in a cupboard. She witnessed the entire atrocity."

Tears now flowed freely down his cheeks. "My actions set her on a path of vengeance, a hatred for Witchers that festered and grew. And now, her descendants stand before me, bearing the weight of sins I can never atone for."

The elder woman, Lady Serentha Gildcrest, watched him intently, her earlier hostility wavering as she observed his genuine remorse. Her daughter, Elissandra, shifted uncomfortably, doubt flickering in her eyes.

Vesemir's voice dropped to a whisper. "I don't ask for forgiveness, for I don't deserve it. But know that the man I was then is not the man I strive to be now."

The room remained silent, the weight of Vesemir's confession hanging heavily in the air, leaving all present to grapple with the revelations and the shadows of the past that had come to light.

Vesemir took a deep, trembling breath, his weathered hands clenching the edge of the table. His voice, heavy with sorrow, carried no hint of self-pity, only the stark weight of his actions.

"I will not offer excuses for what I did," he began, his tone firm despite the emotion thickening his voice. "The choices I made... they were mine alone. I see now that they cannot be undone, nor can the pain I caused ever be erased."

He looked at Geralt, his expression a mixture of guilt and resolve. "There was another sin, one tied to Kaer Morhen's darkest days. My predecessor... a man who hid his twisted experiments from the rest of us... created a creature. A kitsune, fused with the essence of a Marr. An abomination, born not of nature but of cruelty and greed."

His voice faltered, but he pressed on. "When I discovered the truth, I confronted him. I was ready to end his life if necessary, to end the monstrosities he had wrought. But fate, in its cruel irony, had other plans. The townsfolk raided Kaer Morhen that night, their torches lighting up the sky. In the chaos, the castle burned... and I lost sight of what truly mattered."

Vesemir's eyes closed briefly, as if reliving the memory. "That kitsune... she wielded magic unlike anything I'd ever seen. Illusions so vivid, so potent, they could warp reality itself. She used them against me, toying with my rage, my pain. She made me believe I was fighting Tetra Gildcrest, that I was facing my greatest enemy."

His voice cracked as he continued. "But the truth? The truth was far more bitter. I wasn't fighting Gildcrest. I wasn't fighting the kitsune. I was fighting my friend—the sorcerer who had guided me through the Trials of the Grasses, the one who had stood by me through my darkest hours. And worse..." He choked back a sob, the tears streaming down his weathered cheeks. "I was fighting the woman I loved."

"The kitsune's illusions blinded me, twisted my mind, until I... until I drove my sword through her gut."

The raw anguish in his voice was palpable, drawing uneasy glances from everyone around the table. Even Lady Serentha and Elissandra, their earlier hostility now tempered by the pain laid bare before them, seemed shaken.

"She died not long after," Vesemir continued, his voice hollow. "As the castle burned, her life slipped away. And with her, a part of me died too. That same morning, Geralt, I found you and the others who escaped. The survivors of Kaer Morhen's fall. I vowed to protect you, to ensure that the mistakes of my past would never be repeated."

He finally lifted his gaze, meeting Serentha's cold eyes. "I don't expect your forgiveness," he said quietly. "And I know the wounds I've inflicted on your family will never fully heal. But I hope... I hope you can understand that I've carried this burden every day of my life."

The room remained still, the weight of Vesemir's confession suffocating. Even Geralt, who had always known Vesemir as a stalwart and unwavering figure, found himself at a loss for words.

Elissandra looked at her mother, doubt flickering in her expression. For the first time, the hard walls of resentment she had built seemed to waver. Serentha, however, kept her composure, her face an unreadable mask.

Vesemir's hands trembled as he clasped them together, his voice barely a whisper now. "I was young. I was foolish. And I paid the price. But it was not only me who paid it, was it? It was all of us."Bottom of Form

The silence that followed Vesemir's confession was deafening, the weight of his words suffocating the room. Geralt leaned back in his chair, his usual stoicism cracked, his eyes searching Vesemir's face for something—answers, understanding, or maybe just the man he thought he knew.

Yennefer sat still, her sharp gaze flickering between Vesemir and Lady Serentha, her expression unreadable but her fingers tense around the edge of the table. Even Svanrige and Ravienne, who had been quietly observing from the far corner, exchanged uneasy glances.

Lady Serentha's lips tightened, her hands trembling slightly as she clasped them together. "You... you killed her," she whispered, her voice trembling with anger and grief. "And you expect us to believe this tale of illusions and tragedy? You took everything from us!"

Elissandra looked between her mother and Vesemir, doubt clouding her sharp features. For the first time, she seemed to waver, her righteous anger tempered by the raw agony written across Vesemir's face. "Mother... what if he's telling the truth?" she said softly, her voice hesitant.

Lady Serentha shot her daughter a sharp look, her eyes blazing. "The truth?" she spat. "The truth is, he plunged his blade into your great-grandmother, my grandmother!"

. He destroyed our family."

Erynn, who had been quiet until now, suddenly stiffened. Her amber-green eyes darted to Vesemir as something clicked in her mind. Her hands trembled slightly as she spoke, her voice low. "Wait," she said, her words cutting through the tension like a knife. "A kitsune... with unusual features. A witcher spared her when a woman fired an arrow at her den."

All eyes turned to her as she continued, her expression a mixture of shock and realization. "My mother... she said that her mother was different from other kitsune. She spoke of being wronged by witchers, of a debt owed to an elf who caught an arrow with his hand. That elf, she said, mentioned a witcher from the School of the Wolf who fulfilled a favor to him. A witcher who spared her."

Vesemir's head snapped toward her, his weathered face pale. "The elf," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "Was his name Aedin?"

Erynn nodded slowly. "Yes. He raised my mother after the kitsune was... gone. He said her mother was a victim of betrayal, but that her daughter was spared."

Vesemir's hands trembled as he buried his face in them, his voice a hoarse whisper. "I spared her daughter. I let Aedin take her and go. I thought... I thought it was enough. I thought I was giving her a chance at a better life."

Erynn's voice shook. "That daughter... was my mother."

The revelation struck like a thunderclap. Everyone stared at Erynn and Vesemir, the implications of their words hanging heavily in the air.

Geralt broke the silence, his tone incredulous. "Are you saying... the kitsune in Vesemir's story is Erynn's grandmother?"

Vesemir nodded slowly, his eyes haunted. "I didn't realize until now. But... yes. That was her."

Erynn's hand went to her chest, her breath shaky. "All this time, I thought my mother's pain was rooted in something distant, something disconnected. But it's all tied to this. To you."

Lady Serentha, who had been staring daggers at Vesemir, now turned her gaze to Erynn, her expression a mix of disbelief and confusion. "You... you're connected to this? To us?"

Erynn met her gaze, her voice steady despite the storm of emotions within her. "It seems we are. Whether we want to be or not."

Elissandra's hand touched her mother's arm gently. "Mother... maybe we've been looking at this all wrong."

Lady Serentha's face twisted with rage and sorrow, but she said nothing. Vesemir, his voice breaking, whispered, "I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought I was sparing an innocent, and while I don't regret sparing your mother Lady Erynn... I see now that my actions have rippled far beyond what I ever imagined."

Lady Serentha's grip on the edge of the table tightened, her knuckles white as she fought to keep her composure. The room seemed to hold its breath as her emotions flickered across her face—rage, sorrow, and a deep, unyielding pain that had been carried for decades. Her breaths came shallow and uneven, her sharp eyes fixed on Vesemir, who stood like a weathered statue, shoulders slumped under the weight of his guilt.

"You thought you were doing the right thing?" she whispered, her voice trembling with barely restrained fury. "You killed my mother. You shattered my family. Do you have any idea what that kind of loss does to a child?"

Vesemir met her gaze, his own eyes hollow and filled with regret. "I can't begin to imagine," he admitted, his voice soft but steady. "And I won't insult you by trying to excuse what I did. I was young, blinded by my own anger and ambition. I didn't see... or maybe I refused to see what was in front of me. I've carried the weight of that choice every day since."

Serentha's lips quivered as her hand pressed against her chest, her breathing uneven. "For years, I've hated you. I've dreamed of this moment, of confronting the man who took everything from me. But now..." Her voice broke, and she looked down at the table, her expression one of profound conflict. "Now I see a man who's as broken as I was."

Elissandra placed a hand gently on her mother's shoulder, her touch grounding. "Mother, he's trying to make amends. I know it can't erase what happened, but maybe... maybe it's enough to start healing."

Serentha looked up at Vesemir again, her gaze softer now, though the pain lingered. "I don't know if I can ever forgive you," she said honestly, her voice raw. "But I see the change in your eyes. You've acknowledged what you've done, and you've owned up to it. That's more than most would do."

She exhaled deeply, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly as her expression shifted to one of emotional exhaustion. "So, we'll have a fresh start here and now. But don't mistake this for absolution. Forgiveness, if it ever comes, will take time."

Vesemir nodded solemnly. "I understand. And you have my word, Lady Serentha. I'll do everything in my power to make things right, however I can."

Serentha leaned back in her chair, her eyes closing briefly as she gathered herself. "This endless cycle of vengeance," she murmured, "it's no good for anyone. It's poisoned my life, my daughter's life. Perhaps it's time to let it go... or at least try."

The room seemed to exhale with her, the charged tension dissipating into a heavy silence. Erynn reached over to touch Vesemir's arm, her presence a quiet reassurance. Geralt, ever the observer, watched Serentha closely, his face unreadable but his respect for her unspoken decision evident in his gaze.

"I hope," Erynn said softly, her voice carrying a note of hope, "that this can be a step forward. For all of us."

Serentha gave her a weary nod, her eyes drifting to her daughter. "For her sake, I'll try."

…

That evening, the cottage was quiet save for the crackling of the hearth and the faint rustle of parchment as Veylan sat at his desk, sifting through the day's correspondence. Dinner had been cleared away, and Erynn was curled up on the nearby couch, as she read. Ravienne and Svanrige sat by the fire, exchanging quiet words over a shared book, the faint sound of their conversation blending with the cozy atmosphere.

Veylan sighed, rubbing his temples as he reached the bottom of the pile. His attention was drawn to a scroll bearing an ornate seal—the unmistakable crest of Toussaint. Breaking the wax seal carefully, he unrolled the parchment and began reading the elegant script.

The letter was from Duchess Anna Henrietta herself, imploring him to come to Toussaint as soon as possible. She detailed the plight that had befallen her duchy—a knight slain under mysterious and grisly circumstances, and another gone missing entirely. The sketches accompanying the letter depicted a monstrous figure, something unfamiliar even to Veylan's extensive experience with monsters. The duchess's tone was one of desperation, underscored by the official summons.

Veylan leaned back, his sharp eyes scanning the letter again. Toussaint... The vibrant duchy with its eternal sunshine, endless vineyards, and idyllic charm seemed a world away from the harsh realities of Velen. Yet, it was clear that something darker lurked beneath its golden surface.

"What's that?" Erynn asked, her voice breaking his train of thought. She set her book aside and sat up, tilting her head in curiosity.

"A letter," Veylan replied, holding it up. "From the duchess of Toussaint. She's asking for my help."

Erynn's ears perked up, her emerald eyes alight with interest. "Toussaint? I've always wanted to see it. They say it's like stepping into a dream, with flowers everywhere and sunshine that never ends."

Veylan chuckled softly, folding the letter. "It's not all sunshine and flowers, apparently. A beast has been causing trouble, killed one knight and made another disappear. They need someone to investigate. Looks like I'm heading there."

"And I'm coming with you," Erynn added, a playful grin on her lips. "You'll need someone to remind you to enjoy the scenery."

"I wouldn't dream of leaving you behind," he replied with a smile.

Ravienne glanced up from the book, her silver eyes thoughtful. "Toussaint, huh? I hear the wine there is unmatched. You'll bring some back, won't you?"

"I'll bring enough for everyone," Veylan promised, standing and stretching. "It'll be a nice change of pace. Warm weather, sunshine... and hopefully answers."

Svanrige closed the book in his lap, his expression calm but intrigued. "A beast in Toussaint? Sounds like it could be dangerous."

"It always is," Veylan admitted, sliding the letter into his satchel. "But that's the job."

Erynn moved to his side, resting her hand on his arm. "It'll be good for us. A little adventure, a little sunshine."

"And a tourney," Veylan added with a smirk. "Seems there's one coming up. Might be worth checking out."