The Witcher: Chimera

Chapter 19: A Land of Blood, and Wine

…

The first light of dawn crept over the horizon as Veylan secured the last of their gear to Nimrael, his sleek, dark-coated steed. The horse pawed at the ground impatiently, its mane catching the faint glow of the rising sun. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of dew and frost, but the promise of warmer weather in Toussaint lay ahead. Erynn stepped out of the cottage, leading her mare, Ashbloom, a dappled gray beauty with a mane as soft and silvered as moonlight. Her cloak draped loosely over her shoulders to guard against the chill.

"You ready?" Veylan asked, adjusting the strap on his satchel.

Erynn rested a hand on her growing belly, her other hand steadying Ashbloom who was one of the horses pulling the cart. "More than ready. I could use a little sunshine and good food." She flashed him a teasing grin. "And let's not forget the wine, though I suppose I'll have to wait on that."

Veylan smirked, offering her a hand to help her into the cart. "I'll make sure to enjoy enough for the both of us."

As Ravienne and Svanrige appeared to bid them farewell, Ravienne handed over a small bundle. "Snacks for the road," she said with a grin. "And something for when you get there, a Toussaint delicacy I'm sure you'll enjoy."

Svanrige clasped Veylan's arm in a handshake. "Stay sharp out there. Toussaint may look like paradise, but beasts don't care much for beauty."

"Neither do Witchers," Veylan quipped with a wry smile. "We'll be fine."

With goodbyes exchanged, the journey began. Nimrael's steady gait and Ashbloom's graceful steps carried them down the winding paths away from Velen. The landscape gradually softened from its harsh, boggy terrain to rolling fields and clear skies as they moved southward. Erynn rested on the horsedrawn cart as the escort began drawing the horses including , her hand resting on her belly, as the sun warmed their faces.

The further they traveled, the more vibrant the scenery became. Wildflowers painted the roadside in a riot of colors, and vineyards stretched endlessly across the hills. By the third day, they entered Toussaint, greeted by the melodious sounds of a troubadour singing in the distance and the sweet aroma of blooming roses.

"It's beautiful," Erynn murmured, her eyes wide as they passed through an ornate stone archway into the duchy proper. "It's like stepping into a painting."

Veylan glanced around, taking in the pristine cobblestone streets and brightly colored buildings. "It's certainly different from Velen."

Their arrival at the palace was met with the pomp and elegance one would expect from Toussaint. A chamberlain greeted them, guiding them into a grand hall where Duchess Anna Henrietta awaited. Draped in elegant silks, her demeanor was regal yet warm as she welcomed them.

"Master Witcher," she said with a gracious nod, her gaze flickering to Erynn with curiosity. "And Lady Erynn. Your reputation precedes you both."

Erynn dipped her head politely, while Veylan inclined his in return. "Your Grace, it's an honor. We've come as requested."

The duchess's expression turned somber. "Your presence is deeply appreciated. This beast that plagues our land is unlike any we've faced before. It strikes with cunning, and the evidence it leaves behind... well, I will let you see for yourself."

Veylan's amber-green eyes narrowed. "Show us everything you have."

…

As the chamberlain guided Veylan and Erynn into the Toussaint morgue to view the remains of the first knight, a hush fell over the air. The room was cool, dimly lit by a few candles, and the scent of herbs mingled with the faint tang of death. Duchess Anna Henrietta stood nearby, her expression grim as she gestured to the covered body on a stone slab.

"This is the first knight," she said softly. "Sir Hugues, of the Order of the Virtuous."

Veylan stepped forward, his amber-green eyes scanning the room before resting on the shrouded figure. With measured movements, he pulled back the covering. The knight's body was laid out with an unsettling dignity, the wounds precise and deliberate. His chest bore the deep marks of claws, yet there was no excess brutality, only a clinical, almost respectful execution.

"He didn't want to kill him," Veylan murmured, more to himself than anyone else.

Erynn tilted her head, puzzled. "What do you mean?"

Before Veylan could respond, a sudden, overwhelming sensation hit him. A scent, distinct and sharp, rose from the corpse. It was faint, almost imperceptible, but his heightened senses latched onto it like a predator to prey. His pupils dilated, his breathing hitched, and a cold sweat broke across his brow.

Then it happened.

His hands shot up to his head as a searing pain lanced through his mind. His amber-green eyes turned jet black, a swirling abyss of unnatural energy. He staggered, clutching his temples as fragments of foreign memories surged into his consciousness.

In an instant, he was no longer in the morgue.

…

Veylan through the memory stood in a shadowed forest clearing, the scent of damp earth heavy in the air. Before him, the knight, Sir Hugues, knelt, his hands trembling as he pleaded with a figure looming above him.

He felt his features etch with regret; his crimson eyes filled with sorrow rather than malice. He didn't want to be here. The blackmailing voice echoed faintly in the background, a sinister whisper forcing his hand.

"This isn't personal," Dettlaff said, his voice low, almost a lament. He raised his clawed hand, the sharp edge trembling as it approached the knight's chest. "I don't want to hurt you."

The knight didn't resist. His breathing steadied as he closed his eyes, resigned to his fate. Dettlaff struck swiftly, clawing into the man's heart with precision. He laid the body down gently, almost reverently, as though ensuring Sir Hugues wouldn't suffer further indignity in death. Blood pooled beneath the knight, staining the ground, and Dettlaff whispered something under his breath. A prayer, perhaps, or an apology.

Then the scene blurred, splintering into chaos.

Veylan stumbled back, gasping as he ripped free from the memory. His vision swam, the morgue's dim lighting and Duchess Anna Henrietta's alarmed face pulling him back to reality. He barely heard the duchess call his name or Erynn's concerned voice as she steadied him.

"Veylan!" Erynn gripped his arm, her own eyes wide with worry. "What happened?"

He blinked rapidly, his pupils shifting back to their normal color as the stabbing pain in his head ebbed. "I..." His voice was strained, "I saw it. I was there. The knight's death."

Duchess Anna Henrietta stepped closer, her tone a mixture of urgency and confusion. "What are you saying, Witcher? How could you possibly have seen it?"

"I don't know." Veylan shook his head, still reeling. "It's like... like my blood reacted to something here. Something tied to the one who did this."

Erynn tightened her grip on his arm. "You mean...?"

"A higher vampire," Veylan said, his voice a harsh whisper. He straightened, his face pale but baring a seriousness. "Not just any vampire, either, but also the same higher vampire who's blood was used to mutate me all those years ago, whoever did this wasn't a mindless beast. They didn't want to kill him. They were forced."

…

At that same moment, miles away in Toussaint, Dettlaff froze mid-stride. His crimson eyes widened as a surge of foreign thoughts and images struck him like a tidal wave. He saw himself through another's eyes, his regret, his sorrow. But he also glimpsed memories that weren't his: fragments of experiments, shadowed figures, and pain laced with monstrous transformations.

Dettlaff's claws flexed involuntarily as he staggered, gripping a nearby tree for support. His mind raced as he pieced together the strange sensation. "What is this?" he whispered, his voice trembling. "Who...?"

Somewhere, somehow, a connection had been made. Two lives, two fates, intertwined through blood, memory, and something far older than either of them could comprehend.

…

As Veylan steadied himself against the edge of the stone slab, his amber-green eyes flickered with the faintest traces of exhaustion. The room's oppressive silence weighed heavy, and all eyes turned toward him.

The Duchess Anna Henrietta's expression tightened, her delicate features marred by a mix of shock and controlled fury. "A higher vampire," she repeated, her voice firm but laced with barely controlled panic . "You're telling me that such a creature, one I thought existed only in whispered legends, is here, in Toussaint? Killing?"

Veylan straightened, running a hand through his dark hair as the throbbing headache ebbed. His voice was measured, yet carried a gravity that commanded the room's attention. "Higher vampires aren't like the ones most people know, the ekimmaras, alps, bruxae. Those are... lesser, for lack of a better term. Predators, dangerous, but killable. Higher vampires are different. They are intelligent, cultured, and..." He paused, his gaze hardening. "Unkillable. Unless one of their own takes their life."

The duchess frowned, her knuckles white as she clutched the folds of her gown. "Unkillable? What do you mean, Witcher? Surely there's always a way."

Veylan sighed, his tone grim. "For humans, no. You could decapitate them, burn their remains to ash, and they'd still regenerate. Only another higher vampire can truly end one of their kind, and even that... is rare. From what I've read, their society forbids them from killing one another. Death is permanent to them, irreversible. Their kind views it as a transgression against their very nature."

The room grew colder with the weight of his words. Erynn stepped closer, her face filled with worry. "If they don't kill each other, then why would one of them risk doing this? Why kill a knight and bring such chaos?"

"That's the thing," Veylan replied, his voice quieter but no less serious. "From the fragments I saw... he didn't want to do it. Someone, someone close to him, is being used as leverage. He's being blackmailed."

The duchess's eyes widened, a flicker of sympathy breaking through her regal demeanor. "Blackmailed? By whom?"

Veylan shook his head, frustration tightening his features. "I couldn't see. The connection wasn't clear enough. But the regret... the sorrow. It was real. Whoever this higher vampire is, they didn't choose this path. Someone is forcing their hand, and they've gone to great lengths to make sure it stays that way."

Anna Henrietta's hand rose to her lips, her eyes narrowed

deeply. "This is... beyond anything Toussaint has ever faced. If what you're saying is true, Witcher, then we aren't dealing with a mindless beast. We're dealing with something, someone, with power, intelligence, and no way to stop them."

Veylan nodded grimly. "That's why we need to act carefully. Charging in with swords won't work here. Higher vampires aren't just stronger or faster. They're ancient. Cunning. And if what I suspect is true, this one doesn't want to hurt anyone. He's being forced to."

The duchess drew in a deep breath, her regal composure faltering for only a moment before her resolve returned. "Then we must find who is behind this. If this vampire is being blackmailed, then uncovering the one responsible is the key."

Erynn placed a gentle hand on Veylan's arm. "If the connection works both ways, could you try again? Maybe focus on seeing more?"

Veylan hesitated, his gaze flickering to the knight's body. "I can try. But it's risky. I don't know what's causing the connection. It could just as easily draw him to me as it lets me see into his mind."

Anna Henrietta's lips pressed into a thin line. "Do what you must, Witcher. Toussaint is depending on you. But if what you say is true, then we face an enemy unlike any other. And we cannot afford to falter."

The weight of the task ahead settled over the room like a suffocating fog, but Veylan met the duchess's gaze with unwavering determination. "We'll find the one pulling the strings," he said. "And we'll stop this, before more lives are lost."

…

Dettlaff paced the dimly lit room, his crimson eyes flickering with unease. The weight of unfamiliar memories pressed against his mind, blurring the line between reality and a foreign experience that wasn't entirely his own. He clenched his fists, the sharp edges of his claws digging into his palms as fragments of those memories surfaced yet again: a metal cell, cold and suffocating; a boy, pale and trembling, his body writhing in pain as alchemists injected a glowing substance into his veins.

The boy's screams echoed in Dettlaff's head, merging with the alchemists' clipped voices.

"We managed to retrieve this sample from some bushes and a rock... be careful with it! This is higher vampire blood, an invaluable resource."

Dettlaff's steps faltered, and he steadied himself against the wall, his claws scraping against the stone. He remembered that day centuries ago, the day he had been tasked with ending the rampage of a mindless beast by the Unseen Elders. It was one of the bloodiest fights of his life. The beast had nearly drained him dry before he finally managed to destroy it. He had been certain all traces of his spilled blood were eradicated.

But the memory, whether his own or not, told a different story. A sample of his blood had been salvaged. Stolen.

"That vial," Dettlaff muttered to himself, his voice a low growl. "It was my blood. My pain. They-" He stopped short, his voice trembling with equal parts rage and despair. "They used me."

He needed answers. And there was only one person who might understand the gravity of what he was feeling: Regis. Dettlaff's oldest companion, a fellow higher vampire who had been through the depths of suffering and redemption. If anyone could help him make sense of this tangled web, it was Regis.

…

Regis sat in his study, surrounded by books and jars of alchemical reagents. He looked up as Dettlaff entered, his usually calm demeanor giving way to concern at the sight of his old friend. Dettlaff's disheveled appearance, the wildness in his eyes, told Regis that something was deeply wrong.

"Dettlaff," Regis said, standing slowly. "What has happened?"

Dettlaff didn't respond immediately. He began pacing again, his movements restless and sharp. Finally, he stopped and faced Regis, his voice heavy. "Regis... I need your insight. Something is happening, something I don't understand."

Regis gestured for him to sit, but Dettlaff waved him off. He took a deep breath and began recounting the fragments of memory, the prison, the alchemists, the boy, and most importantly, the vial of blood. Regis listened intently, his sharp features growing more troubled with each passing detail.

"They retrieved your blood?" Regis asked, his voice steady but laced with disbelief. "Dettlaff, are you certain?"

Dettlaff nodded tightly. "The date on the papers. It was the same day I was sent to kill that beast. I... I lost so much blood during that fight. I thought I destroyed it all, Regis. But these... these humans found it. They kept it. And they used it."

Regis sank into his chair, his hands steepled beneath his chin. "This changes much," he said after a long pause. "If what you're saying is true, then the boy in your memories-"

"Was injected with my blood," Dettlaff finished, his voice breaking. "They experimented on him. Tortured him. And now..." He trailed off, his gaze distant. "Now, I think I'm connected to him in some way. I've seen fragments of his memories, just as he must have seen mine."

Regis frowned deeply. "A connection forged through blood. It's not unheard of, but it's rare. And dangerous." He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. "Tell me, Dettlaff, these memories you've seen. What did they show you?"

Dettlaff's voice was low, his words weighted. "Pain. Agony. The boy was young, maybe four, five. They kept him in a cell, experimenting on him endlessly. And... and there's something else. Something I can't quite place." He pressed his hands to his temples, his frustration mounting. "It's as though my blood awakened something in him. Something monstrous."

Dettlaff's hands trembled slightly as he paced, the fragmented memories gnawing at the edges of his mind. Each flash of the boy's torment was vivid, the name whispered faintly amidst the chaos: Veylan.

"Veylan," Dettlaff murmured, the name unfamiliar but laced with an eerie sense of connection. He glanced at Regis, who was watching him intently.

Regis leaned forward, his tone curious yet measured. "I've heard whispers of that name, Dettlaff. A Witcher unlike any other. A product of monstrosity and brilliance, they say. Son of Elder Blood, infused with the essence of creatures beyond comprehension. And... rumors suggest his lineage might tie to us."

Dettlaff's sharp crimson eyes darted to Regis. "What do you mean, 'tie to us?"

Before Regis could answer, both vampires froze. The air grew thick, charged with energy so potent it was almost suffocating. A presence, ancient, commanding, pressed down on them like the weight of a mountain. Dettlaff's claws flexed instinctively as he turned toward the source, his heart pounding in recognition.

Emerging from the shadows was a figure shrouded in an aura of quiet menace: the Unseen Elder. His gaze burned with an intensity that could strip a soul bare, his ageless features betraying nothing yet promising everything. But he was not alone.

Beside him stood another higher vampire, tall and regal, his piercing gray eyes scanning the room with a mix of curiosity and calculation. Maric van Breznik. Dettlaff's distant relative and a vampire of immense influence, Maric carried himself with an air of cold sophistication, his presence less oppressive than the Elder's but no less commanding.

Dettlaff's lips parted, confusion and unease swirling in his voice. "Elder... Maric... why are you here?"

The Elder's voice was deep and deliberate, each word a hammer striking stone. "Because the truth has a way of surfacing, Dettlaff. And the boy whose memories now plague you, Veylan, is the key to a long-buried secret. One that concerns us all."

Maric stepped forward, his gaze locking onto Dettlaff with a faint trace of familial warmth. "Do you know why his blood resonates with yours, Dettlaff? Why you feel this... connection?" He paused, his words heavy with meaning. "Because Veylan is tied to you by blood. Quite literally."

Dettlaff's breath hitched. "What are you saying?"

The Elder's voice cut through the air like a blade. "The boy's mother. An elf. She lives in the south. She had a child stolen from her people, from her life, by the very alchemists and sorcerers who created Veylan. And that elf... is Maric's child."

Dettlaff staggered back a step, the weight of the revelation striking him like a physical blow. "Maric's... child? Then that means..."

Maric's expression softened, though his voice remained clear. "Veylan is my grandson, Dettlaff. Which makes him your relative as well. He is of my bloodline, of our lineage. The dormant higher vampire traits within him, your blood awoke them when they injected it into him. That is why you feel what he feels."

The Elder folded his hands behind his back, his gaze shifting to Dettlaff. "Understand this, Veylan is not merely a Witcher. He is a convergence of bloodlines, human, elven, higher vampire, and more. What the alchemists did to him was an abomination, but it also awakened something... extraordinary."

Dettlaff's claws twitched at his sides as he tried to process the enormity of what he was hearing. "Does he know this?"

The Unseen Elder inclined his head slightly, his ancient gaze never wavering. "Yes, Dettlaff. Veylan knows, though not every detail has been revealed to him yet. He is aware of his higher vampire lineage, of your blood's role in awakening it. And now he walks a path none of us could have predicted."

Regis, standing to the side, studied the Elder's expression, his sharp mind racing to connect the dots. "You came here for more than just to tell us this, didn't you?" His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it, a faint suspicion beneath the surface.

The Unseen Elder's gaze softened ever so slightly as it shifted to Maric. For a moment, the ancient being's demeanor changed, still commanding, but there was a faint flicker of something deeper. Understanding, perhaps. Respect. When Maric gave a slow nod, the Elder turned his attention back to Dettlaff and Regis.

"There is another detail you must know," the Elder began, his voice quieter now but still steeped in gravitas. "Veylan is not simply a convergence of bloodlines. He is not merely human, or elf, or higher vampire. His existence carries an even greater weight."

Dettlaff inclined his head signaling the unseen elder to continue. The Elder took a measured step closer, his voice dipping lower. "Veylan's mother, Maric's daughter, carries my blood. Which means that Veylan, and by extension his mother, are not just tied to higher vampires. They are tied to the Unseen Elders."

Dettlaff's breath caught in his throat as he tried to comprehend the full scope of what he was hearing. "Your... blood?" His voice cracked slightly, the words hanging heavy in the air.

Maric stepped forward now, his usually icy demeanor melting into something more personal. "Yes, Dettlaff. I am not merely a higher vampire. I am the son of the Unseen Elder. Which makes Veylan my grandson, and, by extension, a descendant of the Elder himself."

The room fell silent, save for the faint rustle of the trees outside. Even Regis, ever composed, seemed momentarily stunned by the revelation. His calculating eyes darted between the Elder, Maric, and Dettlaff, piecing together the implications.

Dettlaff staggered back another step, his hands pressing against his temples as the weight of the revelation bore down on him. "This... this is too much," he murmured, his voice almost breaking. "He's... he's part of our kind, part of your bloodline, and yet... he's also something entirely new."

Maric's gaze was steady, his tone gentle

. "He is extraordinary, Dettlaff, because he represents a merging of worlds that were never meant to intersect. Human, elf, higher vampire... and the blood of an Unseen Elder. His existence defies logic and yet confirms it all the same."

The Elder's voice rumbled once more, commanding attention. "This is why I have come to you both. Veylan is not a threat, at least not yet. But the truth of his lineage cannot remain hidden forever. When the time comes, he will need guidance. And it may fall to you, Dettlaff, to decide what kind of guidance he receives."

Dettlaff blinked rapidly, his mind spinning. He was unprepared for this, for the sheer enormity of what had been thrust upon him. "And if he rejects that guidance?"

The Elder's expression darkened slightly, his ancient eyes boring into Dettlaff's soul. "Then he will forge his own path. And whether that path leads to salvation or ruin, only time will tell."

Regis finally broke the silence, his voice thoughtful. "Dettlaff, this connection you've felt, it's no accident. The memories you've seen, the emotions tied to them... they are a bridge. Perhaps it is time to cross it, to seek him out."

Dettlaff exhaled deeply, his claws flexing one last time before retracting. "I need time to think," he muttered, his voice hollow. "I need time to process this."

"And yet, it changes nothing, cousin." Maric continued, "He is still of us, and we are still bound by what we are. The question now is what you will do with this knowledge."

The Elder remained silent, his presence an unspoken reminder of the stakes at hand. Whatever Dettlaff decided, the ripples of this revelation would be felt far and of Form

…

Later that night…

Veylan stood amidst the crumbling stones. The scent of moss and decay was at every turn, but also something sharper, more distinct, an unnatural presence. He had been led here by a tip, a promise of information regarding the figure who was blackmailing Dettlaff. The atmosphere crackled faintly with tension, and Veylan's heightened senses picked up the faint rustle of movement among the ruins.

Carefully, he stepped forward, his hand near his sword but not drawing it. His instincts were on edge, but he wasn't here to fight blindly. As he approached the center of the ruins, a figure emerged from the shadows, a woman with pale, almost translucent skin, her dark eyes gleaming like polished onyx, and red hair. An Alp.

Veylan tensed momentarily, but didn't move to attack. Instead, he raised his free hand slightly, a gesture of cautious peace. "You're an Alp," he said evenly. "I should warn you, I'm a Witcher. But I'm not here to kill you, not unless I have a reason."

The Alp tilted her head, studying him. She didn't lunge, didn't hiss or bare her fangs, but her body language betrayed a readiness for a fight. "A Witcher who talks before he swings his blade? That's rare."

"Then consider me rare," Veylan replied, his tone steady. "But my training requires me to make a distinction. I hunt monsters who are mindless, destructive, and harmful—not just to humans, but to all living creatures. If you don't fit all three of those categories, then killing you wouldn't be justice—it would be murder."

The Alp's dark eyes flickered with a trace of surprise. "And you're willing to listen? Even though I'm what most would call a 'monster'?"

Veylan nodded. "That's why I'm here—to ask questions. And you can ask yours in return, but first, let's start with the basics: Do you kill indiscriminately, or do you prefer to feed on animals? Be honest."

She hesitated, then spoke. "I don't kill. I've only just arrived in Toussaint. In the Blue Mountains, where I lived before, I fed on wild animals, deer, wolves, anything to keep my hunger sated. I've never harmed anyone."

Veylan studied her closely, watching her body language, her tone. He didn't sense deceit. Slowly, he let his hand drop from his sword. "I believe you," he said. "And since you've given me a straight answer, it's your turn to ask a question."

The Alp raised an eyebrow, her tension easing slightly. "Why are you trying to talk to me instead of striking me down? Most Witchers wouldn't hesitate."

Veylan exhaled, letting a faint smile cross his lips. "Because not everything is black and white. I've met a Bruxa named Ravienne. She lives in Velen, and I've had the privilege of meeting her parents, her mother, a Bruxa like her, and her father, a human. I provided Ravienne with housing so she wouldn't have to live out in the woods."

The Alp's expression shifted to one of curiosity. "Why would you go to such lengths for a Bruxa?"

"Because she wasn't killing anyone," Veylan replied simply. "She fed on animals to avoid the temptation of feeding on people. She even helped a child who was attacked by a wolf, defending the child and then finding another child a safe path back to their village. She was no threat to anyone. Killing her would have been murder, not justice. It wouldn't have been right."

The Alp's dark eyes softened, her stance no longer defensive. "You truly believe that? That not all of us are monsters?"

Veylan nodded. "Actions speak louder than blood or fangs. You've told me the truth, so I'll show you the same trust I gave Ravienne. If you're not harming anyone, then you're not my enemy."

From the shadows, unseen to both, the Unseen Elders watched in silence. Veylan's words, his willingness to listen, and his refusal to blindly follow the old patterns of fear and prejudice were noted carefully. Even the Alp, unaware of their presence, had unwittingly become part of this test.

"You're different," the Alp said softly, her tone less guarded now. "Most Witchers would never have spoken to me. They'd have drawn steel the moment they saw me."

"And most Alps wouldn't have stayed their claws," Veylan replied, his voice calm but honest. "I'm not here to make enemies unless I have no choice. So now, I ask you, do you know anything about who might be blackmailing the higher vampire causing chaos in Toussaint?"

The Alp paused mid-thought, her gaze darting nervously to a shadow behind Veylan. The Witcher's heightened senses alerted him before the figures fully emerged. The air grew heavy, charged with an unspoken power, and Veylan instinctively stiffened. However, he made no move for his sword. He had learned long ago that when beings of this magnitude chose to reveal themselves, it wasn't to strike him down. If that were their intention, they would have acted already.

From the shadows, the Unseen Elder appeared, his presence as oppressive and commanding as the depths of time itself. Beside him stood two familiar figures: Regis, his sharp and measured gaze resting on Veylan, and Dettlaff, his crimson eyes filled with unease. The Alp immediately bowed her head in deep respect, stepping back silently as the Elder motioned for her dismissal. Without a word, she melted into the shadows and vanished.

Veylan stood his ground, his amber-green eyes scanning each figure. His posture was steady, unthreatened. "If you're revealing yourselves to me, then I can assume this isn't a hostile visit."

The Elder inclined his head slightly, an acknowledgment of Veylan's perceptiveness. "You are correct. If we intended harm, you would already know it."

Dettlaff stepped forward, his expression conflicted. Regis lingered just behind him, his usual calm demeanor masking a quiet vigilance. Dettlaff finally spoke, his voice low but steady. "I am the one you seek. The one who killed the knight."

Veylan tilted his head slightly, unsurprised. "I suspected as much. You carry the same scent that lingered on the body. And the tip that led me here—it was deliberate, wasn't it? A test, meant to ascertain my intentions."

The Elder folded his hands behind his back, his fiery gaze unwavering. "Indeed. A test of character. We needed to see how you would approach the situation, given your... unique lineage."

Veylan let out a slow breath but said nothing. He suspected as much but had no desire to antagonize beings far beyond his own power. "Well, I hope I passed."

Dettlaff regarded him with a mixture of regret and bitterness. "I didn't want to kill him. But I had no choice. Someone has taken... someone close to me. They leveraged her against me. I was forced to act."

Veylan studied Dettlaff, his expression thoughtful. "Do you still have whatever they sent you? A letter, perhaps?"

Dettlaff hesitated, then reached into his coat. "Yes. The letter arrived with the details of what I was to do. I didn't destroy it. Something... told me to keep it."

He handed the folded parchment to Veylan, who carefully opened it. The Witcher's sharp senses picked up more than just the ink and paper. His nose twitched as he sniffed the faint traces lingering on the edges of the letter. He frowned and sniffed again, more deliberately.

"There's a scent here," he muttered, his eyes narrowing. "A familiar scent. Do you smell this?" He turned to the Elder and Regis, both of whom leaned closer, their vampire senses honing in on the faintest of traces.

The Elder's brow raised, and Regis's lips pressed into a thin line. They exchanged a glance before confirming Veylan's observation. "You are correct. It is... a woman's scent."

"A woman?" Dettlaff asked, his voice tinged with disbelief. He took the letter and sniffed it himself, his crimson eyes widening in shock as the realization struck him. "This scent... it's hers. Syanna's."

Veylan folded his arms as he quickly put the pieces together. "Your lover?"

Dettlaff nodded slowly, the weight of the revelation pressing down on him. "Yes. I missed this before... but it's unmistakable. Syanna penned this letter. But why? She would never willingly... no. She must have been forced to write it."

Veylan tapped his fingers against his arm, his mind racing. "That's possible. But there's more. Her scent, there's something distinct about it. It's like another I've encountered recently. Anna Henrietta's."

Regis frowned, clearly connecting the pieces in his mind. "A familial connection."

Dettlaff staggered back a step, his expression a mix of shock and confusion. "They're... related? Syanna and Anna Henrietta?"

Veylan nodded grimly. "That would explain the similarity. Their scents are not identical, but close enough that they must share blood. Did Syanna ever mention this?"

Dettlaff's claws flexed involuntarily as he shook his head. "Never. She never said anything about being related to the Duchess. Why would she hide that from me?"

The Elder's fiery gaze rested on Dettlaff. "Perhaps she had her reasons. Or perhaps she is caught in a web even more intricate than you realize."

Veylan folded the letter carefully and handed it back to Dettlaff. "I'm not jumping to conclusions yet. But this connection... it complicates things. If she's being used, we need to find out who's pulling the strings. And if she's not... well, I'll cross that bridge when I get to it."

Dettlaff's expression hardened, a mix of determination and worry but resolve clouding his features. "Then we find the truth. No matter what."

…

Veylan glanced at Dettlaff, his eyes sharp and calculating as the plan began to take shape in his mind. He could feel the weight of the moment, but there was no hesitation in his voice when he spoke. "Dettlaff, the second knight. Do you know where he is? If he's still alive, his family deserves answers, and if not... well, his next of kin should be notified."

Dettlaff frowned, his crimson eyes narrowing as he processed the question. "I know where he was supposed to be taken. But I don't know if he's still alive. The one controlling this... they don't allow much room for error."

Veylan nodded, folding his arms. "That's our next step, then. We need to find him. But not just that—I've been thinking about how to keep you from having to go through with their demands. If you continue to carry out their orders, it'll only paint a bigger target on Syanna. We need to make them think you've done what they asked, without actually doing it."

Dettlaff's jaw tightened, his claws flexing unconsciously. "And how do you propose we manage that?"

Veylan's lips curved into a faint, grim smile. "I'll use my doppler abilities to blend in with the local populace. I'll hide in plain sight, watching from the shadows. When your contact sends you details about your next target, you make your way to the designated location like normal, but I'll intervene beforehand. I'll move the knight, if he's alive, somewhere safe, somewhere no one would think to look."

Regis raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "And where exactly would you hide him?"

"The Duchess's palace," Veylan replied without hesitation. "No one would dare search there without raising suspicion, especially if we get her trusted guards involved. Once the knight is safely under protection, Dettlaff will have a plausible alibi. It'll look like he carried out the deed, and the blackmailers won't know otherwise."

Dettlaff frowned, his expression skeptical. "And what about Syanna? If they suspect anything, she'll pay the price."

Veylan leaned forward, his voice calm. "That's why Regis will follow the messenger discreetly after the 'job' is supposedly done. With Dettlaff's alibi secure, Regis can track the blackmailers to wherever Syanna is being held. Once we find her location, we go in together: you, me, Regis, and a handful of the Duchess's most trusted guards. We get her out of there."

Dettlaff's expression softened slightly, the weight of hope mingling with his doubt. "It's a sound plan. Risky, but it might work. Do you truly believe you can deceive them?"

Veylan straightened, his gaze unwavering. "If there's one thing I've learned, it's how to play the long game. They'll expect you to act predictably, to follow their orders without question. But they won't expect us to turn their own game against them. We'll hit them where they least expect it."

Regis nodded thoughtfully, his calm demeanor returning. "It's a gamble, but it's a calculated one. With the Duchess's support and Dettlaff's cooperation, this plan has a chance."

Dettlaff let out a long breath, his shoulders relaxing just slightly. "Then I'll take you to where the second knight is, or was. If there's even a chance he's alive, we'll find him."

"Good," Veylan said, clapping Dettlaff on the shoulder. "Let's move quickly. The sooner we act, the better our chances of keeping everyone alive, and of finding Syanna."

As the group began preparing to leave, the unseen elder who had been watching quietly from the shadows spoke, his voice carrying the weight of centuries. "You tread a dangerous path, Veylan. But there is strength in your resolve. Do not falter."

Veylan met the elder's gaze with a respectful nod. "Danger is part of the job. But I don't plan on failing."

…

scents of spiced wine, roasted meats, and the faint musk of sweat. Veylan, disguised as an older man with graying brown hair and frail features, sat hunched over a mug of mead at the far end of the room. The illusion was flawless, his Witcher medallion hidden beneath a modest woolen cloak. To any onlooker, he was just another weary traveler stopping for a drink.

Dettlaff sat a few tables away, his posture composed, though tension rippled beneath the surface. He looked as though he was merely resting between errands, his crimson eyes dimmed to an ordinary, human-like brown under the faintest trace of magic. The illusion was minor, but effective.

The tavern door creaked open, and a wiry man with an unkempt beard and darting eyes shuffled in. His movements were precise yet jittery, the telltale signs of a courier accustomed to clandestine dealings. He scanned the room briefly before his eyes landed on Dettlaff. With a subtle nod, he approached.

Veylan lowered his head, pretending to nurse his drink while sharpening his ears. The courier leaned close to Dettlaff, his voice low but clear enough for Veylan to catch.

"Your next target," the courier murmured, sliding a folded parchment across the table. "Greenhouse, tonight. Knight Ravix of Fourhorn. Our employers orders were explicit. Make it... clean."

Dettlaff's hand hovered over the parchment for a moment before he pocketed it. His voice was cool, detached. "I understand."

The courier straightened and muttered, "Good. You'll be contacted again once the task is done." He turned sharply and left the tavern, oblivious to the shadow of mist that followed him out—a silent Regis, tailing the man with the skill of a predator.

Veylan set his mug down, sliding a few coins across the table. With a grunt, he rose to his feet, his movements slow and deliberate to maintain his guise. As he exited the tavern, the cold night air greeted him, refreshing his senses. Once clear of the doorway, he let his posture shift slightly, straightening as he moved with purpose toward the castle.

The guards at the gates stiffened as he approached. One of them, a burly man with a trimmed beard, stepped forward, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "Halt. Who goes there?"

Veylan glanced around to ensure no one else was near before allowing his illusion to fade from his face. His amber-green eyes caught the light of the torches as he leaned closer and whispered, "It's me, Veylan."

The guards exchanged startled glances, but recognition quickly followed. The bearded one stepped back, his tone hushed but urgent. "What's going on?"

"I know who the next target is," Veylan said urgently. "Knight Ravix of Fourhorn, in the greenhouse during tonight's party. We need to move him to a secure location in the castle immediately. A friend of mine is already following the contact who gave the higher vampire who's being blackmailed the order. We need to inform the Duchess of this situation, now."

The guard nodded briskly. "Follow me."

Veylan shadowed the guard through the castle corridors, his thoughts racing. Each step brought him closer to preventing another senseless death, but the stakes were growing higher with every move. When they reached the Duchess's chamber, the guard knocked sharply before entering.

Inside, Duchess Anna Henrietta turned from the grand desk where she had been reviewing documents. Her expression softened when she saw Veylan, though concern quickly replaced it. "Veylan, what brings you here at this hour?"

He bowed slightly before stepping forward. "Your Grace, we have a situation. I've intercepted the next target of the blackmailer controlling higher vampire. Knight Ravix of Fourhorn. The attack is planned for tonight, during the party, in the greenhouse."

Anna Henrietta's eyes widened, her lips tightening in anger. "Then we must act quickly. Ravix has served this duchy loyally. He will not die under my watch."

Veylan nodded. "We need to move him to a secure location in the castle, somewhere no one will think to look. At the same time, I'll blend into the party to ensure no suspicion falls on Dettlaff or your men. My friend is following the courier who delivered the orders; we may soon discover the blackmailer's location."

Anna Henrietta straightened, her regal demeanor masking the turmoil in her eyes. "Then we have no time to waste. I will personally oversee Ravix's relocation. See to the rest, Veylan, and may the gods watch over us tonight."

As the Duchess issued orders to her guards, Veylan slipped into the shadows of the castle, already planning his next steps.

…

The greenhouse shimmered under the moonlight, its glass panels reflecting the glow of the lanterns and the lively music drifting from the castle's grand halls. The party was in full swing, nobles mingling and drinking, oblivious to the staged scene unfolding just beyond their reach.

Inside the greenhouse, droplets of animal blood were artfully scattered across the marble floor. Broken flower pots and overturned soil gave the impression of a struggle. The Duchess's plan was executed with precision. The guards stationed nearby had received strict orders to act as though there had been a violent break-in, and their tense demeanor sold the illusion.

Dettlaff lingered in the shadows, his expression unreadable. The scent of blood was strong, but he remained still, observing as a messenger approached the greenhouse cautiously. The man's beady eyes darted around the area before he stepped closer, his movements hesitant. He knelt, running his fingers across the bloodstains, and glanced at the broken pots.

Dettlaff stepped forward, his tone cold and detached. "It's done. The knight is no longer a concern."

The messenger stood quickly, wiping his hands on his trousers. "Good. That will keep our contact satisfied for now. I'll relay the message. Stay on standby for further instructions."

Dettlaff nodded curtly, his red eyes glowing faintly in the dim light. The messenger hesitated for a moment, as if he wanted to ask something, but ultimately turned and scurried off into the night.

Once the man was out of sight, Dettlaff cast a final glance at the greenhouse before walking toward the nearby shadows where Veylan waited, still disguised. "It's done," Dettlaff murmured. "The messenger bought it."

Veylan nodded, his voice low. "Good. That gives us some time. We need to act fast before they catch wind of anything."

Moments later, Regis appeared from the mist, his form materializing like a wraith from the night. His face was grim, though there was a spark of determination in his eyes. "I found the hideout," he said, his voice steady. "Count de la Croix's Mill. It's isolated, surrounded by dense woods, and the perfect place for a blackmailer to hide their dealings."

Dettlaff's jaw clenched, his claws flexing involuntarily. "So, we go there. End this."

Veylan turned to Dettlaff, we will, but we need to ensure that they don't see it coming, if they do then Syanna may pay the price , and we don't know how many people they have or what traps might be waiting."

Regis nodded in agreement. "We'll need to scout the area carefully. Gather as much information as we can before making any move. And we'll need to ensure Syanna's safety above all else."

Dettlaff hesitated, his fiery gaze meeting Regis's. "And if this is a trap?"

"Then we'll be ready for it," Veylan said,. "We've come too far to falter now."

The three exchanged a look of understanding before turning toward the road leading out of the castle grounds. The Duchess, watching from a balcony above, gave Veylan a subtle nod, her trust in him clear despite the tense circumstances.

It was in their hands now…

…

The mill loomed in the distance, its silhouette stark against the moonlit sky. Surrounding it was an expansive estate, a once-pristine vineyard now tarnished by disrepair and the occupation of mercenaries. The group approached silently, their eyes scanning the guards pacing the grounds.

Nilfgaardian soldiers accompanied them, clad in blackened armor that shimmered faintly in the pale light. As soon as the guards on the estate spotted the soldiers, they shouted an alarm, and the chaos began. Bandits poured out of the main building and surrounding outposts, swords gleaming and crossbows raised.

Before the first bolt could fly, Dettlaff vanished into mist, his form scattering like smoke. Regis followed, his movements equally swift and ethereal. Veylan, not one to be left behind, unsheathed his steel blade with a metallic hiss and darted forward. Unlike the vampires, he didn't kill indiscriminately. Instead, he used powerful Axii signs to freeze enemies in place, their movements sluggish and their minds clouded. He moved swiftly, striking with the pommel of his sword to knock them unconscious.

Dettlaff, however, was not so merciful. His mist reformed behind one guard, his claws slicing through the man's back with devastating precision. A second bandit fell as Regis materialized, delivering a bone-crushing blow to the man's neck. The fight was over in moments, the surviving bandits unconscious or retreating into the night.

The Nilfgaardian soldiers moved to secure the perimeter while Veylan, Dettlaff, and Regis entered the main building. They passed through dimly lit halls, their boots echoing softly on the wooden floors.

, the faint creak of footsteps above guiding them toward their destination.

As they ascended the staircase, a guard suddenly burst through a door at the top, sword raised. Dettlaff reacted instantly, his claws raking across the man's throat in a single, fluid motion. The body crumpled to the floor, blood pooling beneath it.

They continued forward, the faint scent of wine and lavender growing stronger as they approached a door at the end of the hallway. Dettlaff paused, his hand hovering over the handle. He pushed it open, revealing a room bathed in the soft glow of candlelight.

Inside, Syanna stood by the window, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. She turned at the sound of the door opening, her eyes wide and shimmering with unshed tears. "Dettlaff," she whispered, her voice trembling as she stepped forward and threw her arms around him. "You found me."

Dettlaff embraced her, his clawed hands trembling as they rested on her back. "You're safe now," he murmured, his voice soft with relief.

Veylan remained at the threshold, his sharp eyes scanning the room. Something was off. The room was too comfortable, almost luxurious. On the table by the window sat a half-packed chest containing bottles of royal wine and a gleaming artifact, the Jewel of Toussaint, an heirloom of Anna Henriette's family that disappeared a little while ago. His gaze swept to the desk, where neatly penned letters lay alongside a glass of wine.

"Something doesn't add up," Veylan muttered, stepping closer. Regis joined him, raising an eyebrow as he studied the scene.

Veylan picked up one of the letters, his keen sense of smell picking up traces of Syanna's scent on the parchment. His eyes narrowed as he scanned the writing. The contents were damning. They outlined instructions for the blackmail, with detailed references to the knights who had been killed, or targeted. He glanced at the names and froze.

"These names..." he said, his voice low. "The three knights. They were the same ones tasked with overseeing her banishment when she was a child."

Regis's eyes widened as he scanned another letter. "And look here," he said, holding up a final piece of parchment. "The last target... Anna Henriette."

Dettlaff stiffened, his crimson eyes narrowing. "What are you saying?"

Veylan set the letter down carefully, his voice calm but weighted. "I'm saying the blackmailer... and the woman you just saved... are one and the same."

Dettlaff turned to Syanna, confusion and anger flickering in his gaze. "Syanna... is this true?"

Syanna stiffened, her expression momentarily faltering before she smoothed it into one of innocence. "Dettlaff, I-"

Regis stepped forward, his sharp gaze fixed on her. "Your scent is all over these letters. And the Jewel of Toussaint? Why would you have that, along with royal wine, unless you were planning to leave?"

The room fell silent, the weight of the revelation settling over them like a shroud. Dettlaff's claws flexed, his crimson eyes blazing as he stepped back from Syanna, his breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts.

Veylan's voice was quiet but clear. "We need answers, Syanna. Now."

Syanna hesitated, her lips pressed tightly together, as if weighing whether to speak. Her gaze flickered toward Dettlaff, his crimson eyes burning with pain and confusion, and something within her broke. With a heavy sigh, she relented.

"My name..." she began, her voice trembling, "is Sylvia Anna. Though most call me Syanna." She glanced away, shame and anger warring on her face. "I was once the sister of Anna Henriette, Duchess of Toussaint."

The weight of her words hung in the air, thick and suffocating. Dettlaff's claws twitched at his sides, and Regis tilted his head, his gaze sharpening as he absorbed the revelation. Veylan crossed his arms, his face unreadable but his eyes keenly focused on her.

Syanna took another deep breath, her voice gaining strength as the dam of her emotions burst. "I was banished when I was a child. Not for some monstrous act, but because I was cursed at birth—marked by the Curse of the Black Sun. They feared me, treated me like I was already a monster. But it wasn't just the fear. My sister... she let it happen."

She turned toward Veylan, her eyes blazing with pain. "The prank that got me exiled? Setting the Nilfgaardian diplomat's hair on fire? That wasn't even me. It was Anna. My dear sister, Anna Henriette, the perfect little Duchess-to-be. She blamed me for it because it was convenient. And I paid the price."

Dettlaff's breath hitched, but he said nothing, his gaze locked on hers.

"The knights who were tasked with overseeing my banishment," Syanna continued, her voice trembling with rage and sorrow, "were not noble or just. They were monsters. They tied me up, starved me, laughed at me. And when they weren't mocking me, they beat me. They were supposed to protect me, but instead, they treated me worse than an animal."

Her voice broke as she closed her eyes, the memories clearly painful to relive. "Do you know what it's like to be a child, alone and terrified, abandoned by everyone you thought cared for you? To be treated as if you were already evil, as if you deserved to suffer for something you couldn't control?"

Regis's expression softened, though his sharp eyes remained fixed on her. Dettlaff's claws flexed, his confusion giving way to anger—not at her, but at the world that had hurt her so deeply. Veylan, however, remained silent, his gaze drifting to the desk where the letters lay.

Something caught his eye. Among the neatly penned documents was a single letter, different from the rest. Veylan stepped closer, his hand brushing against the parchment as he read it. His eyes narrowed, and he turned to Syanna.

"This letter," he said quietly, his voice cutting through the tension. "It's addressed to Dettlaff. But it's not blackmail, is it?"

Syanna's eyes widened slightly, but she said nothing. Veylan pressed on, holding the letter up for Dettlaff and Regis to see. "It says where to meet you. It says you escaped. You were calling the whole thing off, weren't you?"

Dettlaff's head snapped toward her, his eyes filled with confusion and hurt. "Syanna... is this true?"

Syanna's lips trembled, and she lowered her head, unable to meet his gaze. "Yes," she whispered. "I couldn't do it anymore. I couldn't keep manipulating you, couldn't keep this bloodshed going. I didn't... I didn't mean for it to go this far."

Dettlaff took a step back, his claws retracting slightly. "Then why?" he demanded, his voice a mix of anger and desperation. "Why did you start this in the first place?"

Syanna finally looked up, her tear-filled eyes locking onto his. "At first, it was revenge," she admitted. "Against the knights, against Anna, against everyone who wronged me. But... you..." Her voice faltered, and she took a tentative step toward him. "You were different. I thought I could use you, but then... I fell in love with you."

Dettlaff's expression shifted, his anger melting into something far more vulnerable. Regis remained silent, his sharp gaze flicking between the two. Veylan, however, wasn't finished.

"And you were going to run away with him," Veylan said, his voice softer now. "No more blackmail, no more bloodshed. You just wanted to leave it all behind."

Syanna nodded slowly, her tears spilling over. "Yes," she whispered. "I was ready to leave everything behind. For him."

The room fell silent, the weight of her confession hanging heavy in the air. Dettlaff's claws twitched at his sides, but he didn't move. Regis's sharp eyes softened, and even Veylan's hard expression showed a hint of understanding.

For the first time, it seemed, the truth was laid bare, and the choice of what to do next rested on Dettlaff's of Form

Syanna collapsed into the chair beside her desk, her legs giving out beneath her as the weight of everything she'd done, everything she'd caused, crashed over her like a tidal wave. She pressed her face into her hands, her body wracked with sobs. Her voice, barely audible, broke through the silence.

"I'm sorry, Dettlaff," she choked out between ragged breaths. "I'm so sorry..."

The sound of her weeping filled the room, raw and unguarded. The proud, calculating woman who had orchestrated so much chaos was gone, replaced by someone utterly broken by guilt and regret.

Dettlaff stood motionless, his crimson eyes fixed on her trembling form. Anger still burned in his chest, a visceral reaction to the betrayal, the manipulation, the lies. Yet as he watched her fall apart, another emotion began to seep through the cracks in his fury.

Sympathy.

She had been hurt so deeply, scarred so profoundly, that she had lashed out at the world in an attempt to reclaim what she had lost, or to destroy the pain she could never escape. He knew that feeling intimately. How many times had he done the same? How many lives had he taken, blinded by his own rage and grief?

This has spiraled far beyond her control, Dettlaff realized. She never wanted it to go this far. And now, her conscience has finally caught up with her.

The anger didn't vanish, but it softened, tempered by the understanding that she, too, was a victim in all of this, a victim of her own pain and the world's cruelty. Slowly, Dettlaff stepped forward, his movements measured and deliberate.

He knelt in front of her, his claws retracting as he reached out. Hesitating for only a moment, he gently placed a hand on her shoulder. She flinched at his touch but didn't pull away, her sobs continuing unabated.

"Syanna," Dettlaff said softly, his voice devoid of its usual edge. "Look at me."

She didn't respond, her face still buried in her hands. Dettlaff's hand slid down to take hers, gently pulling them away from her face. Her tear-streaked eyes met his, filled with shame and sorrow. He didn't let go.

"I won't lie and say I'm not angry," Dettlaff began, his tone even, though there was a faint tremor of emotion beneath the surface. "But I also know what it means to be consumed by pain. To lash out because it feels like the only way to stop the ache inside. You've been through so much... far more than anyone should endure."

Syanna shook her head, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. "I don't deserve your forgiveness," she whispered. "Not after everything I've done."

Dettlaff's expression softened, his crimson eyes holding hers with an intensity that was no longer fueled by anger, but by compassion. "This isn't about deserving," he said. "You've made mistakes. Terrible ones. But I see you now, Syanna, not the person who plotted and schemed, but the one who's finally allowed herself to feel the weight of it all. The one who... who loves."

Her breath hitched, and she couldn't hold his gaze any longer. But Dettlaff didn't let go of her hands. Instead, he squeezed them gently, a silent promise that he wasn't going to abandon her.

"I fell in love with you for a reason," he said, his voice soft but steady. "And that person is still here. You're still here."

Syanna broke again, but this time, it wasn't the same. She leaned forward, her forehead resting against Dettlaff's shoulder as her sobs renewed. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly as the storm inside her finally began to calm.

Dettlaff closed his eyes, his own turmoil still present but subdued. For now, he chose to set it aside. For her. Because beneath everything, the lies, the anger, the betrayal, she was still the woman he loved. And she needed him.

No matter how much it hurt, he would be there.