Hey! This is my story based on The Witcher, it's set after the events of Lady of the Lake and during the events of The Witcher 3, but I'm not going to retell Geralt's story and write it as one that happens in the same timeline of it as I find the world of The Witcher to be fascinating and the opportunity of really interesting stories to be told as the game didn't explore it properly. Hope you enjoy this as much as I did writing it. Comments, reviews and criticisms are always welcome!
The Wolf and The Swallow
authored by WingsuitFlying
Chapter 1 – A Blade In The Dark
The Shaggy Bear stank of wet stone, sour sweat, and boiled cabbage—none of which masked the deeper, older scent of disappointment that clung to its walls like mildew. The door creaked on rust-bitten hinges as Matteo stepped inside, hunched slightly beneath the low lintel. The stink hit him immediately. Familiar. Not comforting.
He paused in the threshold, letting the firelight scrape across his profile: tall, lean, dirty blond hair dampened by the misting rain that clung to the streets of Vizima like cobwebs. His wolf medallion, dulled by years of use and storms weathered, swung against his chest in faint rhythm with his steps as he crossed the threshold. The eyes that swept across the inn's patrons were calm, green-grey and deep-set, the kind of eyes that saw more than they let on.
A few heads turned. One man muttered into his ale. Another hunched deeper into his coat. The low murmur of conversation, already thin, dissolved into an uneasy silence. They knew what he was. Even if he bore no sigil but that of the Wolf, no double swords over the back, even if he'd trimmed his beard down to a travel-stubble and wore a cloak instead of a gambeson—something about him gave it away. Maybe the way he moved. The way he watched.
He ignored the stares.
A single tankard slammed onto the bar. The innkeep—thick in the middle, red-faced from years of drink and possibly bad temper—glanced up, and his expression soured further. Matteo offered no smile, only a curt nod and a word:
"Stout."
The innkeep grunted and turned to the barrels behind him. While he waited, Matteo let his eyes wander across the inn again. Wooden beams above, soot-blackened, some sagging with age. One beam split, banded in iron. Casks stacked in corners, mismatched chairs scattered around sticky tables, and in the middle of the room, pinned to a cracked wooden column with a crooked nail, was a scrap of yellowed parchment curling at the corners.
The script was faded. The ink bled from exposure to smoke and time. But Matteo's eyes narrowed as he read it.
A REWARD IS OFFERED
By His Majesty King Foltest of Temeria
For the lifting of a curse afflicting his daughter.
Said curse has manifested in the form of a Striga—
Deadly and relentless, prowling the Imperial Palace at night.
Only those skilled in monster slaying need apply.
"Stupid thing to keep posted, wasn't the curse lifted years ago?" Matteo murmured.
The innkeep returned with the tankard, the froth slopping over the rim. He dropped it down and leaned forward, catching Matteo's gaze.
"That's been hangin' there near eight years now," he said. "Maybe longer. Don't matter. It's not real anymore. Just something to remind folks of how mad Foltest was. Man was shaggin' his own sister. Had a monster for a daughter. Deserved what he got."
Matteo sipped from the tankard. The stout was thick, earthy, and bitter. Just enough to warm the chest.
He set the drink down, slow, deliberate.
"King Foltest is dead," he said flatly. "He can't defend himself from your words. And you're speaking them in his city, or the city that he once ruled. . That parchment… that's history. Whether you respect it or not."
The bartender shrugged, lips curling in a sneer. "Aye, and good riddance. Bastard got what was comin'."
Matteo turned his head, pale golden eyes narrowing slightly. "Takes a special kind of coward to mock a corpse."
The innkeep's lip curled in irritation, then trembled with uncertainty. He opened his mouth, then shut it, jaw working. He backed up a step, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like witcher bastard but too low to carry.
Matteo didn't rise to the bait.
He turned, letting the stout sit a moment, and leaned against the bar with one elbow, eyes fixed on the warped notice like it held answers. Strange, that it remained up. Stranger still that no one tore it down after the war, when Temeria fell and Emhyr took the throne at the Imperial Palace just a few blocks away. He remembered the striga. Not from firsthand experience, but Geralt had told him the tale once. Back at Kaer Morhen, by firelight, during one of the long winters. Ciri had sat between them, her head resting on a pile of old leathers, eyes wide as Geralt described the beast's shrieks and claws and the scent of her lair beneath the palace.
Ciri.
Matteo straightened, the image of her sharp in his mind. Slender frame, silver hair like moonlight made flesh, eyes the green of summer moss after rain. A scar down her left cheek, thin but cruel. He hadn't known her well—not like Vesemir or Geralt or even Eskel or Lambert—but she'd been there, quick-footed and wild, mocking him with a half-smile and a raised eyebrow when he'd struggled on the obstacle course. They were close in age, not in bond. Still, he cared.
He cared enough to follow the rumours.
"I'm looking for someone," he said, his voice low.
The innkeep was wiping the bar now, a little more forcefully than necessary. "Aren't we all."
"Petite woman. Silver hair. Green eyes. Scar on her cheek. Might call herself Zireael."
The cloth stopped mid-wipe.
The innkeep didn't look up, but Matteo saw the tension creep into his shoulders.
"Don't know her," he said, too quickly.
"I didn't say she was here."
The man's jaw worked again. Then he set down the cloth and leaned both hands on the bar. His eyes, dark and bloodshot, fixed on Matteo's.
"Best not to ask about ghosts, witcher. Especially not ones that leave corpses behind them. And I don't mean she killed anyone. I mean the ones that followed her. Black armored riders. Cold as winter. Seen with my own eyes. Rode past this very inn, didn't stop, didn't look, but the ground died where their horses stepped. You want to get involved in that? Be my guest. But don't ask me."
Matteo's expression didn't shift.
The Wild Hunt.
The trail wasn't warm, not yet. But it was warmer than most. And the man's reaction was too sharp to be a coincidence. Somewhere, somewhere near, she had passed. Maybe in a different name, maybe in a cloak and a hood, maybe with a sword strapped to her back or maybe disarmed—but she'd been here. And the Hunt had chased her. He could feel it in his bones.
Matteo took the tankard again and downed what remained in three long gulps, the liquid thick in his throat. He set the tankard down, heavier than before, and fished a few coins from the pouch at his belt.
He slid them across the bar.
"For the ale. And for the truth you didn't mean to tell."
The innkeep didn't answer.
Outside, the wind had picked up, howling through the broken shutters like a mourning mother. Matteo stepped back into it, drawing his cloak tighter around his shoulders. He didn't glance back. There was no need. Vizima's streets stretched before him like the veins of a corpse—twisting, dark, and cold. The city had changed since the fall of Temeria. Once a proud capital of a northern kingdom, now it groaned beneath the weight of its conquerors. The banners were different—black and gold now, with the gold sun of Nilfgaard replacing the blue lily of Temeria—but the rot beneath remained the same. War simply changed the uniforms.
Matteo walked in silence, boots slapping against wet cobblestones. The wind slithered through alleyways, tugging at his cloak, carrying with it the mingled scents of ash, horse dung, and boiled cabbage. Vizima never slept, not truly. Even in the small hours, you could hear the clatter of distant hooves, the bark of a drunk, the whispered dealings of men who thrived in shadow. But his destination stood above the filth and noise—barely.
Velerad's office, a tall, timeworn structure that squatted like a stubborn wart near the heart of the city, had once been a minor noble's estate, back when Foltest's court was full of pomp and indulgence. Now it served as the seat of municipal authority, with all the charm of a gallows scaffold. Its stone façade bore Nilfgaardian regalia now, though the guards at the entrance still wore the dull blue of Viziman city watch, as if refusing to let go entirely.
The guards recognized him for what he was. They tensed, but did not challenge. One of them offered a wary nod, opening the door with a muttered, "He's still awake. Down the hall. Last room."
Matteo stepped inside without a word, the heavy door creaking shut behind him.
The hall was narrow, lit by flickering lamps that cast long shadows. His footsteps echoed faintly as he walked, the place quiet but for the faint scratching of quills and the occasional distant cough. Matteo found the door at the end ajar, the scent of ink and old parchment thick in the air.
Velerad looked up from his desk without surprise above the bespoke spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose.
The mayor was a man carved from hard years—his face lined and weathered, jowls soft with age but eyes still sharp and calculating. His greying hair had thinned since Matteo had last seen him, and his beard, once carefully trimmed, now grew wild in places. Yet there was no mistaking the presence of command about him. A man who had kept his seat through the fall of kings and the rise of an empire.
"Well," Velerad said, setting down his quill. "Another witcher. You people are like cockroaches. Scattered, half-forgotten, and yet always turning up in the worst hours."
Matteo gave a half-smile. "I'll take that as a compliment."
"I wouldn't." Velerad leaned back in his chair. "What is it you want, at this hour? Came to pay taxes?" he sneered almost in annoyance and Matteo recognized the toll of the years took on this man—his patience was wearing thin, perhaps from years of diligent service under King Foltest, who was not an easy man to work for or perhaps it was the new, strict rule enforced by the Black Ones.
"I'm here about a notice I found posted in The Shaggy Bear," Matteo said. "Striga. Reward of three thousand crowns. Signed by King Foltest."
Velerad scoffed so hard he nearly choked on his own disdain. "That? By the gods, I told those illiterate piss-pots to tear those down ten years ago. Geralt handled that matter himself, curse lifted, girl returned to court. Before the bloody kingdom fell." Velerad glanced up at him over his bespoke spectacles "You know Geralt of Rivia?"
"I do." Matteo replied calmly, the wolf medallion dangling around his neck. "So the reward's no longer valid?" Matteo asked, straight-faced.
The mayor narrowed his eyes. "Is that wit I hear? From a witcher?"
Matteo shrugged. "More of a sense of timing."
Velerad grunted. "Well, you're not getting a single crown for that parchment. You're a few years too late, witcher. If Geralt hadn't done it, you'd be rotting in some chamber pot by now. She nearly killed him, you know."
"I know," Matteo replied, voice softer. "He was always good at doing things the hard way."
The room quieted for a beat. Velerad studied him over steepled fingers, then said, "I take it you didn't come here just for that worthless scrap."
"I didn't."
Matteo stepped forward, reaching into his coat to withdraw a folded scrap of paper. Not official, not an order or bounty. Just a note, the corners smudged, ink faded: a rough sketch, the lines simple, capturing a woman's face in profile—hair like white fire, a jagged scar on one cheek. It wasn't much, but it was enough.
"I'm looking for someone," he said. "Young woman. Ashen hair. Emerald eyes. Scar here." He touched his own cheek. "Carries a sword on her back. She's… important. To a lot of people."
Velerad's expression didn't change, but something behind his eyes shifted. A flicker of thought, of recognition. He didn't look at the drawing.
Matteo didn't press. He let the moment stretch, then added, "I mean her no harm. I'm not a bounty hunter. I'm a witcher."
Velerad muttered under his breath. "I can tell."
He gestured vaguely to Matteo's face. "Eyes like a cat at midnight. You people always make the hairs on my neck stand."
"That's how you know we're doing our job," Matteo said.
Velerad leaned forward, fingers drumming the desk. "You ask about that girl like others have. Do you know how many spies have been through my door with questions just like yours? Some wear Nilfgaardian colors. Others try to hide it. Even those Redanian imbeciles have been sending spies in disguise to sniff around. I've heard tales about a phantom woman with silver hair in half the provinces of the north. She's not a ghost, but she might as well be. Always vanishing. Always one step ahead."
"She was seen," Matteo said. "Here. Or near enough."
"And what do you intend to do if you find her?" Velerad asked, his voice hard now. "Bring her in? Trade her name for a sack of gold from the Emperor's purse?"
"No." The answer came without hesitation. "She trained at Kaer Morhen. I knew her. We were never close, but… I cared. Enough to follow whispers and shadows." He hesitated, then added, "The Wild Hunt is after her."
Velerad went still, face unreadable. After a long pause, he said, "And you think she'd welcome the sight of another witcher, come tracking her down like hounds at her heels?"
"No," Matteo admitted. "But I'm not here to bring her back. I'm here to make sure she survives."
Velerad studied him for a long moment, jaw clenched, then finally looked down at the papers littering his desk, shuffling them with faint irritation. He found a small scroll and handed it over without ceremony.
"A girl passed through a few weeks back. White hair. Traveled alone. Bought passage south with a merchant caravan. Said her name was Zira—strange allias to use, since she didn't even look Zerrikanian. No surname. One of the boys at the southern gate remembered her. He thought she was some kind of noble in disguise. Paid in gold."
Matteo took the scroll, tucking it away. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me," Velerad snapped. "Just don't bring war to my door again. If she's trouble, keep it outside my walls."
Matteo inclined his head. "Understood."
He turned to leave, but paused at the doorway.
"Velerad," he said over his shoulder.
The mayor looked up.
"You stayed in power under Foltest, and now under Emhyr. That takes… balance."
Velerad's eyes narrowed. "That's one way to put it."
"It means you know how to survive," Matteo said. "Just don't forget there's more to surviving than bending with the wind."
Velerad waved him off. "Get out of my office, witcher. Before I remember why I hate your kind."
Matteo smirked, then slipped back into the corridor. Behind him, the door creaked shut, and the weight of the past pressed in once more.
The road south of Vizima sloped gently downward toward the Pontar River, cutting through low, rolling hills and woods that whispered of better days. Matteo rode with the hood of his cloak drawn up, the steady rhythm of his horse's hooves a quiet metronome in the morning silence. His mount, a black stallion, called Midnight, stood at 17.25 hands—nearly 5'9 at the shoulder—and weighing close to 1,400 pounds, Midnight was more beast than horse. His coat was blacker than night itself, gleaming like polished obsidian beneath the fading light. His eyes, deep and intelligent, flashed as he snorted and pawed the ground. Even still, there was an almost regal stillness to him—an animal that knew his worth. Matteo won him when he invoked the Law of Surprise on a Kaedweni noble. Turns out, his favorite broodmare had just foaled. The stallion has served him diligently for four years now, but, more importantly, was unbothered by monsters and the occasional arrow-ridden corpse left by old skirmishes along the roadside.
The closer he drew to White Orchard, the more the land seemed to resist time itself.
Matteo slowed as the trees thinned and the village came into view. Smoke from hearths curled lazily above thatched rooftops, and fields stretched out like a patchwork quilt of brown and pale green, just beginning to recover from the last frost. But it wasn't the peaceful quiet or the lazy buzz of spring insects that caught his eye—it was the flags.
Blue lilies.
The banners of Temeria, tattered but still defiant, hung from wooden poles and were painted crudely on barn doors, scrawled even on a chicken coop wall. Matteo's brow furrowed beneath his hood. He brought his horse to a slow walk, the animal snorting softly as they entered the village proper.
The people noticed him instantly. A few farmers paused mid-task, scythes and hoes drooping in their hands. Children darted behind legs or doors. One old man spat into the dust and muttered a prayer. Matteo didn't blame them. His swords marked him clearly—and in these uncertain times, a witcher was a harbinger of things none wanted to see.
He noticed a small Nilfgaardian garrison outpost at the far end of the village, though none of the black-clad soldiers were visible just yet. That was good. The banners could stir trouble fast, and Nilfgaard rarely responded with warnings. They burned, they hanged, and they marched on.
But Matteo didn't come for politics. He turned down a smaller path leading away from the main road and toward a squat, moss-crowned cottage near the orchard's edge. The garden outside overflowed with herbs and shrubs both mundane and magical—feverfew, celandine, hellebore, and a few that made his witcher's sense itch with familiarity. A handful of chickens scratched lazily in the dirt nearby, indifferent to his approach.
He dismounted and knocked once on the wooden door before pushing it open. The scent hit him immediately—rich earth, dried leaves, and something faintly bitter, like crushed wolfsbane. It was not unpleasant.
Inside, the room was dim and warm, sunlight leaking through slatted shutters, catching on dust motes and the long strands of drying herbs hanging from the ceiling.
"Back door's unlocked for a reason," came a tired but sharp voice from within. "If you're wounded, sit down and don't bleed on the rugs. If you're selling snake oil, get out."
"I'm here for neither," Matteo said.
Tomira turned from a long wooden table where she had been grinding dried petals into a fine powder. Her eyes found his swords first, then his eyes, and she nodded once.
"Witcher," she said. "School of the Wolf, from the looks of you."
"Matteo," he offered. "You're Tomira?"
"I am. And you're not the first witcher to come through White Orchard in recent memory."
"I know."
She tilted her head, studying him with the same precision she gave to her apothecary work. "You're looking for someone."
"Sharp," Matteo said.
She snorted, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. "No one comes to me unless they're looking for cures or answers. And since you don't look sick…"
He stepped further inside, taking care not to knock over a bundle of bundled verbena. "I need information. You're not part of any crown or order. You help those in need. I need someone who doesn't care about politics."
Tomira didn't respond immediately. She turned back to her work, poured the powder into a small jar, corked it, and wiped her hands on a cloth. Then she faced him fully, arms crossed, expression guarded.
"Who?"
"Girl," Matteo said. "Young. Silver—ashen—hair. Emerald eyes. Scar on her cheek. Carries a sword on her back. Might've come through here recently. Paid in gold, moved light. Called herself Zira, or Zireael."
He watched her closely for any flicker of recognition. Tomira was calm, her expression unreadable for a moment longer than comfort allowed. Then she turned and walked toward a low shelf of jars and packets.
"I sell herbs to anyone with coin," she said finally. "Didn't ask her name. She didn't offer it."
"But she came here."
"She did." Tomira sighed, setting the nettle down. "A week ago. Maybe more. Late evening. Hood up, but I saw the hair. The scar. Her eyes… like wildfire trapped behind glass. She asked about white myrtle and celandine. She also bought dwarven spirit. Said she needed them for wound-packing. I gave her what she asked for and didn't press. You don't press a girl like that."
Matteo's eyes narrowed at the listed ingredients—celandine, dwarven spirit, drowner brain, provided Ciri can get one herself—those are used in the Swallow potion. It accelerated healing of wounds and could save lives, but like all Witcher potions, it was toxic to humans.
"Those are ingredients for Swallow potion." Matteo murmured, almost to himself in thought and Tomira's lips curled into an almost impressed smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Someone knows their alchemy." Tomira quipped.
Matteo ignored the quip, "She say where she was going?"
Tomira shook her head. "Didn't speak much. But she wasn't running. Not exactly. More like… moving forward before something caught up."
Matteo absorbed that. Silent for a moment. "Did anyone else see her?"
"Not that I know of. But if you've seen the flags, you know this village is a powder keg. If the Black Ones think she's tied to the old regime…" She trailed off.
Matteo looked toward the window. The banners flapped softly in the morning breeze.
"She's not a symbol," he muttered.
"No," Tomira agreed, "but people make symbols of whatever they fear. Or whatever they hope will save them."
He turned to go, but she stopped him with a word.
"She asked about monsters."
Matteo paused.
"She said she'd seen something in the woods north of here. A beast that didn't leave tracks. That moved through trees like mist. She asked if I'd heard of such a thing. I hadn't. She thanked me, and left."
North. Toward the Pontar.
Of course.
Matteo nodded once. "Thank you."
"Witcher."
He looked back.
"Be careful," Tomira said, soft now, almost hesitant. "She wasn't afraid of the monster. She was afraid of what might be chasing it."
Matteo didn't reply.
Outside, the sun was rising, bleeding gold across the edges of the world. He mounted Midnight, casting one last glance at the defiant blue-and-gold banners of a fallen kingdom. Then he turned the horse's head northward.
The road north twisted like a serpent through the hills, flanked by woods grown thick and moody with mist. The Pontar River lay ahead, its silver waters glinting in the morning light, and on its southern bank squatted the Redanian checkpoint—an ugly collection of watchtowers, barricades, and spiked wooden palisades, all bristling with steel and suspicion.
Matteo reined Midnight in at the edge of the checkpoint's reach. Red-cloaked guards moved like clockwork around the gates, some with halberds, others with bows strung and ready, their red breastplates stamped with Radovid's silver eagle in a red field. Two of them stepped forward immediately, boots crunching over gravel.
"Halt!" one barked, a tall man with a crooked nose and too much chin for his helmet. "No crossing without a valid pass. King Radovid's orders."
Matteo stayed mounted, posture calm, one hand resting idly on his saddle horn. "I'm not looking for trouble."
"Good," the guard snapped. "You bring any, you'll find plenty in return. No pass, no crossing. Don't care if you're a witcher or a bleeding archmage."
Matteo flicked his gaze around. Soldiers everywhere. Fortified towers. Crossbows positioned with full coverage of the road. Slashing his way through wasn't just foolish—it was suicidal. And he didn't have time to clean blood off his sword.
He was just about to turn Midnight around when a voice called from the left.
"Hold on."
A Redanian soldier approached from the guardhouse. Brown of hair, brown eyed, stocky build, short beard, clean armor—too clean for regular fieldwork. His stride was casual, almost lazy, but his eyes were sharp and calculating. He held a parchment folded in his gloved hand. Matteo noticed how the other guards immediately stepped back a half-step, like they knew better than to question him.
The man stopped before the gate guard, handed over the parchment with a slight smirk. "He has a pass. Special dispensation."
Crooked Nose frowned, taking the paper and unfolding it with visible suspicion. His lips moved as he read, and whatever he saw made his shoulders slump slightly. He handed it back with a grunt.
"Fine. Let him through."
The stranger turned to Matteo as the barricade creaked upward.
"Corporal Gregor," he said, offering a thin smile that didn't touch his eyes. "Walk with me."
Matteo nudged Midnight forward, dismounted once they passed the gate, and walked beside the man as they moved through the checkpoint proper. Men sharpened blades, others smoked pipes by fires. Overhead, a banner flapped in the cold wind—Radovid's sigil—the white eagle in a red field, watchful and wrathful.
Gregor spoke without looking at him. "Sigi Reuven sends his regards."
Matteo didn't react outwardly, though he felt the chill crawl deeper into his spine.
Sigismund Dijkstra. Spymaster. Puppetmaster. Former head of Redania's secret service. Now masquerading as a wealthy underworld fixer in Novigrad. Matteo had never met the man directly, but he'd heard plenty—enough to know that Dijkstra rarely moved a pawn without an entire board already laid out.
"Tell Sigi I appreciate the favor," Matteo murmured, keeping his voice low.
Gregor chuckled under his breath. "Oh, I won't be telling him anything. He already knows. He always knows."
They passed a checkpoint outbuilding, where a pair of soldiers played dice. One of them glanced up at Matteo, narrowed his eyes, and nudged the other. Gregor waved them off.
Matteo chose his next words carefully. "Since you're helping me out… maybe you've seen someone interesting pass through here recently. Traveler. Woman. Young. Petite. Ashen hair. Scar on her cheek."
Gregor didn't stop walking, didn't turn his head. But his left hand—resting near the hilt of his saber—tapped once against the pommel. Deliberate.
"Can't say for sure," he said softly, voice threading through the air like smoke. "We get a lot of travelers. Merchants. Pilgrims. Deserters in disguise. But… there was one. Rode through three days ago. No pass. Shouldn't have been allowed through."
"And?"
Gregor looked at him now, eyes glinting. "But someone in Novigrad pulled strings. Just like today. Told us to look the other way. She was alone. Hood up. Quiet. Didn't linger."
Matteo's jaw tightened, but he kept his tone even. "You let her through."
"I didn't say that," Gregor said with a sly smile. "And I didn't say she had a sword. But I've got a good memory for faces, and better for eyes. Hers… weren't normal—like emeralds if you will."
"Where was she headed?"
Gregor gave the faintest shake of his head. "Don't know. Didn't ask. Wouldn't be smart to. But I'd wager she crossed the Pontar and disappeared into the Blue Mountains. Not much up there but forgotten paths and old ghosts."
"Thanks."
"Don't thank me," Gregor said. "Just remember who gave you the pass. And that nothing's free."
They reached the far side of the checkpoint. Matteo mounted Midnight again, boots settling in stirrups, cloak falling behind him like a shadow.
Gregor stepped back, arms folding behind his back. "You're playing on a board you can't see, witcher. Be careful who you talk to. Even more careful who talks to you."
Matteo spurred Midnight forward.
The Pontar shimmered beneath the bridge as they crossed—wide and cold and swift. On the far side, the road narrowed and the woods thickened, old growth rising like watchmen over the winding path.
The road to Mulbrydale wound like a forgotten scar through the edge of the Velen woods. Matteo had not often ridden this far into the northern fringe of Velen—not because it was dangerous, but it was utterly unremarkable with not much work for a witcher other than drowner contracts. He remembered the story Coën, one of the last witchers from the School of the Griffin who spent two winters in Kaer Morhen, told how he and Narsi Sattelbach were both hired here by elder Stakhomir to hunt drowners in Mulbrydale—for the price of two crowns per drowner.
The path was more guesswork than route, a half-beaten trail hemmed in by thick pine and alder, with bare rock and twisted roots clawing through the earth. No signs. No mile markers. Just the smell of damp loam, birdsong muffled beneath the hush of the trees, and a distant sense of being watched.
By midday, clouds had gathered overhead, slate-colored and low, but the village finally emerged from behind a bend—a huddled cluster of weather-worn cottages, surrounded by stunted fields and dry-stacked stone walls that leaned inward like old men trying to hear a secret.
Mulbrydale.
If Matteo hadn't been told it existed, he'd have ridden past it entirely.
He slowed Midnight as he approached. The village was silent. No dogs barking, no children playing. A woman hung laundry by a line near the well, her hands freezing in motion as she saw the witcher. A man sharpening a scythe beneath the eave of a barn stood up slowly, one hand drifting toward the hatchet at his belt. Another stepped back inside his home and didn't come back out.
Matteo dismounted, letting the reins hang loose as Midnight huffed and pawed the damp soil. He didn't speak at first—just let them see him, see the wolf medallion swaying from his chest, the swords on his back, the unblinking gaze of a man who knew monsters when he saw them.
Only when he stepped into the center of the hamlet—where the cracked stone well stood and the wind tugged at the naked branches of a half-dead tree—did he speak.
"I'm looking for someone," he said, voice clear, firm, but not threatening. "A girl. Young. Ashen hair. Scar on her cheek. Emerald eyes."
Nothing. Only the creak of a shutter tapping against a wall and the low rustle of wind dragging itself through the fields.
He scanned the faces that lingered in doorways and shadows—worn, dirt-smudged, tired. Most averted their eyes.
Then—movement. A murmur between two older villagers near the smithy's awning. A glance exchanged too quickly.
Matteo stepped closer, boots thudding softly on the packed earth. "She was here."
A flicker of guilt rippled through the small crowd.
An older man stepped forward, his face as furrowed as the plow fields, a threadbare coat pulled tight across his shoulders. His voice was hoarse, uncertain. "Didn't give a name. Just came outta the woods one night. Looked like death had chased her to our door."
Matteo said nothing, letting the man continue.
"She asked for shelter. Said she needed warmth, food. She looked near frozen. Wouldn't say where she came from."
Another voice—thin, reedy, from a boy by the barn. "Then the dog came."
Matteo turned.
The boy flinched, but kept going, emboldened now by curiosity or the silence of the others. "Big. White—it didn't have fur. Not like a dog, really. Like it wasn't… from here. It didn't bark. Didn't growl. Just walked through the snow like it owned it. Frost followed it. Every step it took, the ground froze under it."
A pulse of tension stirred in Matteo's chest. "When was this?"
"Three nights back," the older man said, stepping forward again. "Thing took up in the barn. Wouldn't come out. Animals wouldn't go near. Then the girl—she just… walked in."
"She went into the barn? Alone?"
"She didn't ask permission," the man said, shrugging. "Didn't need to. She had that look. Like if you said no, something worse would happen. She went in, and after a time…"
"She came back out," the boy whispered. "Covered in frost. Her sword steaming in the cold. Eyes like fire."
Matteo looked past them toward the barn and activated his witcher senses. His peripheral vision blurred and everything intensified—colors, prints, sounds, trails—things regular human senses didn't pick up. The ground was patchy with mud and dead grass—but at its edges, creeping outward from the base of the wooden walls, were veins of ice. Thin, jagged lines like spiderwebs etched in frost, stubborn even against the day's weak warmth.
He crouched, touched it. Cold. Not just lingering chill. Wrong cold.
Wild Hunt.
"A hound," he muttered to himself. "Separated from the pack."
The villagers watched, silent.
"They were here," Matteo said aloud. "The Wild Hunt. Must've tried to capture her, but something went wrong. The hound got stranded. They teleported out. It was left behind."
"She killed it." the older man explained, voice hushed as he pointed toward the barn. Matteo followed him and the villagers walked behind him. Matteo's hand rested on the hilt of his silver sword and opened the barn doors, and there it was, in the middle laying in a pool of blood and frostbite, was a hound of the Wild Hunt. Matteo approached slowly and investigated the corpse with his witcher senses, with the boy who spoke up curiously looking from behind the barn doors.
"Straight cut through the jugular. Swift entry and exit. Silver sword, residue of silver in the blood. Didn't have a chance to fight back. Died within seconds of the cut." Matteo summarized, knowing that this was Ciri's doing—she remembered the lessons from Kaer Morhen well.
He rose slowly, wiping the frost from his glove, then turned back. "Where did she go?"
The villagers hesitated again. Matteo could feel the weight of something unspoken hanging in the air. Fear, awe, maybe even guilt.
Then the boy pointed. "She took the old trail. One that leads south, into the hills. No one uses it anymore. Not since the landslide."
"She said she had to find someone," the older man added quietly. "Said she didn't have much time."
Matteo nodded once. He looked south, where the hills rose like old gods, veiled in mist. The wind was rising now, cold and sharp. He mounted Midnight without another word, and the villagers drifted back into their homes, doors creaking shut behind them.
The trail twisted into the hills like a fading memory—narrow, half-swallowed by thornbrush and skeletal trees. What sunlight there was had dimmed, washed pale by clouds gathering over the mountains. Matteo rode slow, reins loose in one hand, the other resting on his thigh, senses stretched thin and taut like a bowstring.
The path bore signs of passage—small ones, subtle, but there. A broken stem. A heel print in mud half-frozen. A length of grass bent the wrong way. She was fast, and she knew how to cover her tracks—but not well enough to fool a witcher.
Still, something gnawed at the edge of his thoughts.
The birds had stopped singing.
He stopped Midnight, holding his breath. Wind stirred the pines above, and somewhere deeper into the brush, something moved.
Rustling.
Matteo slid from the saddle in one smooth motion, boots crunching softly over gravel. He drew his sword without a sound—steel whispering free from its scabbard on his back—and spun it once in his hand. Just enough to loosen his wrist, stretch the grip. The leather felt familiar beneath his fingers, worn smooth from years of use. His cat-like eyes narrowed, pupils thinning to vertical slits.
The brush trembled again.
He took a silent step forward.
Then—with a burst of snarling and crashing—they came. A pack of wild dogs, lean and hungry, yellow-eyed and fur patchy with mange. Teeth bared, low growls vibrating in their throats as they emerged from the shadows, a half-dozen strong.
Matteo didn't move.
He didn't have to.
The lead dog halted mid-snarl, hackles rising, body low. Then it met his gaze. That gaze—glowing, inhuman, predator meeting predator. The air changed. Something ancient stirred in the beasts' instincts. They knew.
They always knew.
The lead dog whined, backing up, ears flat. Another bolted entirely. The rest followed, scattering into the trees, tails tucked, paws scrabbling over roots and stone. In moments, they were gone—vanished like smoke on the wind.
Matteo watched them disappear, exhaled once, and sheathed his sword with a practiced motion.
"Smart beasts," he muttered.
The trail continued, but only for a short while longer. The air grew thinner, colder, the trees more sparse. Then—abruptly—it ended.
A cliff.
The path jutted out onto a crumbling overlook of stone and ice, and far below, the river shimmered, swollen with snowmelt and rain, dark and fast. The wind howled up from the gorge, bitter with the scent of pine and water and distance.
Matteo stepped carefully to the edge, eyes scanning the drop. Footprints. Clear in the patch of snow before the precipice. Small, light. Hers.
And then—nothing.
They ended. Mid-stride.
No sign of a stumble. No blood. No splash frozen in time.
Just absence.
He scanned the opposite shore. Too far for a jump. Steep cliffs, broken trees. A long-abandoned dock half-buried in ice downstream. If she had a boat…
Or maybe she swam.
Or maybe—more likely—she jumped through.
A portal. A blink through the worlds. Something she could do.
His fists curled slowly at his sides, leather groaning under the pressure. He turned away from the cliff, jaw tight, the cold stinging his teeth.
Every time he got close—every time—the trail snapped like thread.
"Dammit, Ciri…" he muttered under his breath.
He didn't yell. He didn't rage. Just stood there for a long moment, staring at the empty space where she'd stood, the broken footprints in the snow, the mist curling upward from the river like ghost-hands.
She was running again.
Still.
And whatever was chasing her—whatever had been chasing her—hadn't stopped.
And this wraps up our first chapter. Reviews and comments are always welcome!