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 2 – The Tower of Her Visions

Matteo sat down on a lichen-covered stone and pulled the worn map from his saddlebag, unfurling the parchment as the wind tugged at its corners. His eyes scanned the jagged outlines of hills and rivers, following the course of the Pontar downstream from the cliff. The trail had gone cold, but the river didn't end—it wound its way to the southeast, and just across the water… there.

Lindenvale.

A speck of a village, marked by a faded dot and barely legible script. No keep. No walls. Just a scattering of homes and maybe a tavern, if one could be generous enough to call it that. It wasn't much, but it was something—and if Ciri had crossed, one way or another, she'd have needed shelter. Maybe someone had seen her. Maybe.

He rode hard. The path down to the nearest crossing was rough, and the bridge—a half-rotted collection of timbers lashed together with fraying rope—groaned with every step Midnight took. But the horse trusted him, as always, and they made it across without issue. Then he pushed east, toward Lindenvale.

When the village finally came into view, nestled in a clearing like it had grown there on accident, Matteo reined Corvin in and raised a brow.

There was a line.

A long, snaking queue of villagers standing outside a small hut just beyond the village's edge, huddled in coats and scarves, shifting impatiently on their feet. Some coughed, others groaned, and a few clutched bandaged limbs or rubbed at aching backs.

And from inside the hut, through a cracked wooden door and thin window, came the unmistakable sound of a woman's voice—exasperated, clipped, and all too familiar.

"No, Elric, your joints aren't cursed—they're old. That's what happens when you lift hay bales your whole life. Next!"

A hunched man exited, grumbling under his breath, and the next villager stepped in, holding his hat to his chest like he was entering the court of a duchess instead of a cramped one-room hut.

Matteo swung off Midnight and tied the reins to a nearby fence post, then leaned against the wooden frame of the well, arms crossed, watching.

He didn't need to look twice to know who was inside.

Keira Metz.

Sorceress. Alchemist. Once of the Lodge, once a court advisor, now…

…local healer.

He watched as villager after villager shuffled into the hut—an old woman complaining of "phantom fingers," a boy with a rash he was convinced was from a curse, a bearded man describing "throbbing behind the eyes whenever the wind blew eastward." And with each passing complaint, the voice inside grew tighter, the sighs longer.

"Drink the decoction. No, not all at once. Yes, it will taste like boiled nettle and goat. That's because it is boiled nettle and goat."

Matteo had to press a fist to his mouth to keep from laughing aloud. Keira Metz, who had once walked the marble halls of Tretogor in silks that cost more than an entire Velen harvest, now sat in a drafty shack diagnosing boils and sore backs.

A young girl stepped into the hut next, and the door swung open wide enough for Matteo to catch a glimpse—Keira, standing at a table strewn with vials and books, her golden hair piled atop her head in a messy bun, sleeves rolled past her elbows, eyes glowing with irritation. She didn't see him.

"…No, Marta, just because you dreamt you saw a black cat doesn't mean your baby is possessed. I swear to Melitele…"

Matteo shook his head, grinning now. This—this—he hadn't expected. Tracking Ciri through Velen, finding hounds of the Wild Hunt, stumbling through half-abandoned hamlets… sure. But finding Keira Metz, sorceress of refinement and elegance, besieged by toothless peasants with aching knees?

That was a gift.

He stepped up as the next villager exited, holding a small vial and nodding to himself like he'd just received a royal edict. Matteo caught the door before it closed, slipping in silently.

Keira didn't even glance up. "You'd better be bleeding from somewhere important. And I mean gushing. Because if I have to hear one more tale about spirits in the outhouse—"

"Don't worry," Matteo said with a crooked grin, leaning against the wall. "My spirits are perfectly fine. It's my ribs that might be broken from laughing."

She froze.

Then slowly turned, hazel eyes wide. Her gaze landed on him, swept over the wolf medallion, the dirty blond hair, the angular jaw, the amused glint in his yellow, feline eyes.

"…Matteo," she said, blinking. "You're alive."

"More or less."

"I thought you were dead. Or retired. Or turned into a fiend."

"Not yet. Though the last one's close, depending on how many more peasant ailments I overhear."

She stared at him for a moment longer, then dropped her hands onto her hips. "You couldn't have arrived an hour earlier and spared me from a man who thinks his cow is casting spells with her eyes?"

"I wouldn't dream of interrupting your practice. You're clearly thriving."

"Don't make me hex you."

He grinned and stepped forward, the easy camaraderie already sliding into place. "I'm looking for someone."

Keira's smile faded.

"I thought you might be."

"A girl. Young. Silver hair. Scar on her cheek. Carries a sword."

Keira's gaze didn't flicker. But something behind her eyes did.

And Matteo knew. "She was here." he murmurs as his feline eyes tracked Keira's reactions.

With a flick of her fingers, a wave of sapphire-hued light burst outward from Keira's hand. It shimmered like heat over stone, warping the very air of the humble hut. The rough timber walls bent and rippled as if they were made of water, the soot-darkened ceiling yawning open to reveal vaulted rafters of polished mahogany. The musty scent of herbs and straw vanished, replaced by the heady perfume of lavender oil and old paper. Glass orbs filled with flickering faerie light hovered into existence, casting a warm, golden glow over bookshelves that hadn't been there moments before, over a table inlaid with delicate runes, over velvet cushions and a gently simmering cauldron suspended over blue flames.

Keira exhaled through her nose and stretched her shoulders. "Much better."

Matteo stared, arms still crossed over his chest, his smirk twitching with restrained amusement. "You kept all this... hidden?"

"You think I'm about to let peasants with pox-covered hands sneeze on first-edition Grimoires of Gorthur Gvaed? I may be helping them, but I'm not insane."

"Debatable," Matteo said, strolling further inside and inspecting the now-luxurious interior with a low whistle. "You always did have a flair for illusion."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"You should." He turned, leaned a hip against her now-immaculate reading table, and grew more serious. "I'm looking for Ciri."

Keira's expression didn't change. Not at first. But her hands, busy adjusting a crystal decanter on a shelf, slowed.

"Ciri…" she repeated, voice almost casual.

"I tracked her through Mulbrydale," Matteo continued. "She killed a hound of the Hunt there. Frostbite all over the ground—clear sign she ran into one of their beasts, maybe more. Judging by the pattern, they got separated during a teleport. The villagers said she went south, followed her trail to a cliff overlooking the Pontar. No footprints beyond the edge, so she either blinked across, swam, or stole a boat. Closest village across the river was Lindenvale." His gold eyes met hers. "So I came here."

Keira was quiet for a moment. A fire popped in the hearth, the faerie lights hummed faintly overhead.

Then she sighed and stepped over to the arched window, pulling aside an illusion-draped curtain to gaze out over the fields, now basking in late afternoon sun.

"She was here," she said finally. "Three nights ago."

Matteo straightened. "Alone?"

"Yes. Exhausted, bruised, half-starved. She looked like she'd torn a hole through the world just to stay ahead of something. And judging by what you just said, she probably did."

"What did she want?"

"A place to rest. To think. She didn't speak much at first. I had to coax words out of her like a midwife pulling teeth." Keira turned back to him. "She was searching for someone. Or something. She didn't say who. Only that it was important. Vital."

Matteo's voice was low. "Did she say where she was going?"

"No," Keira said, folding her arms across her chest. "But she left in a hurry. Before dawn. Took a pack, borrowed some dried provisions, and left a letter on the table." She gestured vaguely toward a desk littered with parchment and scrolls. "Didn't say goodbye."

"She's still running," Matteo muttered. "Still fighting shadows."

"You didn't think she'd be sitting by a fire with a glass of mulled wine, did you?" Keira arched a brow.

"No," he admitted. "But I was hoping she'd be tired of running."

Keira crossed the room and plucked a scroll from the mess of the desk, unfurling it. "I can't tell you where she went, Matteo. Not because I won't—but because I don't know. She's learned how to cover her trail. Even from people like you. Like me."

Matteo pushed off the table, jaw tightening. "She's not just running from the Hunt. Not anymore. She's looking for something."

"Or someone."

The words hung between them.

Keira turned back to the scroll, scanning its contents with a flicker of disinterest before tossing it aside. "But I'll tell you this—whatever she's after, she's not ready to let anyone help her. Not yet."

"I don't need her permission to keep her alive," Matteo said. "I don't need her trust. Just her direction."

Keira studied him for a long moment.

Finally, she stepped to the far bookshelf, pulled a small, worn volume free, and from behind it withdrew a folded piece of parchment. "She didn't leave a message for you, but she dropped this." She handed it over. "It's torn. Unmarked. I couldn't make sense of it."

Matteo unfolded the scrap carefully. Faded ink. A drawing—rough, but distinct. A tower on a jagged cliff, high above crashing waves. He didn't recognize it… but something in his gut turned cold.

"She's going there," he said.

"Do you know where that is?"

"No. But I'll find it."

Keira gave him a tired smile. "Of course you will. That's what you Witchers do, isn't it?"

Matteo folded the scrap, tucked it into his coat. "That's what we do."

Then, after a pause, he added, "Thanks, Keira. For helping her."

Keira shrugged. "She's one of the few people I'd bother to care about. That, and I don't want to see the world freeze over because some skeletal bastard in armor wants her blood."

Matteo chuckled, stepping toward the illusion-wrapped door. "You're softer than you let on."

She rolled her eyes. "Get out before I turn you into a goat."

He grinned. "Not the worst curse I've had this month."

And with that, Matteo stepped through the shimmering doorway, back into the late afternoon light of Lindenvale—map in his hand, the image of the cliffside tower seared into his thoughts, and the road ahead, still full of shadows.

The great city of Novigrad rose like a smog-stained cathedral against the blood-orange dusk, its crooked towers silhouetted against a sky choked with chimney smoke and gull screeches. Matteo rode through the main gates, the guards barely sparing him a glance save for the half-curious flick of their eyes toward the wolf medallion hanging against his chest. Witchers were rare, but not enough to cause a stir—not in Novigrad, not in a place where half the population had seen a mage burned and the other half sold a potion to chase the guilt away.

Midnight, his stallion, snorted as they reached the outer stables. He dismounted and patted the beast's neck, whispering a calming word in Elder Speech before tossing a few crowns to the stablehand.

"Feed him right," he said. "And keep the reins loose. He doesn't take kindly to being tied too tight."

The stablehand nodded, already half-intimidated by the gleaming yellow eyes that pinned him like a hawk.

With that done, Matteo pulled his hood up and made his way through the cobbled streets, passing spice merchants, shouting fishmongers, and red-faced drunks being dragged into alleyways by whores and cutthroats alike. The scent of Novigrad—burned tallow, sewer rot, pipe smoke and cloves—welcomed him like an old, unpleasant friend.

He turned down a quieter street off Hierarch Square, past a shrine to Eternal Fire that had been vandalized with a crude drawing of Radovid with goat horns, and finally came to the arched stone entrance of Sigi Reuven's Bathhouse—a place that looked more like a noble's manor than a den of steam and whispers.

Matteo stepped inside, past twin guards in crimson livery, and into the scented heat of the bathhouse vestibule. It was warm, humid, almost suffocating after the winter bite outside. Exotic herbs smoldered in copper braziers, their curling smoke masking the musk of sweat and wet tile.

Behind a carved mahogany desk sat a man Matteo remembered well.

Happen the Eunuch.

Bald, round, dressed in lavender robes with gold embroidery, and bearing the faint expression of someone constantly judging the worth of your shoes.

The eunuch looked up from his ledger, lips pursed. "Welcome to Sigi Reuven's House of Restorative Pleasure and Hygienic Excellence," he said, voice as smooth and emotionless as glass. "Appointments only. If you do not have a reservation, you'll need to submit a written request—signed, stamped, and sealed. We're terribly booked for the next two weeks. Even the feet scrubbers are overworked."

Matteo stepped forward, let the hood fall back, and met the man's gaze squarely.

"I'm here for ear cleaning."

The air shifted—not visibly, but perceptibly.

Happen blinked once. The mechanical warmth dropped from his face like a mask falling off. He tapped a tiny brass bell without breaking eye contact.

The far wall shuddered with a click and then opened, revealing a passageway behind what had been a panel of false marble tile. Warm mist hissed outward. Footsteps echoed inside.

"I see," Happen said, adjusting the tilt of his record book. "Right this way, Witcher. His Excellency is… soaking."

"Of course he is," Matteo muttered, stepping through the hidden door.

The corridor curved downward, torches flickering against wet stone, the scent of mint and lemongrass thickening with every step. Soon, the muffled sound of laughter and conversation drifted through the steam, mingling with the splash of water.

The main chamber of the bathhouse opened up like a subterranean cathedral. Vaulted ceilings, gold-veined mosaics, and more naked, wealthy men than Matteo ever wished to see reclining on marble benches with fruit in their mouths.

And in the largest of the central pools—half-submerged, arms draped over the edge, and a cigar pinched between his fingers—lounged the man himself.

Sigi Reuven. Or rather, Sigismund Dijkstra—former spymaster of Redania, current master of half the blackmail in the North, and the only man in Novigrad who managed to stay fat and rich while the rest of the Continent burned.

His eyes found Matteo instantly.

"Well well," Dijkstra drawled, puffing smoke into the mist. "Didn't expect to see a wolf pup in my waters. Last I heard, you were prowling the Blue Mountains and keeping to yourself."

Matteo stopped at the edge of the pool, arms folded. "Things change."

"They do," Dijkstra said, tapping his cigar against the side of the bath. "So. You're not here for your pores. What's the code again? Ear cleaning?"

Matteo nodded.

Dijkstra smiled. "Information, then. Always a pleasure. Let me guess—you're chasing something ashen-haired and stubborn, and not a unicorn this time."

"She passed near Mulbrydale. Killed a hound of the Wild Hunt. Crossed the Pontar. Ended up in Lindenvale."

"And now she's gone again."

Matteo's silence was enough.

Dijkstra chuckled, leaned back, and gestured lazily at one of his attendants for a drink. "Funny thing, that. People think I run bathhouses and whispers. But it's the patterns I trade in. Movements. Disappearances. Little disruptions in the pond, when a stone's thrown and no one sees the hand."

"Have you seen her?" Matteo asked.

"No," Dijkstra said. "But I've heard things. Whispers, like I told you. She's been asking questions about towers. Old ones. Hidden ones. The kind that shouldn't exist."

Matteo pulled the torn sketch from his coat and unfolded it, holding it out. "This one."

Dijkstra took the paper and stared.

And for the first time, the spymaster's face changed.

Not with surprise, but with recognition.

"Well now," he said, voice low. "You're chasing ghosts, Matteo."

"Where is it?"

Dijkstra didn't answer right away. He folded the paper carefully, handed it back, and scratched his bald head in thought.

"I'll give you what I know," he said finally. "But not for free. I've got a problem. One that needs a sword. And since you've shown up asking favors—"

Matteo's voice was cold. "If this is about coin—"

"No," Dijkstra cut in, sharp for the first time. "This isn't about coin. It's about loyalty. And enemies. And the kind of danger that makes the Wild Hunt look like a tavern brawl."

He leaned forward, steam curling around his scarred shoulders, and grinned.

"You want to find her? You'll help me first."

And just like that, Matteo realized—he'd walked straight into another web. And Dijkstra never wove them without purpose.

"Happen will tell you all you need to know." Dijkstra scoffed before dismissively leaned back into his bath to soak. "Go on now." he waved Matteo off as if merely sending off a fly.

As he emerged into the vestibule, the heavy door shut behind him with a muted thud. The sharp winter air cut into his skin like glass, but Matteo didn't flinch. His breath misted before him as he paused at the top of the stairs leading down into Novigrad's lantern-lit streets.

Happen, ever dutiful and silent, stood to the side like a marble statue in lavender robes. He looked at Matteo with that perfectly neutral expression, then stepped forward and extended his gloved hand.

In it was a sealed envelope, thick and cream-colored, with a wax seal the deep blue of a twilight sky—Dijkstra's personal crest pressed into it: a swallow perched on a dagger's hilt. No name, no markings. The kind of letter meant to be read in silence and then burned.

Matteo took it without a word.

He didn't open it immediately. He turned his back to the bathhouse and descended the wide stone steps slowly, his boots clicking against the slick cobblestones. The lamplight caught the wet edges of the envelope, and for a moment he considered just tossing it into the gutter.

But he knew better.

Dijkstra never gives without taking.

He ducked into a narrow alley between two shuttered spice stalls, his gloved fingers deftly breaking the wax. The seal snapped with a dry crack, and he unfolded the paper inside, scanning the contents in the dim glow of a flickering wall lantern.

It wasn't long. Dijkstra never wasted ink.

To the Wolf Who Hunts Ghosts,

You'll find my generosity comes with teeth.

There's a ledger—an old one. Belonged to the late banker Hiram Vael, formerly a Vivaldi protégé—why a dwarf like Vivaldi would teach a human the intricacies of banking is beyond my comprehension. But before his untimely death, Vael managed accounts for half the northern nobility… and a few names that would shatter thrones if spoken aloud.

The ledger went missing. Rumor is, it's now in the possession of a Novigrad rat named Elias Trigg. Runs a small bookshop in the Bits—"The Ink Pot."

I want the ledger. Quietly. No blood. No fire. No city watch.

You deliver it to the usual drop—you know where—and I'll get you wherever you're supposed to go.

Fail, and I'll feed the information about your ashen-haired friend to every bounty hunter from here to Beauclair.

—S.R.

Matteo's jaw tightened as he reread the final line.

Not because he doubted the threat—but because he knew exactly how serious Dijkstra was. He wouldn't even need to lift a finger. One whispered word in the wrong ear, and every half-starved killer on the Continent would be looking for a girl with ashen hair, a scar on her cheek, and a sword on her back.

He folded the letter and lit it on the lantern's flame, holding it steady as the fire crawled up the parchment and turned it to ash between his fingers. When it was no more than a fragile curl of soot, he scattered the remains to the wind.

Then he looked up.

The city loomed before him, alive with firelight and the faint hum of danger.

No blood. No fire. No city watch.

Matteo rolled his shoulders, cracked his knuckles, and slipped the hood back over his head.

"The Ink Pot," he murmured to himself.

And then the Wolf disappeared into the alleys of Novigrad, chasing the favor owed—just one more shadow in a city full of them.

Matteo leaned against the corner of a soot-streaked brick wall, the hood of his cloak pulled low over his eyes, one gloved hand resting on the hilt of the silver sword sheathed across his back. The Bits was a raucous, stinking tangle of alleys and crooked houses stacked like haphazard thoughts in a madman's journal. The Ink Pot was nestled among them like a bad secret—its wooden sign faded, the pot in its emblem chipped, its window smudged with grime and yellowing from the candlelight within.

A knot of gamblers clustered not ten feet from him, their voices rising and falling with the clatter of dice and the crack of tankards. The corner was their nightly haunt—a place where coin changed hands as quickly as loyalties. They were mostly men, but a few women hovered on the edges, their laughs sharp and mocking as they egged the game on. Mud and piss soaked the cobbles beneath their boots.

"Melitele's tits!" one player bellowed, throwing his arms up as the dice came to rest. "That's the third time tonight—this die's cursed, I swear it!"

The others laughed, and then cursed Melitele in the same breath. One of them spit over his shoulder, muttering a quick prayer to her as he snatched up the cubes again. The balance of superstition and blasphemy was delicate in the Bits, and constantly shifting.

Matteo didn't laugh. He watched. Observed.

Through half-lidded eyes, he studied the shop across the narrow street.

The Ink Pot was closed—or pretended to be. The door was shut, the windows shuttered, but every so often, the faintest flicker of movement crossed the panes. Candlelight swayed. A shadow moved. Someone was inside.

Elias Trigg.

Matteo had asked around the Bits earlier, careful not to draw attention. The name wasn't well-known, but the shopkeeper who didn't sell books? That raised a few eyebrows. Apparently, the man had a knack for getting rare tomes, very rare tomes, and almost never sold them. Customers came, whispered, left with satchels. Often with guards. Never the same faces.

A drop-point. A place for secrets, not stories.

Matteo's breath fogged in the cold air as he shifted his weight, taking another slow drag of the night into his lungs. A man bumped into him—a drunk, greasy, wild-eyed. Matteo let him pass without a word, eyes still locked on the shop.

Every so often, someone passed the door, glanced, then moved on. No one tried to open it. No knocks. But then, as the dice clattered again and one man let out a victorious shout, Matteo saw something.

A young boy—no older than nine—walked up to the shop and rapped twice on the door with the back of his knuckles. Pause. Then three fast taps. He stood still, looking around, then reached into his coat and slipped a folded piece of parchment through the crack beneath the door.

The door never opened. No voice answered.

The boy turned and walked away like nothing had happened.

Dijkstra was right. This wasn't a bookshop. It was a vault. A place where information was deposited, sorted, stored. And that meant Elias Trigg would be inside, behind locked doors and shelves thick with dust and lies. Probably wards, too. Mages always liked to leave gifts on their doors, even if they couldn't legally practice in Novigrad.

Matteo stepped away from the dice players, slipping into the alley that bordered the shop. The stink of rotting vegetables and spilled oil burned his nostrils, but he moved like a shadow, quiet and precise.

He pressed his back to the cold wall, eyes on the narrow, dirty windows. Somewhere in there was the ledger. And Elias. He could try to sneak in. Pick the lock. Or wait for the shop to open to the next client and slip in behind them.

But something told him that Trigg wasn't a man who took chances with open doors.

No blood. No fire. No city watch.

That was the rule.

And rules, Matteo had learned, were only as strong as the man who wrote them. He reached beneath his coat and pulled out a small vial—dull green, the color of bile and thistle. He held it up to the moonlight. Fog Dancer. A gift from a Zerrikanian alchemist. When shattered, it would cloud the room with a harmless mist. Harmless—but blinding. He pocketed it again, then checked his other tools. Small lockpicks, looped into the inside of his glove. A sliver of dimeritium—a precaution, in case Trigg had any magical tricks laced into the floorboards. The moon hung low and bloated above the Bits, veiled behind drifting clouds like a lazy eye peering down on Novigrad's filthiest secrets. Matteo waited in the alley, still and quiet as carved stone, watching the shop's windows like a hawk watching a rabbit's hole. Time dragged its heels. The gamblers eventually broke up, stumbling home or into deeper sin, and the street began to empty. Quiet crept in, slow and heavy.

At last, the lights in The Ink Pot flickered.

One candle extinguished.

Then another.

Inside, shadows moved—slow, like someone making final rounds, tidying up. Matteo could see the faint silhouette of a tall, gangly man with a limp. Elias Trigg, no doubt. He paused at the window, perhaps to check the lock, perhaps to peer into the street.

Matteo stayed completely still, barely even breathing.

The figure vanished again. More movement—then nothing.

A minute passed. Then two.

Matteo exhaled through his nose and moved.

He hugged the wall of the alley, boots silent on damp cobblestones slick with the runoff of the city's filth. His gloved hand found the rear entrance to the bookshop, a small oaken door warped slightly by time and rain. He crouched before it and reached into his belt pouch, retrieving the lockpicks. Two thin needles, delicate as hair, but stronger than steel.

He slid them into the keyhole.

Click.

The door groaned, just slightly—Matteo winced and froze—but the street remained silent.

He slipped inside.

The interior was darker than the alley. A single candle guttered far across the room, atop a desk crowded with ledgers, scrolls, tomes, and ink pots filled to the brim with clotted black. The air smelled of old vellum, mold, and candlewax. Shelves towered to the ceiling, sagging under the weight of forgotten knowledge, their spines cracked, their pages whispering in the draft like gossiping spirits.

Matteo closed the door behind him softly.

He stayed in the shadows near the wall, his footsteps soundless on the wood floor. The glow of the candle illuminated the edge of a staircase leading to a mezzanine above—living quarters, likely. And somewhere among all this mess… the ledger.

He didn't bother searching the shelves. Dijkstra wouldn't trust that sort of item to be left out in the open. Elias Trigg would keep it close. Protected.

He crept forward toward the candlelight—and heard it. A low, rhythmic breath. A snore, faint and reedy.

Trigg had fallen asleep at his desk.

Matteo peered around a stack of books—and there he was.

Elias Trigg. Mid-forties, pale and pinched like a man who hadn't seen the sun in years. Wisps of oily hair clung to his temples. One of his hands rested atop a thick book, bound in dark leather, with a bronze clasp—the ledger. Matteo didn't need a title to know it. His gut told him, and his gut rarely lied.

He took a step forward.

Then another.

One board creaked.

Trigg stirred, his head jerking up, eyes blinking rapidly behind thick spectacles.

"What the hell—?" he rasped, reaching instinctively toward the book.

Matteo moved like lightning. His hand came up, not to draw steel, but to smash the vial he'd readied earlier.

Fog Dancer.

Glass shattered, and the green mist erupted in a burst, coating the room in a thick, swirling fog. Trigg let out a strangled yelp, coughing and stumbling back from the table, knocking over the ink pot. It splashed across the floor in a black pool.

"Who's there? Guards! Guards!"

But Matteo was already over the desk, sweeping up the ledger, shoving it beneath his cloak. Trigg's coughs echoed as he flailed blindly through the mist.

"Don't kill me—please—I've no coin!"

Matteo's voice came from the fog, low and calm. "Not here for your coin, Elias. Just borrowing something."

"What—what is this? You're one of his, aren't you? Tell Sigi I don't have it! I don't—!"

"Liar," Matteo muttered, already backing toward the door.

Trigg charged blindly, tripping over a chair. Matteo slipped past him like a ghost, weaving through the swirling mist toward the rear. He opened the door and stepped into the night.

Cold air hit his face like a slap. The fog spilled out behind him, curling like fingers in the dark.

He didn't run. He didn't need to. The street was still quiet, and the city watch wouldn't come over a panicked shout from the Bits—not unless fire was involved. Dijkstra's rule: no blood. No fire. No city watch.

He followed it to the letter.

Matteo cut through the alleys, tracing his way toward the drop point Dijkstra had mentioned in his letter—an abandoned grain warehouse near the docks, used once by smugglers, now by spies.

When he reached it, he entered the back door, left the ledger on the table beneath the hanging lantern, and stepped back into the night without a word. He stood still for a few seconds, before a cloaked man emerged from an alleyway, coughed and dropped a folded parchment from his cloak before nodding and leaving hastily. Matteo picked up the parchment and unfolded it, the handwriting being unmistakeably Dijkstra's. He didn't say much but he told him what he needed to know.

Skellige.

—S.R

The city roared on behind him. But his eyes were now set the coast. Toward Skellige. Toward the tower that haunted Ciri's sketch. And the winds were already beginning to change.

The wind off the Pontar smelled of fish, smoke, and old metal—typical Novigrad. Matteo stood at the edge of the dock near the merchant quarter, hood drawn up against the evening chill, watching as cargo was loaded onto a turquoise and white-sailed sloop bearing Dijkstra's mark—a yellow owl. That was his ship—the one Reuven had arranged, payment for the ledger. Sleek, fast, with a shallow draft that could slip through the Skellige Isles with ease.

He rubbed the stubble on his chin, brow furrowed in thought.

The ship was ready.

But he wasn't.

The Free City of Novigrad, for all its lawlessness, didn't allow just anyone to board outbound vessels—especially toward Skellige, where tensions with Nilfgaard had flared like dry tinder under a forge. You needed a pass, stamped by the merchant guilds or sanctioned by one of the city's criminal regents. Not that they were ever called that, of course. But everyone knew the truth.

And Matteo had already played his card with Reuven.

Going back to Dijkstra again would mean another favor. One ledger had cost him a sliver of his soul. A second debt? He might as well shackle himself to the man permanently.

So that left two others.

Cleaver—a dwarven gang boss with a penchant for bloodletting and blunt talk. Dealing with him meant being dragged into a war against the other gangs, possibly setting half the city on fire in the process. Matteo had no time for turf wars and territorial pissing matches. Not while Ciri was out there, one step ahead, possibly hunted, possibly hurt.

That left Francis Bedlam.

The King of Beggars.

An informant king. Whisper broker. Man of a thousand eyes in every crack of Novigrad's cobblestones. More subtle than Reuven. Less explosive than Cleaver. Still dangerous.

But Matteo could work with dangerous. He was dangerous, too.

So he turned from the docks and headed into the heart of the city's rot.

The Putrid Grove had no sign. No doors. It wasn't marked on maps, and asking for it outright could get you stabbed or robbed—or worse, invited. The entrance was through a butcher's shop in Crippled Kate's alley, down a staircase hidden behind a wall of smoked hog carcasses.

Matteo passed the alley's flickering oil lanterns and slipped into the shop like a shadow. The butcher barely glanced up from his cleaver, his apron soaked in blood.

Without a word, Matteo pushed open the cold room door and stepped inside. The scent of rot and salt meat hit him hard. In the back, between hanging pork ribs and stringy rabbits, was the narrow stone stair.

As Matteo approached the shadowed entrance to the Grove, he became acutely aware of the eyes on him. Figures moved silently in the periphery, melting into the darkness with practiced ease. The King of the Beggars' men were watching, their presence more felt than seen.

When Matteo reached the makeshift gate—a repurposed iron grate reinforced with timber—two guards stepped out to block his path. Both were clad in patched leather armor, their faces obscured by scarves. One carried a halberd, the other a short sword.

"Stop right there," the halberd-wielding guard barked, holding out a hand. "The Grove doesn't take kindly to strangers. State your business."

Matteo approached closer, his movements deliberate and unhurried. He stood tall, his golden, cat-like eyes catching the faint torchlight and glinting eerily. "I have business with—" He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice to a whisper. "Bedlam."

The name hung in the air like a challenge.

The guards exchanged a sharp glance, their postures stiffening. Few dared to refer to the King of the Beggars by his given name. To know it was one thing; to use it was another entirely.

"Wait here," the second guard muttered before slipping through the gate and disappearing into the shadows beyond.

The first guard stayed behind, his hand tightening on the shaft of his halberd as his eyes flicked nervously between Matteo and the surrounding streets. It was clear the guard was uneasy, though whether it was because of the witcher himself or the audacity of naming Bedlam outright, Matteo couldn't tell.

The witcher stood silently, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. The quiet tension stretched as the moments dragged on. Matteo could feel the eyes of more hidden watchers on him, waiting for him to make a wrong move.

After several minutes, the gate creaked open again, and the second guard returned. He gave Matteo a brief nod, his expression unreadable. "Come right through. Bedlam will see you."

Matteo didn't respond, simply stepping forward through the gates as the guards stepped aside.

He walked in silence.

The deeper he went, the stronger the scent of damp earth and mildew became, until it opened into the Grove—a vast underground sprawl of hovels, makeshift stalls, and flickering torches nailed to brick walls. Beggars with milky eyes and children with stolen bread darted through the filth and steam. Herbalists peddled tinctures beside smiths hammering out knives too thin to ever be legal.

He passed a trio of elves whispering over a chessboard, a one-eyed dwarf drinking from a hollowed-out skull, a merchant cleaning up his wares.

This was the city beneath the city.

And its king sat on no throne.

Matteo found Francis Bedlam inside what had once been a small chapel, its walls blackened from smoke, its altar now piled high with documents, knives, half-burnt scrolls, and at least one elven skull. The man himself sat behind the mess, reclining on a weathered chair with stuffing leaking from the arms.

He looked up as Matteo approached.

"Ah. The Wolf Cub," Bedlam said, his voice smooth as oil on stone. His eyes, bright and too clever, flicked over Matteo like weighing silver. "Been a long time since Kaer Morhen spat out a new one. Didn't think you Wolves ever left your frozen pisshole unless it was for coin or trouble."

"I've found both," Matteo said simply.

Francis gestured lazily toward a stool opposite his desk. "Sit. Or don't. I'm a busy man, but I love interruptions. Especially from people with interesting eyes."

Matteo sat, back straight, hands resting on his thighs.

"I need a pass," he said. "To leave Novigrad. Ship's ready. Just missing the blessing of your fine, free city."

"Ah." Bedlam leaned back, laced his fingers behind his head. "Reuven already greased the dock. So I'm guessing you owe him. Can't go back, not yet. And you're smart enough to stay out of Cleaver's beard-plucking madness."

"I need it quiet. No strings. No burning buildings behind me."

Francis chuckled. "You Witchers. Always want the world to pay in silence."

Matteo pulled something from his coat—a folded sketch of the tower Ciri had drawn. He set it on the desk without a word.

Bedlam raised a brow.

"Interesting architecture."

"She passed through Velen. Then crossed water. The trail points toward Skellige. This tower—it's tied to her. I don't know how yet. But it means something."

Francis studied the drawing for a long moment, drumming his fingers.

"That tower…" Bedlam said, almost absently, but his tone had changed—no longer sardonic, but something softer, speculative. "It's elven, you know. The stonemasonry."

Matteo stopped mid-step. He turned slightly, eyes narrowing.

"You're certain?"

Francis gestured lazily, twirling one finger in the air. "I've lived a long time, Wolf. Longer than most of the noble swine up there in their marble towers. And I read—yes, shocking, I know. A crime in Novigrad's lower rungs." He reached into a pile beside the desk and pulled out a thin, weathered book bound in deep green hide. "The tower's symmetry, the sharp angular curvature of the spire, and the way the base arcs into the earth? That's not human work. It doesn't sit like a human building. It grows out of the stone like it was meant to be part of the land. That's Aen Seidhe craftsmanship."

Matteo returned slowly, stepping back toward the desk, brow furrowed. "You can tell all that from a sketch?"

Francis's grin returned, but it wasn't mocking this time—it was proud. "A sketch is just another kind of map. You learn how to read between the lines. And your girl—Zireael—she didn't just draw the tower. She drew the way it felt. The scale. The symmetry. The way it leans, ever so slightly, to the right, which tells me the foundation was shaped by magic more than mortar."

He flipped open the book and showed Matteo a page etched with a faded ink drawing—a tower very similar to the one Ciri had sketched, with annotations scribbled in a tongue that wasn't Common.

"Ancient Aen Seidhe fortresses. This one's believed to have been a gateway—between worlds, realms, whatever you want to call them. Now… your tower isn't this one. But the bones are there. Which means you're chasing something much older than mere stone."

Matteo studied the page, jaw tight, the weight of what Francis was saying coiling in his stomach. "Gateway?"

"To another sphere. Another time. Another… possibility," Francis said, voice lowering. "The elves were mad for those sorts of things. Not all of them survived the Conjunction. Some believe they built structures that let them escape."

Matteo looked down at Ciri's sketch again.

It had always felt urgent—driven, scrawled with care but speed. Now it felt like a cry for help.

Francis was watching him closely. "Your girl isn't just running from the Wild Hunt. She might be running to something."

Matteo folded the sketch and slid it back into his coat. "Then I'll find out what. And I'll find her."

Francis leaned back again, folding his hands across his chest. "I don't doubt it. Just remember, Witcher… the elves carved paths through the world most humans never even dared to look at. If she's using them—if she's walking those paths—you'd best start looking at the world sideways."

Matteo's brows furrowed at Bedlam's words. "Come again?" he asked as his eyes studied Francis Bedlam, the King of the Beggars—a man who ruled over Novigrad's lowlife, but was more well-read than most of the city's nobles.

"You're chasing a ghost. People do that in this city. Usually ends with them face-down in the canal, or nailed to a wall by the Temple Guard." He looked up, his eyes sharp. "But you… you aren't the usual idiot."

"No," Matteo said. "I'm a Witcher."

"That you are." Francis sighed, reached into a drawer, and withdrew a sealed scroll bound with twine and an official-looking wax mark—a merchant's seal. Smuggled, but real.

He handed it across the desk.

"Here's your pass. No questions asked."

Matteo took it, nodding. "And the cost?"

Francis gave a wolfish smile.

"Someday, I'll need a favor with a monster that bleeds more than red. When that day comes… you'll come running. Until that day, consider this a gift from the King of the Beggars."

Matteo stared at him a moment, then stood. "So long as it doesn't involve Dijkstra."

"Oh, no." Francis's grin widened. "When that time comes, it'll be far more entertaining than politics."

Matteo tucked the pass away and turned to leave.

The King of Beggars' voice followed him out like smoke.

"Careful in Skellige, Wolf. The winds there don't just howl. Sometimes they whisper your name."

Matteo inclined his head, quietly absorbing the words. Then, without another sound, he turned and walked back into the twisted arteries of the Putrid Grove, the echo of Francis Bedlam's words lingering like incense behind him.

And this wraps up the second chapter of our story! It's disheartening to see that this story isn't getting enough support, but whatever. Comments and reviews are always appreciated!