"Tell me about yourself," Philippa Eilhart interrupted his thoughts. "We'll be partners for quite some time. It won't do to remain strangers like this."
"What do you want to know?" Allen asked calmly.
After all, inviting a wolf into the house was still just speculation. Philippa Eilhart's intentions were hard to read, but her nature had always been clear: to rise, and to seize power by any means necessary.
Given the scarcity of political capital, sorcerers and sorceresses often viewed each other with mutual suspicion. In her current position, betraying Tissaia de Vries wouldn't bring nearly as much benefit as remaining allied with her.
Philippa Eilhart's character was questionable, but she was without doubt a clever woman who understood timing and opportunity.
"Everything."
She withdrew her gaze from the terrace view and locked eyes with him.
"The Godslayer, Griffin Knight, Blessed Son of Melitele, a witcher favored by Tissaia de Vries, alchemy apprentice to the Crimson Fox, the youngest witcher master…"
"Honestly, I'm curious about everything."
"But I can't tell you everything." Allen met her gaze with a blank expression.
Philippa was silent for a few seconds before sighing. "Seems like we haven't established even a basic level of trust yet. I'll start, then."
She turned her gaze away, following a sparrowhawk soaring through the sky. After wandering for a moment, her eyes settled on the distant snow-covered mountains.
She stared for quite a while.
"My story's not as exciting as yours," she said suddenly. "I was born in a port town called Dennesle in Redania, the child of an ordinary fishing family."
"My father was like most fishermen by the sea—temperamental like a stormy ocean, a drunkard who beat his family."
"My mother was a simple farmwoman…"
"I lived an ordinary life in that little town for six years. Then an accident took both my parents. That's when my magical talent awakened…"
Allen raised an eyebrow, surprised that Philippa would start her story from before she awakened her magic. She was practically baring her soul, sharing the most painful parts of her past.
According to unspoken rules, both parties only needed to share recent, non-sensitive experiences to build rapport—her covert operations as a scouting sorceress, his recent battles. That would've been enough for them to understand each other's capabilities.
But starting from childhood? That showed sincerity—and also placed an unspoken expectation on him to do the same.
Of course…
There was also a high chance this story was fabricated to win sympathy from a fourteen-year-old. That seemed even more likely.
"Redania has always been a conservative country. Before I could be burned alive by ignorant villagers, Arch-mistress Tissaia de Vries saved me and brought me to Aretuza."
"Then came seven long years of dry, monotonous study and training. After leaving Aretuza, my talent in illusion and transformation magic caught the attention of the Brotherhood's inspection division. I served as an inspection sorceress for another three years…"
As she spoke, Philippa Eilhart demonstrated her abilities in the room.
Amid the faint, nearly inaudible hum from the Wolf medallion, another sparrowhawk silently joined the one soaring outside the terrace.
The new hawk darted into a flock of black ravens, startling them into cawing and scattering.
As the hawk approached the terrace, it suddenly morphed into a raven in the blink of an eye.
The raven flew into the terrace, trailing moist air with each flap of its wings—remarkably lifelike.
"Being an inspection sorceress wasn't easy," Philippa said, watching the raven land gently on her fingertip. "Rogue magic groups always find ways to dodge or deceive the Brotherhood's investigations."
"The early work was dangerous and tough, but once I learned how to combine illusion with transformation, there were few places I couldn't infiltrate."
"Your spell control is impressive," Allen acknowledged.
"Thank you." Philippa Eilhart curled her lips slightly and waved her hand.
The nimble raven that had been observing Allen froze in place, then silently dissipated like mist.
"I can also use basic offensive spells—fire and air elements—but my true strength lies in transformation and illusion magic."
"So…"
Philippa paused, her bright eyes meeting Allen's. In them seemed to be nothing but sincerity: "Now, do we have at least the most basic level of trust?"
Since she'd put it that way, Allen had no reason to refuse.
"My story isn't that exciting," he said. "Before the Trial of Grasses, I was just an ordinary apprentice born in Kaer Morhen."
"Born in Kaer Morhen?" Philippa turned in surprise. "You don't know your parents?"
"You thought I came from a noble lineage?" Allen raised an eyebrow, knowing exactly what the sorceress meant.
In the world of witchers, it was common to trace someone's excellence back to their bloodline and ancestry.
"Exactly," Philippa nodded honestly.
"No," Allen shook his head. "I was just an abandoned baby picked up by witchers."
In this day and age, an abandoned child was unlikely to have noble blood.
Philippa nodded, motioning for him to go on.
"Taken in by the witchers of Kaer Morhen, I grew up, then at the right age, entered the Trial of Choice, followed by the Trial of Grasses, and then the Trial of the Mountain..."
Allen recounted his experiences after leaving the keep in chronological order.
Of course, he only mentioned the widely known parts—most had already been turned into ballads. The taming of the Royal Griffin and the banishment of the Evil God were just briefly touched upon.
Even so, the sheer richness of what he had experienced in just over half a year left Philippa Eilhart dumbfounded.
At first, she'd kept up appearances, gently swirling her wine glass and taking small sips. But once Allen spoke of the Wild Hunt's assault during the May Festival, that glass of red wine seemed glued to her hand—never swirling again.
It wasn't until he finished that she downed the rest in one gulp, as if to steady her nerves.
"It's hard to believe all of that happened within half a year… even harder to believe you're only fourteen," Philippa swallowed the wine. "If that story isn't exciting, then what does that make mine?"
"The driest, dullest chapter of The History of Magic?"
She let out a bitter laugh.
Allen said nothing—he had perfectly achieved his goal.
If he didn't show just how capable he truly was, how could a prodigy of the Brotherhood of Sorcerers like Philippa Eilhart possibly listen to him?
Given Philippa Eilhart's "history" and the current state of the School of the Wolf, this kind of boast couldn't be limited to just once.
"A fine beginning," Philippa Eilhart stood up and looked at him solemnly.
"I'm starting to feel a bit more confident about our mission."
Allen nodded, then turned his head to gaze out toward the terrace.
Time had passed quickly—it felt like they had only exchanged a few words, yet already the sun was setting in the west.
The snow-capped peaks of the Blue Mountains, covered in snow year-round, now shimmered under the evening glow, as if gilded in molten gold.
"It's dinner time. Would you like to head down and eat together?" he suggested.
"No," Philippa Eilhart curled her lips slightly. "An owl can't exactly dine like a normal person at a long table."
"Besides…"
She looked directly into Allen's eyes:
"Do you really want me there?"
-----------------------------------
The castle hall.
The fire blazed fiercely in the hearth, but even it couldn't match the heat of the atmosphere around the long table.
Normally, the most lively time in the castle hall was during the depths of winter, when witchers returned home from their travels to pass the cold months, releasing the pressure of a year's worth of danger and wandering—with feasts and revelry that lasted through the night.
At other times, Kaer Morhen only housed a few witchers and a large group of apprentices facing the perils of the Trial of Grasses and the Mountain Trial.
With only a few witchers around, the atmosphere was usually far from lively.
Grueling training and the constant threat of death weighed heavily on the young apprentices, leaving little room for cheer. But tonight, the lively, almost blazing energy around the long table came from a crowd of unusually young faces.
And this, truth be told, was thanks to Allen.
Though the training was still just as intense, the death rate in the Trial of Grasses had dropped to nearly zero due to the use of drowner heart extract, and the Mountain Trial had been reformed by Allen as well.
With the fear of stepping into death no longer hanging over them, the apprentices no longer sat in gloomy silence during meals and rest.
Especially since…
The young witchers returning from the mountains had brought back some excellent stories.
"Countless ghouls, baring their sharp fangs, charged at me. And right behind them came a scurver, its body oozing thick yellow bile, sobbing as it moved. And then… hidden deep within the trees, watching from the shadows, was an Alghoul…"
"Do you know what an Alghoul is?"
"It's classified as a large monster in monster lore—twice the height of a man, covered in black, razor-sharp spines, and when it walks, the earth shakes…"
The storyteller lowered his voice on purpose, creating an air of suspense and danger, causing the table to fall silent—yet an eager energy simmered just beneath that quiet.
A young witcher with twin swords on his back had one foot propped on a chair, his arms waving excitedly as he painted a picture of the towering beast.
"We know, we know—what happened next?" someone at the table broke the silence, too impatient to wait.
"Did Master Vesemir take it down?"
"More likely the Captain! I remember the Captain once hunted down an Alghoul!"
"Why not Master Danthe? Didn't he return with Master Vesemir and the Captain too?"
It was clear the oak table was divided into two groups.
Seven sat clustered around the one with his foot on the chair—all dressed in standard leather armor, twin swords slung across their backs: witchers.
They crossed their arms over their chests and leaned back in their chairs, expressions either indifferent or proud.
On the other side, there were about twenty young apprentices dressed in coarse linen, unarmed. But surprisingly, these unarmed apprentices were far more excited than the witchers with twin swords on their backs.
They all leaned forward, arms pressing on the wooden table, barely sitting in their chairs.
Their chattering voices made even the flames in the fireplace flicker and tremble.
"No!" The young witcher with one foot on the chair burst out laughing. "It was us! The seven of us killed all those endless ghouls, scurvers, and even the Alghoul!"
The long table fell silent for a moment.
"You guys? Killed ghouls, scurvers, and an Alghoul?"
"Of course!" The young witcher stood proudly, hands on his hips and chin raised.
The apprentices exchanged silent, doubtful looks.
"What? You don't believe us?" The witcher frowned, eyes sharp with challenge.
"Spencer," one of the older apprentices finally spoke, "it's not that we don't want to believe you… but three months ago, you couldn't even handle a few drowners. You almost got bitten. And now…"
"Now is different from three months ago!" Spencer's face flushed as he cut in defensively.
Erni and Klar couldn't sit still either. They jumped in to back him up: "Spencer may have exaggerated the number of ghouls and scurvers, but we really did team up to take down an Alghoul."
The apprentices remained silent, still staring at them with skeptical eyes.
Though they hadn't passed the Mountain Trial yet, they had spent enough time training together to know each other well.
Going from struggling with drowners to slaying an Alghoul in just two or three months? That was a stretch—no one was that gullible.
Progress takes time. Not every witcher is a monster like the Captain.
"I… I…" Spencer's face turned even redder in frustration.
The enhancements granted by the Captain were a tightly held secret within the monster-hunting corps.
But if they couldn't talk about it, how were they supposed to prove their strength?
Go outside and fight to prove it?
Creak~
The sound of the old, unoiled door opening drew everyone's eyes toward the entrance of the hall.
Spencer looked too—then immediately beamed and waved excitedly.
"Captain! Captain, tell them—it was the seven of us who hunted the… Lady Vera?!"
The moment Vera stepped into the hall and heard that, her expression darkened instantly.
Everyone at the table stared, eyes wide, at the bold and reckless Spencer.
Those sitting near Silo and Clay quickly shifted away from him, as if afraid of getting splattered with blood.
"What nonsense are you spouting!" Allen scolded quickly.
Spencer finally realized what he had just said. His face turned pale, and he quickly apologized again and again, "I'm sorry, Lady Vera! I meant the Alghoul! We hunted an Alghoul together!"
Allen glanced at the long table by the fire and could immediately tell they were bragging.
But he didn't call Spencer out in front of everyone. He simply nodded slightly, then turned to Vera, who was casually waving her hand.
"Lady Vera, let's have dinner first and wait for Aen Seidhe—"
Before he could finish—
Boom!
A strange sound rang out. A sudden gust of wind howled outside, swirling dust and sand through the air.
An orange-red portal appeared just beyond the doors.
Francesca Findabair stepped gracefully from the portal.
Unlike in the morning, she now wore a rose-colored gown, her long hair elegantly coiled. The moment she stepped out, the roaring wind seemed to obey her command—and fell instantly silent.
"Allen!"
"Good evening, Lady Vera."
When Francesca saw Allen, her eyes immediately lit up. Only then did she notice Vera, and she gave a graceful bow.
Vera nodded slightly, looked up at the sky, then turned to Allen.
"Dinner can wait until after the alliance is signed…"
She paused. "After that, I have something to discuss with you."
.....
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