The burning red dress disappeared into the darkness around the corner of the castle.
Not long after, a flicker of orange-red light flashed from the terrace on the third floor of the northern tower.
There was no telling when he might meet that once-arrogant elven princess again.
"No wonder dinner was so lavish, with white candles lit—so it was a farewell feast."
The atmosphere Francesca Findabair created left a faint trace of reluctance lingering in Allen's heart. But farewells in the world of witchers were just like that.
He still remembered in the original tale, the White Wolf, Geralt, once took on a contract at Cape Bremervoord, entangled in the love affair between a duke and a mermaid named Sh'eenaz.
The contract failed due to the selfishness of both parties, yet at the banquet, Geralt met a female bard nicknamed "Little Eye."
She was beautiful, with thick, dark golden hair, eyes bright as stars, and a singing voice more melodious than a nightingale.
She shielded Geralt from the duke's harsh demands, helped him fulfill the contract with ancient, difficult-to-understand language, treated his wounds, bandaged him, and even stood up to the duke…
Geralt, unsurprisingly, accepted "Little Eye'" love.
They shared a wonderful journey of adventure, but after parting, they never met again. Because "Little Eye" died four years later during a smallpox outbreak in Vizima.
That farewell had been forever.
"Don't think like that…"
Allen looked up at the solitary moon hanging in the sky, shaking off the ominous thoughts in his head.
"Enid is not some fragile human bard. She's Aen Seidhe, one of the mountain folk, a gifted elven princess born with strong magical talent. One day she'll become the elven duchess… and queen."
"We'll see each other again soon…"
He tried to convince himself—the elf queen who would live on till the end of the tale, safe and sound, wouldn't meet some pathetic end under the hooves of a warhorse like a farmer from a random Kaedwen village.
But the bad news from the elven camp still left him feeling inexplicably uneasy.
Still, he'd already given his warnings. All he could do now was hope that Francesca Findabair and Sadia, the leaders of the free elves, would heed his words and remain alert.
Hopefully, that unease was just his imagination.
But…
Would everything really turn out as he hoped?
No one knew.
-----------------------------------
It was late at night. Erni, Klar, and the others were surely fast asleep by now. The sudden increase in loyalty would have to be investigated tomorrow.
Allen didn't return right away. Instead, in the quiet of the night, he wandered restlessly along the main road—past the training field, the witcher apprentices' dormitory, and the castle gate.
He was thinking about how he should handle things tomorrow with Vera and Sol.
Planning to find Fred in the morning, teach him the "Battle Roar: Wild Speech" to awaken the talent he inherited from the Leshen, ask about the spike in loyalty, then choose fifteen new recruits for the Witcher Corps from among the apprentices and devise a fresh training plan…
Planning to meet Mary and Yennefer by noon to gauge the progress of these future top sorceresses.
Planning to avoid Philippa Eilhart in the afternoon and slip into a remote cave—or maybe Old Speartip's lair—to use this month's Conjunction of Spheres, slay the invading large monster, and push his stats to their limits once again…
Then head to the Elemental Ring, to the rock trolls' camp, and see how Stonehill and the Big Stone family were doing. Had the metal trolls blended in?
In no time, he had packed tomorrow's schedule to the brim—full and efficient.
But the more he planned, the more the irritation in his heart burned—like a volcano building and building, always just a breath away from eruption.
The damp mountain breeze was chilling to the bone.
Kaer Morhen had never felt as suffocating as it did now.
The towering walls on both sides cast long, heavy shadows, weighing down on him, pressing him into this narrow, confining space.
It was inferior not just to Ellander, but even to the Temple of Melitele on Mount Mahakam.
Though, perhaps that was only natural.
One lap. Two laps. Three laps...
Allen, growing increasingly agitated, circled Kaer Morhen several times. Yet the frustration still clung to him, and in the end, he returned to the southern tower of the castle. Suddenly, he felt like talking to someone.
But it was already late. The alchemy lab on the second floor was dark—Mary had probably gone to bed long ago.
Besides, considering what happened at noon, it didn't seem appropriate to wake her.
As for Sol, Vera, or Enid… there didn't seem to be anything he could talk to Mary about regarding them. Nothing he could talk to anyone about.
After some thought, Allen sighed softly and climbed to the third floor, returning to his quarters.
"Creak~"
He pushed open the door.
The scent of rose and bay leaves wafted through the air.
Under the flickering candlelight, the room was filled with steam and a faint haze.
"Are you really planning to stay here the whole time?"
Allen closed the door and looked, speechless, at Philippa Eilhart—reclining in the wooden tub, her head tilted back and eyes closed, completely naked and completely at ease.
She really didn't hold back at all.
"Of course," Philippa Eilhart opened her eyes lazily. "The rector rarely gives me a field assignment."
"Breaking into Ban Ard and rescuing Hen Gedymdeith requires us to have extraordinary coordination."
"And coordination must be cultivated. That means day and night, every minute, every second—we must be together."
Allen rolled his eyes. "Don't make it sound so suggestive, as if there's anything between us."
"We're just temporary partners."
"And I doubt Ms. Tissaia de Vries intended for you to 'cultivate coordination' this way."
"Also, I'm a normal man. Can't you at least show a bit of modesty?"
"Splash—"
Water sloshed.
Philippa Eilhart slowly raised her long, pale arm, turning to rest it along the edge of the wooden tub. Clear water trickled down her smooth skin.
Her fair, delicate body was barely visible beneath the surface of the steaming water.
Her flushed, elegant face rested on the back of her hand, radiating an alluring charm.
"Modesty?" Philippa Eilhart said provocatively. "You're just a little boy who doesn't even understand love. What am I supposed to be afraid of?"
"Or are you the one who's scared?"
Normally, Allen would have raised an eyebrow, stripped without hesitation, and shown her what a man was—as opposed to a boy.
But right now, he had no energy to rise to Philippa's provocation.
"Do as you like."
Feeling irritable and in no mood for further trouble, Allen didn't even bother with the bed, didn't remove his armor. He just picked a corner, sat cross-legged, and began meditating.
This made Philippa Eilhart frown deeply.
She hadn't actually intended to push things further.
Sure, Allen was good-looking—with a pair of exotic, feline-like blue eyes that held a wild charm that would tempt any female sorceress.
But she was never someone who acted on a whim.
Even after going without intimacy for a long time, she would never seek comfort from just any man who seemed passable.
Perhaps many other sorceresses might behave that way—but never her.
Philippa Eilhart desired a union of both body and soul only with someone powerful enough—someone who, in terms of authority, wealth, or influence, must stand at the very top of the world in at least one of those aspects.
Well… a woman would be acceptable too.
Allen might have that potential one day, but right now, he was still too young—still not enough. And besides, witchers had always had low ceilings when it came to power, wealth, and influence.
At best, they could become a grandmaster of a witcher school, a guest of kings.
But what did that really amount to?
There were countless people who could become favored by kings—even bards without a shred of strength, who merely sang a few popular songs, could earn such favor.
Still, it would be wrong to say she wasn't acting deliberately.
After her plan yesterday to intimidate him using polymorph magic had failed, Philippa Eilhart had acknowledged his strength and vision—but she had not given up her struggle for dominance.
Rescuing Hen Gedymdeith was no simple matter. For various reasons, she couldn't refuse. But to have control over one's own life was always the ideal position.
Besides…
This little witcher was far too insulting!
He was like this yesterday, and now today he ignored her again.
The more she thought about it, the more her blood boiled with fury.
There wasn't a single sorceress who didn't care about her appearance—and to be ignored was the greatest provocation.
Splash~
She stood up from the wooden tub, hot water cascading down her graceful and statuesque figure, splashing onto the surface.
The breeze brushed past, calming Philippa Eilhart a little as she stepped out of the tub, flustered and angry.
Allen hadn't done anything—he had merely ignored her. What could she use against that?
She glanced at Allen, who was sitting cross-legged with eyes closed, and after a moment's thought, chanted a few incantations and raised her hand, summoning a bathrobe to cover her elegant body.
Seeing that the medallion of his school trembled faintly while the witcher remained completely unmoved in his meditation, Philippa Eilhart raised an eyebrow, made a subtle gesture with her right hand, and gave a slight flick.
A black venomous scorpion, gleaming with a metallic sheen, quietly emerged from beneath her robe. It crept soundlessly across the soft dark-red carpet, heading straight toward Allen.
Philippa Eilhart focused all her attention, even adding a few movements to create a bit of noise as a distraction.
The scorpion continued its silent approach.
…Four meters… three… two… one…
Philippa Eilhart grew more and more nervous, her heart pounding wildly.
Just as the scorpion's front legs crept up onto the witcher's boot, she quickly averted her gaze, not wanting to trigger his keen senses.
"Just like that… a little further… just a bit more…"
Muttering anxiously in her mind, Philippa Eilhart mentally gauged the distance. Then, as a breeze brushed past her damp hair, she caught something out of the corner of her eye.
And at that very moment --
Philippa Eilhart's heart froze in terror…
The witcher who had been meditating cross-legged in the corner—had vanished!
"Huh?!!"
She was stunned for a second, then felt a sudden chill at her jaw.
A piercing cold spread from her tailbone up to her scalp.
Her entire body went rigid. Looking down, she saw a small segment of a silver-white sword tip emerging from the side of her neck, gleaming with cold light.
She slowly turned her head, ever so slightly, and in that instant, met a pair of indifferent, icy blue bestial eyes.
In that moment, the chill in her heart intensified.
It was as if Death had extended His bony finger, gently toying with her heart.
The silk robe she had hastily thrown on slipped from her shoulders with her stiff movement and fell to the damp floor.
Melitele above…
What kind of eyes were those?!
Even the word "ice" wasn't enough to describe the cold that emanated from those eyes.
Philippa Eilhart felt as if she were staring directly at Death itself.
Those eyes—detached and sharp as blades—slid away from her face and glanced downward, as though cutting into her with just a look.
There wasn't a trace of human emotion in them.
"You can stay here," he said indifferently, "but don't play these petty tricks."
"I'm in a very bad mood right now. A wise person wouldn't provoke me at a time like this."
"Philippa Eilhart…"
"I ask you…"
"Are you a wise person?"
The threat of death made Philippa Eilhart instinctively tremble.
Rationally, she knew that Allen wouldn't kill her just because he was in a bad mood—not after already offending Ban Ard and the Rissberg Group's Civil Cooperative Organization. Killing her would mean offending Aretuza as well.
But staring into those frigid, beast-like eyes… she wasn't so sure anymore.
Every organ, every nerve, every cell in her body was screaming: You'll die! You'll die! You'll die!
"I… I… I am…"
She squeezed the words out from the back of her throat, barely audible.
"Good," the witcher said, sheathing his blade. "I hope you are."
Even after he had put away his longsword, Philippa Eilhart found herself unable to move under those cold, cat-like eyes.
Not until…
He gave her one last glance—then walked past her without any defense, returning to his corner. There, he sat down cross-legged and closed his eyes to meditate.
Only then did she seem to regain control over her body.
What… was that…
Philippa Eilhart stared in horror at the boy in the corner—only fourteen, eyes now shut—as if she were looking at a monster.
A monster that held absolute power over her life or death.
She took thirteen deep breaths before she could reel in her scattered thoughts. Then, suddenly, her legs gave out slightly—and she felt something else.
A blush rose uncontrollably on her face.
All of her earlier laziness and ease vanished.
Hurriedly, she returned to the tub.
Only once her curvaceous form was completely submerged in the warm water did she begin to feel somewhat composed again.
Gazing at the witcher in the corner, Philippa Eilhart bit her lower lip and gathered the fragments of her pride.
Finally, she summoned the courage to ask: "Why are you in such a bad mood?"
"Tell me—I might be able to help you…"
After a long silence—so long she thought he might've fallen asleep—came a faint, weary sigh that echoed through the empty room: "You can't help… no one can…"
"If you don't say it, how do you know it can't be solved?" Philippa Eilhart's eyes lit up as she pressed him further.
But this time…
After another long silence—came only silence.
Silence deeper and lonelier than the night outside the balcony.
.....
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