"You don't look surprised."
It was a statement, not a question.
The elven sorceress's gaze fell upon his face.
He knew her perception—at this very moment, she must be prying into the shape of his wandering spirit. From there, she could sense his emotional shifts.
"Yes, I did know."
Allen nodded lightly. At the end of his vision, the path ahead was blocked by bookshelves or wooden racks of some other use, obscuring what lay within.
He thought for a moment, then turned to meet the sorceress's eyes without concealment: "I've been to the divine realm of Melitele."
"The harvest fields of golden wheat, the land of plenty—yet at the edges condensed a biting, icy-blue frostlight. A single careless glance, and your thoughts would freeze, your soul would stagnate."
"So yes, I've long known that the White Frost had already descended—or at least was exerting Its influence."
"I just didn't realize It would bring about such a vast… catastrophe so soon."
The elven sorceress was stunned for quite some time by his words.
Even Allen, a witcher who knew nothing of 'mental compulsion spells,' could feel her turbulent emotions.
It wasn't only shock at him having entered a divine realm—it was also fear.
Only after a long pause did she take a deep breath, forcibly steadying her heart: "No wonder you're the Child of Miracles—to be invited by a god to wander through the divine realms, and you speak of it so lightly."
After voicing her awe, she couldn't help but look into Allen's eyes, curiosity flickering: "Why did It invite you?"
Invite?
Melitele hadn't invited him at all. He had barged in unbidden, "kicking down the door" through dream-communion with the gods.
But the details didn't matter. Allen only pressed his lips together indifferently, and said: "Because I saved Ellander from the Wild Hunt, from the specters that besieged the city."
"And afterward, due to certain reasons, I was cursed by an evil god, so I went to Her realm to lift the curse."
When he mentioned the Wild Hunt, he deliberately watched the sorceress's expression—but found not the slightest reaction.
The Aen Seidhe seemed to have severed all ties with their kin, the Aen Elle—she didn't even recognize who the Wild Hunt truly were.
"The divine realms aren't places anyone can just enter," Ida Emean's gaze carried layered meaning. "Every mortal who has set foot in a god's realm can be called a saint."
"Defending a single city isn't nearly enough. And as for lifting a curse—there are countless ways a god could manage that."
Clearly, she didn't believe his explanation.
Allen opened his mouth, wanting to argue—that curse of the evil god was no ordinary one, and at that time, even Melitele had been nearly cut off from the world by the White Frost.
But the amount of explanation such matters required was immense, and besides, the mission Melitele entrusted him with—the expanded Conjunction of the Spheres—was not something he could share.
So he simply kept silent, letting Ida Emean imagine what she would. It did him no harm.
The sorceress didn't press further. She only gave a slight smile and returned to the main subject: "Melitele is the oldest among the human deities."
"She was born in an age when the Mountain Folk and humans shared their closest ties, and She witnessed the Great Cataclysm in its entirety."
"She wasn't as near the battlefields as Kreve, the war god, of course."
"But even so, it's impossible that She remained entirely ignorant of the Great Cataclysm…"
"And since She even told you of the White Frost eroding Her realm, She clearly had no need to hide the Cataclysm from you."
"You're certain She never mentioned it?"
The sorceress pressed once more.
"No," Allen shook his head. "You could see it clearly—She knew nothing of the Mountain Folk's history, at least not the part concerning the Great Cataclysm."
"Otherwise She wouldn't have deliberately cut Herself off from the world. She would have ended up like your Sun God—only when the day of His fall came would the truth be revealed, and by then, it would bring calamity upon all."
Hearing this, Ida Emean lowered her head, brooding silently for a long while before finally speaking: "Perhaps Their forgetting was the antidote found within the Cataclysm itself—what allowed Them to escape the Frost."
"But clearly, it didn't work…"
"No—it did work." She suddenly contradicted herself. "The Aen Elle uprising was already a century ago. And in this past hundred years, no deity of any race has suddenly fallen."
"It's just that forgetting could only delay, not prevent. In the end, They nearly ensnared Themselves in Their own cocoon…"
Allen furrowed his brow. As he listened, a sudden thought struck him—What if Melitele had done it deliberately?
Perhaps, as Ida Emean said, She sealed away—or outright abandoned—Her memories of the Cataclysm.
To avoid that very connection in memory—like how invoking a god's name draws Their attention—lest the White Frost fasten Its fangs upon Her.
But maybe the deliberate severing from the world wasn't a side effect of forgetting.
Perhaps She hadn't faded from the mortal sphere because She forgot the White Frost.
Rather, Melitele had known the fate of the elven gods, and the precipice of ruin that fate brought upon Her people—and devised a strategy.
Before surrendering all memory, She ensured the temples and the world would gradually grow apart.
When the bond between gods and mortals was no longer so close, then the death of a god would not shake the human world the way it had shattered the elves—no chain reaction of god → priest → faithful → worldly power.
No catastrophe that could bring a dominant race to its knees, leaving it on the brink of extinction.
And perhaps it wasn't just Melitele—Freyja, Kreve, they all seemed to have done the same.
The influence of priests of every deity across the continent was steadily dwindling.
Most priests of the true gods now remained within their temples, seldom wandering as ascetics or spreading the faith abroad.
Far from what the epics described…
The priestesses of Melitele blessed the land, enriching the soil and ensuring bountiful harvests year after year.
Kreve's paladins of retribution wielded a holy hammer in their left hand to smite evil, while their right hand turned the pages of sacred scripture to guide mortals onto the righteous path.
Allen had never even seen a priestess of Melitele outside of Ellander.
As for Kreve's paladins, he had only heard of them in stories.
In truth, he had never once witnessed a priest of any righteous god personally cleansing monsters that plagued humankind.
Yet, this should have been the easiest way to earn the people's faith and secure a record of divine deeds. Instead, the task had been handed over to witchers.
And it wasn't as if the priests lacked the power to do so.
After receiving divine grace, Ianna had, with a single hymn deep in the Mahakam Mountains, strengthened nearly a thousand people, giving even simple farmers the courage to face grotesque ghouls without fear.
That kind of power— even if weakened several times— was still overwhelming.
And Melitele was not even a war deity. If it had been Kreve's priests instead, what kind of miracle, what kind of spectacle would divine magic have brought forth?
If priests truly took on the work of purging monsters, would witchers even be needed?
Allen shared these thoughts with Ida Emean.
After listening quietly, Ida Emean remained silent for a long while before letting out a soft sigh.
"Humans really are fortunate. Every faltering step they take, some 'greater being' steadies them."
"If only, back then…"
She cut herself off, falling silent once more. After a long pause, she only shook her head.
"No matter what change we might have chosen then, it was already too late."
"Every Aen Seidhe called by magic is, from birth, one of the gods' closest servants. The bond between the Elder Folk and the divine was always too strong…"
"Our future seemed already sealed the moment the White Ships arrived in this world and ran aground on the shores of Skellige…"
She lowered her head, staring at the stone-paved floor, though her gem-blue eyes lost all focus— empty, distant.
"White Frost… White Frost!"
Ida Emean murmured in confusion and dread: "What are you, truly?
That even the gods fear you, avoid you, and yet cannot escape in the end. Is the destruction of all living things… inevitable?"
"Dóitear an domhan i reodh marbh… Dóitear an domhan i reodh marbh…"
The elven sorceress whispered the strange, ancient words with a trembling voice, as if drowning in some tragic past, or perhaps glimpsing a terrifying future yet to come.
Allen sighed softly and said in a low voice: "Aisirghe faoi grianúr."
Ida Emean's head snapped up.
"An aisirí faoi ghrianúr… Nach dúinn a bheidh an chinniúint chrua?"
Allen hesitated in silence for a long moment. Finally, under the elf's gaze, he gave an awkward smile, looking a little embarrassed.
"Sorry. I'm still studying Elder Speech. Right now I only know the passages from The Prophecies of Ithlinne— specifically, the Miracle Child verse…"
The elven sorceress let out a light laugh at his words, her cinnabar-red silky hair trembling faintly, her beauty beyond compare.
It was hard to imagine that the woman before him, whose smile bloomed like a flower, was at least three hundred years old.
Allen could only scratch his head in embarrassment, but at least the suffocating atmosphere had dispersed thanks to his interruption.
"Can you tell me what you just said?"
"I… I only understood the first half…"
Because of his identity as the Child of Miracles, he often heard people recite Ithlinne's prophecy. He also happened to be studying Elder Speech, so he had memorized quite a few passages.
The line Ida Emean had just sighed in Elder Speech meant: "The world shall perish in frost."
Since the meaning was far too negative, Allen had instinctively added the latter part: "And be reborn beneath a new sun." But the long string of words she spoke afterward—he really didn't understand at all.
Ida Emean chuckled softly. "Since you're studying Elder Speech, once you've mastered it, you'll naturally understand."
Then she shifted the topic: "It's a pity. No one knows the true nature of the White Frost. Merely its approach is enough that even the gods cannot escape, forced to sever their own fate and flee in despair."
"If only the mountain gods of old had left behind more… but aside from that one prophecy, everything vanished into nothingness with their fall."
Allen, too, felt regret.
If even the true face of the White Frost was unknown, how could they ever hope to deal with it?
Now, all they could rely on was the Wild Hunt, who had been playing hide-and-seek with the White Frost. Perhaps they knew something of substance, but…
The Aen Elle themselves, who had splintered apart because of the Frost, did not know the truth of it.
Could the Wild Hunt really possess any useful knowledge?
"Yes…" he sighed as well. "If only they had left behind more…"
"Let's not dwell on it. Sol and Vera are still waiting for us at Kaer Morhen," Ida Emean composed herself and fixed her gaze toward the space beyond the wooden scaffold. "Let's first see what it is that's calling to you, Child of Miracles."
Allen nodded calmly, not revealing that the truly important item was already tucked away in his pocket.
Tap~ tap~ tap~
Clear footsteps echoed in the vast cavern.
Though she had said they wouldn't speak of it, after only a short while, Ida Emean still couldn't help but add: "Since the human gods deliberately avoid the subject, you may try probing a little next time—but best not to speak directly of the Great Cataclysm…"
"When mortals utter the sacred names, it's rare that the gods take notice. But the gods' memories may be the firmest anchors of all—once recalled, misfortune could strike instantly…"
"Lady Ida Emean, as one of the mountain folk, shouldn't you be expecting the human gods to follow in the footsteps of the Sun God?" Allen couldn't help but ask. "That way, the Aen Elle might have a chance to rise again…"
And truth be told—
Given how the elves seemed to be rushing headlong toward extinction, if he were in Ida Emean's place, he would already be thinking of summoning the White Frost to perish together with humankind.
Ida Emean rolled her beautiful eyes.
"The White Frost is the true enemy of the Mountain Folk.
It killed our fathers, mothers, brothers, and sisters. It dragged down the sun, moon, and stars of the Mountain Folk in disgrace, overturning the very mountains and rivers themselves.
And humans…"
She paused, sighing.
"Humans merely seized the chance. Even if it hadn't been them, it would have been dwarves, halflings, goblins, dryads…
Compared to the others, humans were actually the easiest to accept.
After all, human blood has long since been mixed with that of the Mountain Folk. They are our closest kin by blood, yet the most estranged in spirit.
On some level, as long as a single human still exists, it means the Mountain Folk still leave traces in this world.
But…"
"Humans later went too far. They wanted to wipe the Mountain Folk out completely. Allen," Ida Emean looked straight at the witcher, her tone solemn, "it was never us who craved war. We merely had no choice but to resist."
Allen fell silent. Her words were sincere, and not wrong.
Most kings of the Northern Continent, if traced back, were descendants of elves. And in the original course of history, after Francesca Findabair submitted to Nilfgaard's Emperor Emhyr var Emreis in exchange for land for her people, she indeed never launched another war.
Of course, it might also have been because the Scoia'tael — young elves filtered by Aen Elle's Eredin — were exhausted and bled dry in the wars of the North.
With no power left to wage war, how could they invade?
"Allen, the one you're seeking… is it this man? No… this witcher?"
Lost in thought, Allen suddenly heard Ida Emean's voice in his ear.
Jerome Moreau?
The moment he lifted his head, his whole body shivered.
The man sitting cross-legged with eyes closed on the ground before him was not Jerome Moreau of the Griffin School.
Though lacking Griffin School gear and looking thin, that face — it was strikingly like Tomas Moreau's. Recognizable at a glance.
But what shocked Allen most — Jerome Moreau's ears. The cartilage was long, the tips slightly pointed.
He was… a half-elf.
Wait!
Allen's expression changed sharply. With a thought, he opened his Witcher's Bestiary.
[Monster Group: "Moreau's Colossus" LV99, "Fanatic Lydia's Chaos Spirit" LV? — Hunt Complete!]
...
[Loot Obtained: Fanatic Lydia's Element ×1, Rebirth Soul of Gwendolyn Maiden of Spring ×1…]
Suddenly, he recalled. In Tomas Moreau's last recorded crystal, when his experiment failed, Tomas had said: "It's time to abandon this place and return home, to Lydia's side."
So Lydia… was Tomas Moreau's wife. Jerome Moreau's mother. An elf.
Shit!
Why did Lydia's name appear in the hunt rewards?
Why was Fanatic Lydia's Chaos Spirit sealed inside the colossus?
Wait…!
Allen's cat-like blue eyes widened suddenly, pupils narrowing into thin slits.
Fanatic Lydia…
Then the Rebirth Soul of Gwendolyn Maiden of Spring, the one Ida Emean spoke of as a goddess long since fallen…
A deity?!!
(Ancient Tongue: "An aisirí faoi ghrianúr… Nach dúinn a bheidh an chinniúint chrua?" — Translation: "After rebirth beneath the new sun, does fate still truly belong to us?")
.....
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