The storm winds clashed with the crashing waves, exploding into countless white sprays, foam, and mist.
And the swallow struggled, weaving between crest and trough, dodging the jets of water that burst skyward, careful not to let its wings be soaked and dragged into the abyss.
A swallow.
He recognized the bird.
They flew with incredible speed, ceaselessly darting and circling through the air. They almost never landed on the ground or trees, able to drink and feed all while in flight…
As these strange fragments of knowledge surfaced, a sound filled his ears—no, not just his ears. It resonated across the storm-lashed world itself, a voice booming beyond gender.
[Only those who follow the swallow shall survive.]
[The swallow is the herald of spring, the savior, the one who will open the forbidden door and reveal the path to salvation.]
[The swallow will make the world's rebirth possible.]
[The swallow…]
[The swallow… the swallow…]
[Zireael…]
[Zireael… Zireael…]
-----------------------------------
The endless world echoed, thunderous waves rolling with the chant—rising, falling, crashing, dispersing…
This tide of death and rebirth, surging and fading, struck his mind and heart, making his chest tremble, swell, ache, and rage.
"Zireael…" he whispered in a daze.
Unnoticed, the companions who had once soared beside him, shedding droplets as they glided on the stormwinds, were gone.
The world seemed to hold nothing but the furious sea—and the swallow, darting gracefully along the edge of death before him.
"Zireael…" he murmured, deep in thought.
"Zirea…" He paused, then realization struck him like lightning. "Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon!!!"
His cry rang out over the chaotic, destructive roar of the sea.
In an instant, the wind and rain ceased.
The gulls' cries fell silent.
Allen could still feel the spray of waves beneath him, but the sea was gone. Or rather, it had become a sea of grass—an endless, boundless prairie.
He stood among waist-high stalks, their barbs scratching painfully against the bare patches of his skin.
"Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon…"
With the terror of having survived the raging sea still lingering, he repeated the name like a lifeline.
And then—
"I am Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon," a voice answered him. "Who are you?"
Who are you?
He didn't look toward the source of the voice. Instead, carried by the clear winds sweeping the prairie, he asked himself in panic: "Who am I?"
"I am… I am… I am Allen, a witcher of the Wolf School."
At that moment, clarity struck him.
Just as he was about to check the state of his body, he froze, remembering something, and turned his head sharply.
In the grass stood a girl in a loose-collared gray linen shirt.
Her features were delicate, framed by a beautiful mane of ashen-mouse-gray hair, and her vivid green eyes burned with intensity. She looked no older than sixteen.
A dark red scar marred her left eye, ruining her beauty yet lending her a rebellious, wild allure.
She held the reins of a black horse, and beside it stood a white steed—
No.
Not a horse.
Its slender, impossibly graceful neck bore a small, fine head.
Thin limbs, a long flowing tail.
And from its round forehead grew a spiraled horn, sharp and gleaming with pale light in the dark—at least the length of two palms.
A unicorn.
A creature of legend, said to possess wisdom and emotions.
There was no doubt. This girl was the Lion Cub of Cintra, Princess of Brugge and Duchess of Sodden, heir to Inis Ard Skellig and Inis An Skellig, Suzerain of Attre and Abb Yarra, Duchess of Rowan and Amell, mistress of Castle Darn Rowan, and rightful heir to the Nilfgaardian throne…
Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon.
Elder Blood.
"Allen of the Wolf School…" She noticed his gaze linger on her scar, and frowned. "I don't recall anyone of that name belonging to the Wolf School."
Allen didn't notice the strange tone in her voice. Instead, he kept screaming in his heart: "Not her!"
"It's actually not her!"
He had always held many guesses about why he had crossed over. One highly likely explanation was that Ciri, in order to avert the destined arrival of the White Frost, had summoned him here.
She could traverse time and space.
From the present, to the past, to the future… from the witcher's world to Earth, which had appeared in the original story, and to countless other realms.
The Witcher's Notes also involved the power of time and space—the Gate of Ard Gaeth made the miracle of the Conjunction of the Spheres possible.
And Ciri was destined to be the one who wielded the power of the Gate of Ard Gaeth—the Elder Blood.
Was it really all just coincidence?
And more importantly…
In this world, before Vilgefortz sent out that strange letter, there was no such thing as Elder Blood for Allen. Yet Elder Blood was the thread that ran through the entire world's story.
Could this, too, be part of a scheme laid down by a future Ciri?
After all, she was Elder Blood. Even without fully awakening her potential, she could resurrect the dead, cross between worlds, return to the past, and stride into the future—powers more divine than the gods themselves.
If it truly were the arrangement of Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon from the future—then what would be impossible?
But it wasn't!
Every tiny shift of her expression told him that she had no knowledge of this at all.
Then who had brought him across into the witcher's world? Who had given him the powerful yet cold, merciless Witcher's Notes?
"Why aren't you saying anything?" the girl asked, warily taking a few steps back.
Allen snapped out of his thoughts at her voice. Calmly, he studied the girl, and the unicorn that must have been named Ihuarraquax, while speculating about what point in time Ciri was currently at…
Had she just fled from Tir ná Lia, the capital of the Aen Elle elves, evading pursuit from the Wild Hunt?
Or had it already been after the Massacre of Rivia, when Geralt had been run through by a pitchfork and Yennefer perished with him, and Ciri had sent them both to the Isle of Avallac'h?
Or perhaps it was like in The Witcher 3, after she had slain Eredin Bréacc Glas, the King of the Wild Hunt, and, in order to save the world from destruction by the White Frost, had stepped into the portal Avallac'h opened, vanishing into the unknown?
As that thought struck him, Allen's spirits surged.
But the girl, startled by his excitement, stepped back again—like a cornered young beast.
She gripped the reins of the black horse tightly, ready to mount and flee at any moment.
"Was I right? Who sent you? How did you find me? Avallac'h? Or Eredin?"
The unicorn lowered its head warily, the sharp glowing horn aimed directly at him.
In that instant—
His sharpened senses blared a violent warning, an icy chill creeping up his spine all the way to his scalp.
But Allen paid the threat no mind.
'Avallac'h…' He seized on the keyword. It seemed that this was still the Ciri from the original tale, the one who had just fled from Tir ná Lia, unable to control her Elder Blood powers, drifting in the currents of time and space.
'What a pity…' Allen sighed quietly in his heart.
And then—
"Can't you tell? These are the eyes of a Witcher." Allen pointed at his own eyes.
But the girl only furrowed her brow even more deeply.
"You're spouting nonsense!" she snapped, stomping her right foot on the ground and leaping lightly onto the black horse's back.
Allen realized something and lowered his head to look at his own hands.
They were pure black, without the slightest reflection, as though he were wearing a pair of cotton gloves. Yet the creases and lines of his palms were still clearly visible.
The moment he became aware of this…
In an instant—
The blackness receded outward from the point of his gaze, revealing hands covered in thick calluses at the palms and base of the fingers.
Then came red leather bracers, and above them pauldrons woven from dimeritium alloy, bound tightly by black-and-red straps.
But… this was impossible!
It wasn't that he couldn't possibly be wearing Grandmaster Wolf School armor—but when he had returned to his room, he hadn't removed his gloves at all.
It wasn't so much that the black was peeling away to show his true appearance, but rather it was manifesting the image of how he believed he should look right now.
"Where is this place?"
Allen began to consider the question he had overlooked.
Where had Vilgefortz's letter actually brought him?
"You really are a witcher!"
"Then do you know where this is? Can you take me home?"
The girl, who had been about to flee astride her black horse, suddenly cried out in surprise.
Seeing Allen's appearance seemed to delight her greatly. She had just mounted the horse, yet in her excitement, she leapt right back down without the slightest trace of caution.
She took a few steps forward—then stopped again.
"But no, that can't be right. Geralt, Vesemir, Eskel, and Lambert," she counted on her fingers, "the Wolf School has only those four witchers. There's no one named Allen. And besides me, Kaer Morhen hasn't accepted apprentices in a long time."
Hearing this, Allen set aside his doubts for the moment, carefully arranging his words before speaking softly: "I know Vesemir, but not Geralt, Eskel, or Lambert—unless they were apprentices who never passed the Trial of the Grasses.
But Kaer Morhen never had only four. The Wolf School was the most prosperous of all the witcher schools on the Continent, the true inheritors of the witcher tradition. It never stopped accepting apprentices…"
"Impossible!" The girl froze at his words, clearly shaken.
At that moment, the unicorn drew near, its glowing horn gently brushing against her arm.
The girl tilted her head as if listening.
The unicorn made no sound, but its clear, doe-like eyes flicked once toward Allen, the light at the tip of its horn pulsing faintly.
"What?!" the girl gasped aloud. "You're saying this isn't the right place, nor the right time? Then that means…"
"Mm… mm… I'll ask…"
She nodded lightly twice, then turned back toward Allen.
"Al… Al…"
It wasn't that she had forgotten the boy's name—this youth who looked scarcely older than herself.
She was simply pondering what to call him.
Calling him "Allen" directly didn't seem proper. He was unfamiliar, yet a senior of the Wolf School.
She was a noble-born child, raised with etiquette.
Of course, not in Cintra.
Yennefer and Nenneke had taught her noble lineage and forms of address at the Temple of Melitele.
She might have been distracted, counting ants on the ground instead of studying seriously, but she still didn't want to appear ignorant before a stranger.
Ihuarraquax had said this boy must have come from the past, a time when the Wolf School wasn't reduced to only four members. That would make him a senior—and he even knew Vesemir.
But… but…
"Geralt and Vesemir never taught me what title to use when addressing an older witcher I don't know…"
Stubborn as ever, the girl had gotten stuck on this problem.
Of course Geralt and Vesemir hadn't taught her such things—witchers were nearly extinct in the Northern Kingdoms. Altogether, there were perhaps fewer than fifty left across the whole Continent.
One could live their entire life without ever meeting another witcher. Why bother learning such etiquette?
When you did meet one, using their name was enough.
"But if he knows Vesemir, that means he's not too far from our time…"
Following the thread of logic, the girl was trying to reason out a proper form of address when suddenly—another, far more frightening possibility occurred to her.
"If he lived in Vesemir's era… but I've never met him, never even heard of him… then that means…"
She dared not finish the thought. Her mind leapt wildly, forgetting her original concern about what to call him.
Instead, she stared at the boy before her with a mix of pity and sorrow.
Yes—this beautiful boy, whose eyes shone as purely as her grandmother Calanthe's favorite sapphire jewelry. He looked even more striking than Yar, the sixteen-year-old novice scribe from the Temple of Melitele who had lost his left hand in the Second Northern War.
No! He was even more beautiful than Mistle—the girl from the Rats, the criminal band Ciri had fallen in with after being swept into the Korath Desert by Tor Lara's portal, enslaved, and taken to Nilfgaard. Mistle, her companion… and her lover.
Allen, noticing Ciri's unusual gaze after her pause, felt distinctly uneasy.
He had no idea that in her mind, the Elder Blood who bore his hopes of saving the world from the White Frost was already comparing his looks against both a boy and a girl she had known.
Awkward under the scrutiny, Allen thought to himself, no wonder she's called the craziest, most rebellious "little lunatic" of her time. Her behavior was strange, unlike anyone else's.
He gave a dry cough and finally said: "Just call me Allen."
"Oh… Allen." The girl snapped out of her daze.
Meeting his eyes, she remembered what she had just been thinking about, and her cheeks flushed red.
Then, recalling Mistle's tragic death at the hands of Leo Bonhart, her face went pale again. With a sigh, she pushed those thoughts aside and asked: "Allen, can you tell me what year it is now?"
"1180."
"Oh… 1180," the girl murmured, repeating it under her breath. That was eighty years ago. She was about to turn back to Ihuarraquax to discuss how to better calibrate the time and place of their next journey.
But just then—
"Wait!"
"Eighty years ago!"
Her whole body trembled, her expression brightening with sudden excitement.
She thought to herself: Eighty years ago, the Wolf School still hadn't been destroyed.
"Why should I rush to leave—when I might change its fate?"
...
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