Dawn's pale light revealed rolling fields of golden grain stretching toward the distant hills. At the edge of New Thalgren, five wagons stood laden with sacks of barley and oats, their drivers—stooped farmers and caravan hands—awaiting the Romeld Company's protection. Vesemir, cloaked and masked as Captain Romeld, inspected the guard formation while Visenna moved among the drivers, offering soothing herbal teas and checking injuries from bandit raids.
Geralt, now "Gerald," stood beside Eskel—"Erik"—near the lead wagon. "Watch the tree line," Eskel murmured. "Wolves and worse could emerge anywhere." His rough voice carried the authority of a veteran mercenary. Geralt nodded, scanning the forest fringe.
Jacob ("James") checked bowstrings and crossbow bolts. Dick ("Daniel") organized the guards' patrol rotations, while Vicky ("Victor") reviewed local maps and noted campsite options. Their masks concealed their youth and witcher features, presenting them instead as a seasoned mercenary escort.
As the wagons rumbled into motion, Vesemir led at the front, sword sheathed but hands ready. Visenna followed, her herbal satchel slung across her shoulders. The five apprentices formed a semicircle around the caravan, weapons drawn and senses alert.
Midway through the day, Geralt sensed a disturbance—a faint tremor in the earth, a whisper of wings. He pressed a hand to Eskel's arm. "Something's overhead."
Before they could react, a massive shape cast a shadow across the road: a young female griffin, its injured wing dragging and ragged, glared at the slow procession. Blood stained its feathers; a cruel iron bolt protruded from its shoulder.
The caravan horses panicked, wagon wheels jolting. Farmers shrieked. Vesemir barked a command. "Hold formation! Do not fire on the beast—focus on driving it back!"
Geralt drew his silver sword, but Eskel whispered, "It's in pain." Geralt hesitated. The creature's cries were more anguish than fury.
Visenna hurried forward, removing her mask to reveal her familiar, gentle gaze. "Stand down!" she called. "It's wounded—trapped by poacher's bolt!"
Ignoring Vesemir's fierce warning, she stepped into the path, chanting a calming incantation. Warm light shimmered from her palm. The griffin reared, claws extended—but hesitated as Visenna advanced.
Vesemir clenched his jaw but allowed the healing ritual to proceed. Geralt and Eskel held their positions, ready to protect their mother if needed.
Visenna reached the griffin and laid a hand on its bloody shoulder. Her wards flared, dissolving rusted iron and easing the creature's pain. With a final shimmer, the bolt fell away. The griffin sagged, then raised its head, golden eyes meeting Visenna's.
"It's free," she whispered. "Let it go."
The griffin gave a low, rumbling chirp before spreading its broad wings and lifting off. Despite its injured wing, it soared away toward the rocky crags, leaving the caravan in stunned silence.
Vesemir exhaled. "That was… unconventional."
Visenna smiled, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Compassion sometimes serves better than steel."
Geralt sheathed his sword. "It'll live because of you."
The wagons resumed their journey amid whispered admiration. Word of the mercenary company's healer spread among the drivers, transforming fear into gratitude.
As dusk fell, they made camp near the Werent River. Fires crackled, and Visenna treated minor wounds while the apprentices stood guard in alternating shifts. Vesemir and Geralt discussed the day's lesson.
"You saw me hesitate," Geralt admitted. "I wanted to strike—and yet…"
Vesemir rested a hand on Geralt's shoulder. "Strength isn't only in the blade. Today you learned mercy."
Under a canopy of stars, the caravan slept soundly. The Romeld Company's reputation grew with every guarded mile—an ordinary mercenary band to the world, but beneath the masks, witcher hearts beat strong, guided by honor, compassion, and the bonds they shared.
A damp mist clung to the wooden planks of Felgwyn's Mill as the Romeld Company approached. The battered structure stood beside a winding stream, its waterwheel silent. Visenna, mask in hand, greeted the anxious miller, Old Darin, whose hollow eyes reflected sleepless nights.
"They say voices call from the attic," Darin whispered. "Figures drift through walls. My workers flee in terror."
Vesemir nodded gravely. "We'll investigate. No ghost will plague your mill tonight."
Visenna offered Darin a calming draught brewed from lavender and valerian. "Drink this. It will steady your nerves." She passed smaller doses to Darin's fearful laborers.
By torchlight, Geralt and Eskel swept the ground floor for physical threats. Jacob and Dick examined the millstones and grain bins for trapped creatures. Vicky scaled a ladder to the second floor, his Yrden trap patterns sketched in chalk.
As midnight approached, a low moan echoed from the attic above. Darin's wife fled shrieking, clutching a candle that guttered in the draft. Vesemir signaled the apprentices.
"Geralt and Eskel, flank the stairs. Jacob, Dick—secure the entrance. Vicky, maintain your Yrden grid here."
Geralt and Eskel ascended the stairs, silver swords drawn. In the attic's gloom, drifting wisps of gray coalesced into a spectral figure—a wraith borne of lingering grief. Tattered cloth hung from its gaunt frame, and chilling whispers filled the rafters.
Visenna stepped into the room's threshold, chanting an Elder Speech ward. Her hands glowed silver, weaving protective circles around Darin and his wife huddled below. The wraith's form flickered, its mournful voices rising.
Geralt advanced. "By the power of the Wolf," he intoned, striking a rune of light upon his blade. "Be gone!"
The wraith lunged, but Eskel's Aard forced it back, cracks forming in its incorporeal body. Vicky's Yrden trap flared, binding the spirit's feet in glowing runes. Jacob and Dick unleashed synchronized Igni bursts, driving the wraith into the circle of Visenna's Quen barrier.
With a final chant, Visenna expanded her ward. A brilliant pulse of energy radiated outward, and the wraith dissolved into motes of silver light, drifting upward through the roof beams before fading into the night.
Silence fell. Darin and his wife wept in relief. Vesemir sheathed his sword. "Your mill is safe," he declared.
Visenna smiled gently. "Rest now. The spirits have found peace." She handed Darin a vial of calming tincture. "Use this if the memory returns."
As dawn broke, the mill's wheel creaked back to life. Grain poured smoothly into sacks once more. The Romeld Company departed to the grateful cheers of Felgwyn's villagers, their reputations as healers and hunters growing with every vanquished fear—and every rescued soul.