Matthias Harlow
Time and Place don't matter right now
Only one thing does
The scent hit me first—so vivid it wasn't just a smell, but a sensation that bloomed across every sense at once. To me, the blood wasn't red or metallic; it was a sound, a color, a pulse in the air. It hummed like struck glass, sharp and clear.
The copper tang carried a brightness that pricked at the edge of my thoughts, a taste of heat and life interwoven.
Defiance laced through it,bitter, like iron left too long in rain and beneath that, the sweetness of flesh still warm, like fruit just split open under the sun.It flooded my head, that scent.
I could almost see it—threads of red and gold drifting between the trees, wrapping around them. A symphony of life, ripe and throbbing, waiting to be stilled.
It happened between breaths, instant, a motion so clean I did not so much decide as become. One heartbeat, I was a spectator ontop of a tree the next I was air and foot and hunger, before he could wipe the blood from his cheek, I was there behind him.
I appeared like a mirage, suddenly beneath the sun's glare, my skin a kaleidoscope of refracted light. The camp froze. Gasps spread through their circle like a wave; horses startled by sudden appearance, began neighing and tugging against their posts and just for a moment, the world paused its breathing.
I wonder how I looked to them perhaps as a forest spirit, or an angel sent to correct their wrongs? But I was no spirit, nor angel, no protector, just a hunter among its choices of prey. The sound that escaped me then—a low roar that bled into a hiss—as I closed in on my target made that truth clear enough.
My teeth found flesh, the hollow at the base of his throat and the world narrowed to the pressure under my jaw, the slick shock of iron and heat on my tongue.
It was more extraordinary than anything I've ever eaten: not just the taste, but the fierce, immediate rush of another sapient being's force pouring into me.
Strength thrummed through him, then thinned like a cord being untied; a man's power, once so whole and obstinate, unthreaded with a speed that stunned.
He did not fight as I expected. He flailed, not like a man fighting off death ought to but like a small, impotent animal; his resistance was panic and surprise,not a counter for me.
It should have been harder than this, the bear had put up more of a fight. Is this what I used to be? So fragile, so easily taken?
It was over quickly. Too quickly. I drained him dry, then tossed his armored corpse to the ground as if it were nothing.
The girl should have been mine next. For the briefest second, I saw her terrified, hollowed face, and my hand moved toward her. but hen the others broke from their stupor.
They rose with the slowness of men recovering from an ambush—shouts, the grind of armor, voices shaking. They moved like molasses uphill, heavy and uncertain, dragged down by fear and flesh. I moved faster, the cold clarity of a storm taking form.
The corpse —Louis de la Croix—lay cooling behind me, yet something of him still lived. His blood thrummed in my veins, his instincts whispering beneath my skin the stance, the guard, the measured breath before a strike. His discipline guided me like a second sight. Through him, I felt the fight before it began.
The first came on like a charging beast, shield raised high, sword drawn back in a crude guard. He used his weight as a weapon, every blow meant to batter rather than cut. His feet were too square, his shoulders too set—a man who had learned to win through strength, not skill.
The name surfaced like a memory not my own: Ramon du Lac.
Louis had despised him. Too slow, too fond of armor's weight. Ramon roared and swung, a heavy downward cleave meant to crush through shield and bone alike.
I moved before his blade fell. My body turned sideways; his sword struck the ground and threw up dirt I stepped in close, caught his arm before he could recover, and drove my elbow into his chest. Something gave, a dull, hollow crack and the sound of breaking ribs followed.
He dropped to one knee, gasping, his shield slipping from his hand.
"Argh—bloody monster!" Ramon wheezed, gripping his side.
Another advanced, steady and deliberate. Milton de Peyrac-Peyran, my oldest friend. Even now, with the corpsse of his friend lying dead behind me and the monster that did it before him, he moved as if order still mattered as if he was a knight of song and tale and that surely evil would be triumphed.
"You'll pay beast!" Milton barked, teeth clenched, he opened in poste di falcone, blade angled perfectly from shoulder to hip, feet balanced.
His form was good, his timing exact. He was everything a knight should be and that was the problem.
Louis's memories guided me again: every spar, every correction barked in the yard. I saw the flaw before Milton moved a faint tremor in his wrist—He is furious... or terrified— the habit of overextending on the thrust.
When he lunged from langort, I stepped in, not back. His sword scraped harmlessly along my arm, sparks flashing off steel that could not pierce me. I caught his wrist, twisted hard, and felt the joint snap with a clean, sharp crack.
His sword fell from numb fingers, a strangled gasp escaping him. I grabbed him by the collar and threw him back, He flew as though a giant invisible hand pulled at him, and he crumpled against a tree, clutching his ruined wrist.
Then came the youngest. His armor hung loose—Always so sloppy, young Vladimir— his eyes wild with fear and adrenaline. He shouted as he ran, the sound cracking halfway through, too much bravado, not enough control.
His stance was wrong, weight too far forward.
"Get back! I'll—" he stammered, but fear cut the words short.
He fell into a poor imitation of postura di donna, sword raised high for a downward cut, but his arms trembled under its weight.
When he swung, I sidestepped, let him overcommit, and swept his front leg out from under him. His balance broke instantly.
He fell hard, and before he could rise, I drove my heel into the side of his knee. The joint popped—a sharp, wet sound that echoed. The scream he let out was more like that of animal, then a man, shrill and loud.
For a few moments the clearing was still again, the only sounds the groan and sobs of the battered knights and fearful panting of the cursed child -Syanna- another revelation I didn't care to think about at his moment, my only focus was on the men before me
Ramon lay gasping, armor dented where I'd struck him. Milton knelt with his broken wrist pressed to his chest. Vladimir dragged himself backward, his leg twisted at an unnatural angle.
I stood a distance from them, unmarked, the sound of their pain echoing around me. Their swords lay scattered like dead things in the firelight. The fight had lasted less than a minute.
I could have slaughtered them even without Louis's borrowed rhythms. I had strength enough, speed enough, a body that laughed at steel.
Yet I hadn't torn them apart. I'd held back, savoring the clash, the rhythm of it—as if it were a duel and not a feeding. Why were they still alive?
Then I felt it. For the first time in nearly a day, my heart was beating. Slow at first, uncertain, then stronger with each pulse. When had that started? I couldn't say. But I could guess why.
The blood in my veins was human, warm, alive, as if it still belonged to the man I'd taken it from. Is this why they favor human blood? This false semblance of life?
Each beat steadied me, dulled the hunger that had driven me.
I looked at what I'd done. Louis lay where he'd fallen, eyes open, face pale and empty. The others still lived, barely.
Du Lac clutched his side; Milton stared through me as if I were a demon; Vladimir gasped for air, a broken, ugly sound that cut through the quiet.
As the fight left me, the rush began to fade. My breathing slowed. The blood still burned, but the haze that had cost a man his life was clearing. That was when it hit, the weight of it. The body, the smell, the sound of them choking in pain.
What the hell have I done? These were people. Men. I'd killed one of them and beaten down the rest, I looked down at my hands. They were steady, unmarked. Skin like stone, not even a scratch. I could crush steel, and I'd just proven it—on them.
I took a step back. The ground was wet beneath me. Is this it, then? I thought. Is this really what I am now? The wind carried the scent of blood again, thick and sweet. It should have tempted me, but instead, my stomach turned.
The clearing lay silent, broken only by ragged breathing. My hands flexed as if testing themselves against the air. What now? What could I even say?
"Sorry I killed your friend, he smelled too good and I couldn't help myself, hope there are no hard feelings." The words sounded ridiculous even to me.
Could I let them go? Let them stagger onto their horses and ride off into the world, nursing broken bones, and call it even? The thought felt absurd. I was not in Twilight like I had thought. I was somewhere far more dangerous.
This world breathed danger. Towns and roads looked ordinary at a glance. Up close they were rent by old wars, bargains made in blood, and laws that favored coin over justice. This was a world where sorcerers and sorceresses bent the rules of nature and men with equal ease. Where kings and generals moved like pieces, dragging armies that left ruin in their wake.
Nilfgaard and the Northern Kingdoms warred and schemed. Even Toussaint which glittered with wine and tournaments hid its own evils and dangers. A world where monsters were only one kind of peril, human greed, grudges, and fear of the other could just as easily bring about your end.
And that's not even mentioning the Hunters that roamed these lands, with contracts and beast heads on their saddles. A knight, a fence, a village alderman, even a child, anyone with a purse could put a price on a head and they would deliver it.
Witchers, they existed to take those contracts. They were hired blades, bred and tempered to kill what normal men could not.
Mutations sharpened their reflexes, potions sharpened their sight, and signs bent small magics to fend off the strangest things. They traveled light and hard. They read tracks like scripture and lived by coin and reputation. A name on a contract meant a piss-eyed rider in the morning.
They made their living hunting things like me. Not by choice, but by design. Alchemists and mages built them for it , children turned into weapons. Their mutations stripped away fear, pity, and half their humanity, leaving what was needed to kill and keep killing.
Their eyes glowed yellow in the dark, sharp as a cat's, and they could track by scent, by sound, by the twitch of a blade of grass.
Each carried two swords: steel for men, silver for monsters. They knew how they moved, how they hid, how they died. Their medallions, cat, griffin, viper, wolf—shivered at the faintest pulse of magic, warning of danger long before even their inhuman senses could.
People might curse them, spit on them, but they still paid them when something crawled out of the woods. And if a Witcher ever came for me, a new monster, something unheard of since the Conjunction Of The Spheres, that would be it.
No pleading, no trick, no hiding. They'd find me, sooner or later and they would try their damned hardest to make sure I stayed dead this time, to study me if for no other reason.
That thought stuck with me. It made the silence around the clearing feel heavier. I couldn't let those men go. Not here, not in a world like this.
Maybe if I was a different kind of monster, I could have risked it. Some creatures kept to the edges of the world—lurking in ruins, haunting caves, or slipping through the woods unseen.
Others blended in, passing as merchants or travelers, their fangs hidden behind smiles. But me? I couldn't hide.
Through the bears eyes, I'd seen what I looked like. Not a man, not really. Too perfect, too clean. Feautures too symmetrical in a way that felt wrong.
The sort of beauty that made people stare, that drew their curiosity like a magnet. There was no hiding a thing like that. Even in shadow, I would stand out.
My skin was pale enough to draw the eye, like frost over glass. My hair paler than I remembered it, white-blond, almost silver—caught the light and glowed.
The face was familiar, mine and not mine: the bone structure, the mouth, the faint crease at the brow when I focused. But it all felt slightly off, like seeing a painting of myself done by someone who tried to exemplify my better qualities and redo the rest
Sharp lines, high cheekbones, eyes too bright, too still. 6'2, lean but strong—the build of a swimmer, muscle without bulk.
Where once I'd been a bit stocky, only taut muscle was left, as if someone had sucked the fat out of my body and left the shape behind. Every motion too smooth, too deliberate.
I looked like something made to resemble a man, not one who'd ever lived as one, and in a world where hunters made their living killing anything that stood out, this body was a death sentence.
I couldn't let those men go. Not here, not in a world like this.
I gathered myself, steeling my resolve, and began to walk toward them. The three of them scrambled, trying to rise, to reach for the weapons scattered at their feet. But what I did next stopped them in their scramble.
For the first time since I'd stepped into their camp, I spoke.
"I know it would mean little to you," I said, the words soft and unfamiliar on my tongue. "But I'm sorry for your friend. As cruel as he was… as cruel as you are, no one deserves to die like that."
The sound of my voice stilled them. It wasn't the words—it was the voice that carried them. The moment I heard it, I froze too.
The language wasn't Polish, like I had thought. It wasn't anything I would have recognized. The syllables rolled sharp and strange, smooth in a way my tongue shouldn't have known.
But the voice itself—that was what unsettled me most. It wasn't just the new, melodic tone I still hadn't grown used to. Beneath it, faint but clear, was something else. Another cadence, another rhythm. Louis's voice bleeding through mine.
They heard it too. Their eyes widened, not in confusion, but in recognition, at the dead man that was speaking to them through my mouth.
The tone, the cadence, the strange french like accent—it was familiar to them. I could see it in the way their gazes shifted, in the way Milton's lips parted like he was hearing a ghost, at the way their eyes lied to the corpse lying behind me.
God I'm like something out of a nightmare
"Really," I continued quietly, the words carrying more weight than I meant. "I am sorry. I didn't mean for it to happen like that, if I had my way you would not have ever seen me.."
I paused, letting the silence between us stretch. "But that doesn't mean I can let you go."
Ramon's jaw tightened, teeth gritting through pain. "Monster," he wheezed, his voice hoarse. "You think an apology makes it right? You killed him. You drained him like a leech."
Milton stared at me, his expression caught somewhere between horror and disbelief. "And you speak your sorrys with his voice," he said quietly. "With our friends voice. Do you even hear yourself? Gods, it's like he's still talking, begging us to forgive you."
The words hit harder than they should have. Something twisted in my chest, guilt, grief, or maybe just the echo of what I'd taken from Louis.
For a moment, I couldn't tell if the ache was mine or his, if the shame that stirred belonged to the man I'd been or the one whose voice now bled through my own.
Vladimir made a weak, broken sound, half a plea, half a curse. "You'll burn for this. They'll find you. Witchers or Knights from the Duchy, someone will look for us."
I shook my head—glad for an excuse to not think about my conflicting feelings—and hardened my resolve. "That's exactly why I can't let you go."
My voice was steadier now, colder. "You'd tell them what you saw. And within a week, there'd be riders coming for me—witchers, knights with soldiers at their backs. I can't afford that." The last words came softer, almost a whisper.
"You should never have seen me."
The wind stirred the ashes of their fire, and the men looked at me grimly, knowing there was nothing they could to stop their determined fate.