Chapter 77: Ciri's Nightmares Intensify
POV: Ciri
The frost came first.
In the dream, ice crept across stone floors that moments before had been warm with forge-light. Mahakam's tunnels twisted into impossible geometries—corridors that bent back on themselves, stairs that descended upward, spaces that existed between spaces.
And through that frozen labyrinth, they rode.
Skeletal horses whose hooves struck no sound against crystalline ground. Riders in armor of blackened ice, helms shaped like skulls, eyes burning with cold fire that held no warmth, no mercy, no humanity. The Wild Hunt. Searching. Always searching.
"Child of Elder Blood." The voice scraped across her consciousness like a blade on bone. "We see you. We smell your power bleeding through the barriers. You cannot hide forever."
She ran. Dream-logic propelled her through tunnels that shouldn't exist, past dwarves frozen mid-motion, their faces locked in eternal surprise. The Hunt followed without hurrying—why rush when prey had nowhere to go?
A door appeared. She threw herself through it and found—
Adam.
He stood in a chamber of pure ice, facing the lead rider with flames dancing around his fists. Fire that shouldn't exist, element he hadn't mastered yet, burning defiant against the frozen dark.
"This one." The Hunt's leader pointed with a gauntlet of black iron. "This one stands between us and our quarry. He must be removed."
Riders surrounded him. Blades rose. Adam turned, met her eyes across the impossible distance, and smiled as if to say it's okay, I chose this—
—Scene Break—
POV: Adam
The scream tore me from sleep.
Not just any scream—Ciri's voice, raw with terror, accompanied by a surge through our bond that hit like physical pain. I was moving before consciousness fully engaged, bare feet slapping cold stone as I sprinted toward her chamber.
The door burst inward. Inside, chaos reigned.
Small objects floated—cups, clothing, the iron knife I'd forged yesterday—spinning in lazy orbits around Ciri's bed. She sat rigid, eyes wide but unseeing, dimensional energy crackling around her like lightning seeking ground. The air tasted of ozone and something else, something wrong—the scent of places between places, the tang of worlds that shouldn't touch.
"Ciri!" I caught her shoulders, felt reality flex beneath my hands. "Ciri, wake up. You're safe. You're here."
The bond screamed with her fear. I pushed back—not fighting, but anchoring. Drew on the connection we'd forged through months of shared survival, the intimacy of souls touching across impossible distance. I'm here. I'm real. Come back to me.
Her eyes focused. The floating objects crashed down. Energy dissipated in crackling sparks that left afterimages dancing in my vision.
"Adam." Her voice came out ragged, torn. "They're coming. I saw them. They're coming."
Geralt appeared in the doorway, silver sword drawn, Lambert a half-step behind. Both witchers scanned the room for threats that had already dissipated.
"What happened?" Geralt's question carried command despite its quiet delivery.
"Nightmare." I kept my arms around Ciri, felt her trembling against my chest. "But not just a nightmare. Something more."
"The Hunt." Ciri's words came between shuddering breaths. "They showed me. Showed me what they'd do when they found us. What they'd do to you." Her hand clutched my arm with desperate strength. "They know about you now. See you as obstacle to remove."
Lambert sheathed his blade with a curse. "Well, that's comforting. Add 'interdimensional assassins' to the list of things trying to kill us."
"Not helpful." Geralt moved closer, crouched to Ciri's eye level. "Tell me exactly what you saw. Every detail."
—Scene Break—
POV: Geralt
Dawn found them in the council chamber, borrowed space where they could speak without dwarven ears listening.
Geralt spread maps across the stone table—local terrain, tunnel systems, dimensional ley line charts that Mousesack had taught him to read decades ago. His old friend's face flickered through memory, the druid's final stand against Nilfgaard buying time for their escape. Another debt unpaid. Another life spent for Ciri's safety.
"Wild Hunt doesn't track through conventional means." He traced a line on the ley chart. "Elder Blood resonates across dimensional barriers. Distance means nothing to them—whether Ciri's here or on the other side of the continent, they feel her equally."
"Then running's pointless." Adam's voice carried frustration barely leashed. "No matter where we go, they'll follow."
"Running's been pointless for months. We do it anyway because the alternative is dying." Geralt tapped the map where Mahakam sat nested among mountain ranges. "Deep stone provides some shielding. Massive mineral density blocks certain types of tracking. But it's temporary—like hiding from hounds in a cave. Eventually, they circle and find you."
"What about fighting them?" Adam's hand clenched around the iron bar he'd taken to carrying—practice material for metal-bending, but also a tell of his emotional state. "You keep saying we're not ready. When will we be ready?"
"Maybe never." Lambert dropped into a chair with characteristic grace. "Hunt riders are Level 50 minimum. Their king, Eredin, is probably Level 60 or higher. You've grown fast, kid, but you're not touching that tier yet."
"Then I need to grow faster."
"You push any harder, you'll burn out." Geralt studied Adam with assessment born from decades of training warriors. "Seen it before. Young fighters so desperate for power they break themselves reaching for it. Dead within a year, usually."
"So I'm supposed to do nothing?"
"You're supposed to train smart, not suicidal." Geralt rolled the maps, tucked them into carrying tubes. "Combine your elements. Find synergies. Get comfortable with metal-bending until it's instinct, not effort. Level 40 unlocks fire—that's your next milestone. Fire versus ice creates tactical options we don't have currently."
"How long until Level 40?"
Geralt calculated based on observed progression rates. "Three months, maybe four, at current training intensity. Faster if we find real combat situations."
"We don't have three months." Ciri's voice cut through the discussion. She'd been silent since describing her nightmare, processing fear that would have broken lesser people. "They're getting closer. I felt it in the dream. Days, not weeks."
Silence stretched. Lambert cracked his knuckles. Adam's grip on the iron bar tightened until tendons stood out on his forearm.
"Then we make the days count." Geralt's voice carried finality. "Train every hour. Push every limit. And pray the stone holds long enough for you to become what you need to be."
—Scene Break—
POV: Adam
The training chamber became my world.
Stone yielded to will as I carved practice targets from raw walls. Air propelled earth projectiles at speeds that cracked the targets on impact. Water wrapped around stone fists, freezing into ice gauntlets that added mass and cutting edge to every strike.
[ Elemental Combination: Stone-Ice Projectile ]
[ Damage: Physical + Cold ]
[ MP Cost: 45 per shot ]
Again. Faster. Harder.
Metal-bending still demanded fierce concentration, but each hour brought marginal improvement. I could feel weapons through fifty feet of rock now, sense armor quality at a glance, even influence ferrous metals within arm's reach. Not enough to disarm a distant enemy—yet—but the potential crystallized with every practice session.
[ Metal Manipulation Proficiency: 23% ]
[ Range: Increasing ]
[ Control: Improving ]
Ciri trained beside me when her own sessions with Geralt permitted. She practiced phasing—the dimensional slip that could make her temporarily intangible, untouchable by physical attacks. When it worked, blades passed through her like morning mist. When it failed, she took bruises from Lambert's practice swings.
"You're pushing too hard." She caught my arm during a brief rest period. "You've been at this for six hours."
"Not hard enough." The iron bar in my other hand bent slightly under reflexive pressure—metal-bending expressing emotional state. "They're coming for you. I need to be able to stop them."
"And if you collapse from exhaustion when they arrive?"
Logic versus emotion. The calculation that always lost to protective instinct.
"I can't lose you." The words came out raw, stripped of pretense. "Everyone I've cared about in this world—everyone who mattered—it's you. Geralt. Lambert, somehow. The dwarves who took us in. But mostly you." I met her eyes, green depths that held more strength than any element I'd mastered. "If the Hunt takes you, what's the point of any of this?"
She kissed me. Fierce. Brief. A statement rather than a question.
"Then don't let them take me. But don't destroy yourself trying to prevent something that hasn't happened yet."
[ Relationship: Ciri ]
[ Bond Level: Maximum (150/150) ]
[ Status: Soulbound Partnership ]
Somewhere in the training chamber's corner, Lambert made gagging noises. "Get a room. Preferably one I'm not in."
Ciri threw a pebble at his head with impressive accuracy.
—Scene Break—
POV: Lambert
Night watch fell to Lambert while the others slept.
He prowled Mahakam's corridors with the restless energy that had defined him since childhood. The dwarves had accepted their human guests—grudgingly, provisionally—but acceptance didn't mean comfort. Stone walls pressed close. Ceiling hung low. Everything here reminded him why he preferred open sky to underground safety.
"Trapped. We're all trapped. Just waiting for the cage to spring."
Footsteps approached from a side passage. Lambert's hand found his sword before conscious thought, relaxing only when Geralt emerged from shadows.
"Can't sleep either?"
"Sleep's for people who aren't expecting dimensional assassins." Lambert leaned against a pillar carved with runes he couldn't read. "How long do you think we have? Really?"
"Days. Maybe a week." Geralt's face looked old in the magma-light. "Ciri's nightmares are getting worse. That means the Hunt's getting closer."
"And the kid? You think he can actually fight these things?"
"Not yet. Not alone." Geralt joined him at the pillar, two witchers sharing watch despite the relative safety of their surroundings. Old habits. "But he's growing faster than anyone I've trained. The elements, the healing, now the metal-sensing—it's like he's designed to accumulate power."
"That worry you?"
"Should it?"
Lambert considered. Adam wasn't like the mages who'd experimented on witcher children—wasn't cruel, wasn't callous, wasn't interested in power for its own sake. Everything the kid did aimed at protecting the girl he loved and the people who'd sheltered him.
"Nah," Lambert finally said. "He's a good one. Annoying, but good."
"High praise from you."
"Don't let it go to his head."
They stood together in silence, watching shadows dance on ancient stone, waiting for whatever dawn would bring.
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