Months earlier. Winter. The courtyard of Kaer Morhen—
Eskel held his sword, turning it in smooth, controlled circles. Even with three spinning windmills crashing in from different angles, he handled it with ease—and could still talk while doing it.
"We learn swordplay so that even in a three-against-one situation, we can find an opening, turn it around, and kill the enemy in the fight."
Eyes wide, Victor followed up at once. "What about five against one, and they've got crossbows?"
"So you can stay alive and look for a chance to run."
"And ten against one?"
"No hope. Accept it and die."
Then the witcher slipped through the high-speed pincer of the three windmills, tore off the blindfold over his eyes, and looked at Victor. His scarred face was calm, warm, steady.
"Remember this: witchers aren't knights. Winning one-versus-many is impressive, sure, but if I have a choice, I'll always prefer many-on-one.
Maybe, fully geared up, with bombs and Signs, a witcher can do frightening damage. So what? That not only goes against our rules—more importantly, nobody pays us for it.
In the right conditions, we can fight ten men, even twenty. But instead of obsessing over how to survive that scenario, think about how to avoid ending up in it. Especially when you're facing a proper army in formation—running as far as you can is the only rational voice you should listen to.
Swordsmanship matters. But choosing the right opponents is what lets you live a long time."
When Eskel said that, the jagged scar across his face twisted and crawled—ugly, yes. But in hindsight… it was warm.
…
Angoulême was facing off with a female elf. From behind, Victor couldn't see the elf's face, but the slim build and the two one-handed swords told him enough—and the fact she could hold Angoulême at bay meant that even if she wasn't stronger, she wasn't far behind.
Thank Eskel's "common sense" lessons—Victor knew the simplest thing to do.
He drew his steel sword in a single sharp motion, deliberately dragging the blade against the inside of the scabbard to create a loud, ringing scrape.
The elf flinched, startled and distracted—
And in that instant Angoulême surged like a tiger, charging in with her sword held in both hands. One blow knocked the elf's left-hand blade away. Angoulême's left fist slammed into the elf's right forearm to jam the counter, and at the same time the pommel of Angoulême's sword kissed the side of the elf's skull—hard, ruthless, merciless.
Angoulême hit like she meant to break stone. The dull, brutal sound—hammer on anvil—made Victor's teeth ache just hearing it. The pommel strike spun the elf a full turn before she crashed to the ground and went still.
Victor threw up a hand, stopping Angoulême from following with a finishing thrust. He kicked the two fallen swords far away, then took out a pinch of powder and lightly sprinkled it on the elf's bare hand where no cloth covered it. After a short pause, when there was still no reaction, Victor finally relaxed, crouched, and rolled her over.
…
The elf's hair was black as coal, loose and messy over her shoulders, with two thin braids tied at her temples. Thin lips. Carefully shaped brows like carved lines. A high forehead. Where the pommel had smashed her skull, a swollen knot of blood had risen on the side of her head.
She wore a dark green top with a simple handmade leather cuirass over it. Her legs were wrapped in tight sheepskin trousers tucked into riding boots.
She carried two pieces of adornment: one was a necklace made of thin leather cord looped around her neck several times, strung with beads that looked like carved golden wood.
The second made Victor's brow draw tight—
A squirrel tail tied at her waist.
That meant she was Scoia'tael.
Scoia'tael—born from humans bullying and discriminating against nonhumans. First protests. Then bloody human crackdowns. And quickly after that, armed resistance. Finally, they became forest guerrillas.
Victor vaguely remembered a drunken conversation in a Vergen tavern: the Scoia'tael leader around Flotsam was… Iorveth.
Damn it.
Just thinking of that name—and what he was known for—made Victor want to turn around and run. But first, he had one test he needed to do.
He drew his steel sword and carefully traced the edge near the elf's throat.
And sure enough, he heard those voices again.
"Kill her!"
"Do it—she's Scoia'tael. She's got human blood on her hands. Killing her saves lives."
"Cut her throat."
"Just a gentle push forward. She won't even feel pain."
Same pattern as before, the same layered echoes—only this time the volume was faint, almost like murmurs. Nothing like the booming chorus he'd heard last time. And the moment he withdrew the blade, the voices stopped dead.
Comparing the differences—the cause, the trigger—Victor fell into thought.
Angoulême, who'd been standing guard nearby, watched Victor's strange little motion—measuring, then sheathing his sword. After a moment, she stepped forward in silence.
She patted his shoulder, voice gentle. "It's fine. Don't force yourself. If you can't do it… I'll do it for you."
Victor shook his head, batted her wrist aside, and pressed her hand down to stop her from stabbing. He gestured for her to put her sword away.
Angoulême kept trying to persuade him. "It's not shameful. If you can't do it, it just means you're too kind. That's okay. I'm willing to kill people for you."
Victor pinched the bridge of his nose. "Forget Lambert's nonsense. I'm fine. I can do it. I just need to think a few things through first."
For reasons he couldn't fully explain, he'd had countless chances to ask—on the day he first tried to play the hero, and again when he woke from his illness. Yet he'd rather be misunderstood as weak than tell Lambert about the sudden kill-voices in his head.
Something in his gut told him: this was a secret that could not be spoken.
Angoulême wanted to keep arguing, but one sharp, irritated look from her Captain shut her up. She watched obediently as Victor pulled two vials from his herb bag, lifted the elf's head, and poured them in one after the other.
Then Victor tore off half the sash wrapped around the elf's waist. After a brief pause to think, he dipped it in blood and scrawled a line of writing across it in a wild, jagged hand—words she wouldn't be able to understand. Then he dragged her into the brush and hid her there, message and all.
When he finished, Victor's voice turned hard. "Let's go. Flotsam. Now—move."
Angoulême fell into step beside him. "She's Scoia'tael. When she wakes up, won't she tell her people?"
"That's why she drank two vials," Victor said, keeping a steady, fast pace. "And we're going to use the time. Get as far away as we can."
"You sound tense. Is it really that serious?"
"If you spent less time grinning like an idiot while drinking and more time actually listening, you'd know the Scoia'tael leader around here is Iorveth— that bastard."
Angoulême shut her mouth and sped up. Even someone as brash as her had to admit: Iorveth's name carried weight.
An Aen Seidhe elf—once a legendary commander of the Vrihedd Brigade—famous for his hatred of humans. After becoming part of a Scoia'tael commando, he'd borne direct responsibility for burning villages and slaughtering human civilians.
Those Scoia'tael took anything they could get their hands on.
Including human heads.