The forest was calm now too calm. Not even the wind dared to pass through.
The Witcher stepped carefully over the bodies, his boots sinking slightly into the damp earth. Smoke from the broken carriage still rose faintly, curling in the pale light that filtered through the canopy. The smell hit him first blood, iron, and sap. Death, layered on death.
He knelt beside one of the fallen guards, fingers brushing against the man's breastplate. The armor was blackened, heavy Nilfgaardian make, without a doubt. Not to mention the yellow sun on their chestplates.
"Nilfgaardians," he muttered under his breath. "Here in Kaedwen…" His eyes flicked toward the carriage, then to the ornate sigil embroidered on the count's cloak. "Hm. Not merchants. A politician, maybe. Some noble envoy. Poor bastard."
He rose, scanning the area with that stillness unique to his kind. The wind carried whispers others couldn't hear small details, shifts in scent and tone. His pupils narrowed.
"They had no chance against a Leshen," he said softly, almost as if speaking to the corpses. "Walked right into its territory… killed its wolves. Big mistake."
The Witcher's head turned sharply his medallion trembled against his chest, a faint vibration. Something alive was nearby. Weak, but alive.
He followed the trail to the shattered carriage. Its frame was twisted, pierced through with splintered wood like the ribs of some dead beast. Cautiously, he pulled the door aside, and the smell of blood hit him again, thicker this time.
Inside, beneath a half-collapsed seat, a woman lay slumped over a small body. Her dress was soaked through, torn, one hand still pressed protectively against the boy's chest. Her breath came shallow, rasping. Her eyes fluttered open as his shadow fell over her.
"A… vatt'ghern…" she whispered, her voice thin but filled with recognition. A Witcher.
He crouched beside her, eyes moving from her wounds to the boy's.
The woman swallowed hard. "Help… please…"
The Witcher hesitated. "I'm afraid there's not much I can do for wounds like these," he said quietly. "My potions, they're not meant for ordinary folk. They'd kill you faster than the bleeding."
Her eyes glistened with tears, but she shook her head weakly. "Not for me…" she whispered, forcing the words through trembling lips. "For my son… please… help my son."
He glanced at the boy small, no more than five or six. His face pale, streaked with dirt and blood. There was a long gash across his side, but the rise and fall of his chest was faintly there. Alive. Barely.
The Witcher frowned. "I don't think you understand," he said, voice low, almost reluctant. "He's too far gone. Even if I tried, even if I risked.."
Her hand shot out, clutching his wrist with what little strength she had left. Her eyes clouded but desperate met his. "Please," she whispered again, a single word heavy enough to cut through all his arguments.
For a long moment, he said nothing. His expression was still cold, save for the faintest flicker of something like regret. Then, slowly, he exhaled.
"Alright," he murmured. "I'll try."
He gently pried her hand from his wrist and slid his arms beneath the boy, lifting him with surprising care. The child was limp, light as a bundle of cloth.
The woman's lips curved in the faintest of smiles. Her hand fell to her chest. "Thank you… vatt'ghern…"
He opened his mouth to speak, but her eyes were already closing. Her chest rose once, shallowly, then stilled.
The Witcher stared for a moment longer, then lowered his head in quiet respect.
"Sleep, lady," he said softly.
****
The Witcher worked without a word for a long while, the rhythmic motion of the shovel cutting into the soil echoing faintly in the night. The stench of blood hung heavy, sweet and rotten in the cool air. He'd dragged the bodies closer soldiers, the count, his wife arranging them side by side beneath a withered oak.
When the holes were deep enough, he began lowering them one by one, his movements careful, deliberate.
"Nilfgaardians in Kaedwen," he muttered, shaking his head. "Wrong place, wrong time."
He knelt by the final mound, brushing a handful of dirt from his gloves. The faces beneath the shallow earth were peaceful now, pale in the moonlight. He pressed the last bit of soil down and murmured quietly,
"Just so the necrophages won't get to you… that's the least I can do for now."
A gust of wind passed through the clearing, rustling the leaves as though in answer.
He stood, exhaling through his nose, and turned to where the boy lay wrapped in a cloak beside his horse. The child hadn't moved an inch still breathing, but faintly, a ghost of air in his lungs.
The Witcher crouched, examining him again. The bleeding had slowed, but the wound along his ribs was deep. Too deep for any ordinary child to survive long.
"I've got to hurry," he muttered, checking the sky. The night was thinning, dawn still a few hours away. "If I can keep him alive till Kaer Morhen, maybe…"
He trailed off, the rest of that thought left unfinished.
Carefully, he lifted the boy into his arms and set him across the saddle. The child's head lolled weakly against the horse's neck, small hands limp at his sides. The Witcher adjusted the cloak around him, tucking it close.
He paused for a long moment, staring at that pale, dirt-smudged face.
"By the looks of it, you're just unconscious," he murmured. "But these wounds will kill you soon enough."
He frowned, thinking then reached into his belt pouch. A small glass vial gleamed faintly in the light, liquid swirling inside with a soft golden hue. Swallow. A healing potion too strong , too toxic for ordinary men. But if he did nothing, the boy would die before sunrise.
"I got no choice…" he said quietly.
He pried the boy's mouth open gently and tipped the potion in, letting it trickle down his throat. The child coughed weakly once, then went still again.
The Witcher capped the empty vial and tucked it away. "Now it's up to fate," he said under his breath. "Either the brew kills you… or it keeps you alive for a bit longer."
He swung himself onto the saddle, behind the boy, and gathered the reins. The horse an old, battle-worn mare with a white streak down her nose snorted softly, hooves shifting in the dirt.
The Witcher glanced back once at the makeshift graves, the mounds already half-shadowed by fog. "Rest easy Nilfgaardian lady," he muttered. "I'll try to save him."
Then he faced the road ahead dark, endless, winding north through the Kaedweni wilds and clicked his tongue.
"Alright," he said to the horse, voice low and steady. "To Kaer Morhen."
The mare started forward, hooves thudding softly against the earth. The graves faded behind them, swallowed by the mist.
/-\
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