The rich, savory aroma of rendered fat, charred rosemary, roasted garlic, and sweet caramelized root vegetables rolled across the village square in thick, intoxicating waves. Hillstead had spent the better part of a decade living beneath the suffocating shadow of an unseen rot, but tonight, the cold spring air belonged entirely to celebration, roaring hearthfires, and the smell of good food.
I stood over a massive, waist-high open grill pit fashioned from fieldstones and iron grates, a clean linen cloth tied firmly around my forehead to keep the sweat and loose bangs of white hair out of my eyes. In both hands, I held long iron tongs, rhythmically turning dozens of wooden skewers loaded with alternating cubes of venison, fatty pork belly, thick cuts of wild onion, and spiced mushrooms that hissed furiously as drippings hit the glowing charcoal.
Every few minutes, I'd turn the grill over to two of the Baron's kitchen hands, wipe my palms, and dart back into the tavern's bustling hearth kitchen to check on the baking racks, the stew kettles, and the pastry trays.
The tavern wenches and castle cooks were practically running in circles around me, half-terrified and half-awed. Initially, the Baron's head cook, a stout, red-faced man named Peter who had spent forty years boiling mutton in unseasoned water, had looked ready to faint when I took over his kitchen, rearranged his spice jars, and started altering the traditional Cintran recipes with vinegar reductions, crushed juniper, dried thyme, wild mountain pepper, and dark honey glazes.
"Master Witcher!" Peter had sputtered, hovering anxiously by a simmering cauldron with a wooden ladle clutched like a shield. "You can't pour fermented plum wine into the beef broth! It will curdle the marrow! And that amount of garlic, the nobility never uses that much garlic in a common stew!"
I hadn't even looked up from the table where I was deftly slicing sixty pounds of roasted poultry with machine-like speed and precision.
"Peter," I had said, my voice dropping into that calm, flat, deadpan timbre that always made human heartbeats hitch. "You and your staff offered to help feed three hundred people. If you want these dishes to taste like wet straw and sadness, you're welcome to take your ladle and wait outside. If you want these villagers to taste the best meal of their lives, add the wine, grind the juniper, and stir the bottom so it doesn't burn. Now cook, or get out of my kitchen."
Needless to say, nobody questioned my seasonings after that.
The tavern wenches had moved with breathless efficiency, loading up wide wooden trenchers and carrying steaming platters out into the courtyard where trestle tables had been pushed together under strings of dried floral lanterns. Over the course of four intense hours of preparation and cooking, we turned an mountain of raw castle provisions into a feast fit for a royal coronation.
There were massive cauldrons of rich beef, potato, and root vegetable stew thickened with barley and seasoned marrow; bubbling pot pies filled with tender diced beef and chicken beneath flaky, golden-brown lard crusts; stacks of warm, blistered flatbreads brushed with wild herb butter; thick cuts of roasted chicken stuffed between crusty sourdough slices with sharp onion relish; bowls of sweet, ruby-red Wine Kissel garnished with dried mountain berries; and several dozen spiced apple and berry pies cooling on wooden planks by the windows.
I stepped out of the tavern's side entrance into the cool evening breeze, untying the linen band from my forehead and letting out a long, heavy exhale. My linen shirt was damp with sweat, smelling distinctly of hickory smoke, roasted meat, and baking yeast.
I slumped down onto an upturned wooden crate against the stone wall, resting my elbows on my knees and rolling the tension out of my shoulders. Preparing enough food to feed a couple hundred starving, emotionally exhausted villagers in under four hours was an ordeal in itself, but watching the townspeople eat like they hadn't seen a full meal in years made the physical effort surprisingly satisfying.
A soft rustle of woolen fabric caught my attention, accompanied by the distinct scent of dried elderflowers, fresh parchment, and the subtle, crackling ozone of magical manipulation.
Calla walked over, holding two earthenware mugs of cider, and sat down on the bench right beside my crate. She handed me one of the mugs with a faint smirk playing on her lips.
"Well, Cain," she said, watching the villagers practically fight over the remaining meat skewers around the fire pit. "That was unnaturally fast. And terrifyingly efficient. Are you entirely certain you weren't a master tavern keeper or a royal chef in a past life? Perhaps you should hang up the swords and open a restaurant in Novigrad. You'd make a fortune without ever having to get clawed by a vampire."
She held up her left hand, counting off on her slender fingers one by one.
"Let's see: you hunt and dissect monsters for premium alchemical parts; you track wild game through winter blizzards and preserve prime cuts better than veteran butchers; you hire yourself out as an elite escort and tactical guide; and now you cook high-end feasts for half a province in the span of an afternoon." She turned her sharp emerald eyes toward me, tilting her head. "Is there actually anything in this world that you cannot do?"
I took a long, refreshing draft of the chilled cider, feeling the tart sweetness cut right through the lingering taste of grease and smoke.
"Don't know," I said with an easy shrug. "Haven't tried everything yet. I suppose I still need to learn formal magic properly, instead of relying on the raw, instinctual shortcuts I've been muddling through."
Calla smiled, an amused, genuine curve of her lips that caught the amber light of the distant bonfires. "A Witcher who casts spells like a fully trained sorcerer? Do you honestly think that would even work? The anatomical and magical paradigms are completely different. Witcher Signs utilize minimal time for battle, while formal sorcery requires drawing Chaos from the elemental spheres, balancing the somatic cadence, and anchoring it with rigorous verbal incantations. All that takes alot of time none that you will have in the heat of battle"
"It can work," I replied smoothly, staring into the dark amber liquid of my cup. "It's just a matter of finding a new methodology. People think traditional systems are absolute simply because no one has bothered to dismantle them and build a better bridge. The school of the Griffin was probably the closest, but so much potential lost. So Just because an institution hasn't figured it out yet doesn't mean it's impossible."
Calla studied my profile for a few quiet moments, her sharp green eyes softening with something akin to respect. "Very true. And honestly, if anyone on this miserable Continent has the sheer arrogance and bizarre competence to pull it off, it's probably you."
"Thanks," I muttered, taking another sip.
We sat together in companionable silence, watching the scene unfold across the hillside. Torches and bonfires had been lit throughout the village, casting long, dancing shadows across the whitewashed stone cottages.
Colorful banners and woven floral wreaths hung from the wooden eves. The atmosphere was a strange, bittersweet tapestry of catharsis: some villagers sat around the musicians, singing ancient elven laments and Cintran folk ballads in remembrance of the twelve innocent men and women who had vanished over the past decade; others were laughing, shouting toasts, and violently clinking mugs of ale and vodka in celebration of the fact that Baron Hector had personally executed his traitorous wife and brother.
Yet beneath the revelry, my enhanced senses and Provoker-honed intuition picked up the darker, sharper currents running through the crowd.
Justice had been served on the immediate culprits, but humanity rarely stopped at simple executions. The grief was still raw. Some families would inevitably demand financial compensation from the Baron's coffers for their lost kin; others would whisper that the Baron had been blind for too long, or mutter that Lord Harry's bastard offspring should share the same fate as their parents to completely cleanse the castle's bloodline.
Furthermore, I wouldn't be surprised if the local elves and mixed-blood villagers began looking toward Callum and Calla as the rightful future leaders of Hillstead. Both of them possessed elven heritage, immense personal power, and a clean slate unburdened by the castle's past atrocities.
Which brought me back to the bizarre anomalies I had noticed on Callum's status sheet back at the keep.
Callum had originally been designated as the definitive protagonist of this world before whatever cosmic accident pulled my soul into this reality. And the more I observed this world, the more certain I was that this wasn't simply the exact Witcher universe from the novels or the video games, it was an altered, high-fidelity mirror realm. Geralt, Vesemir, Eskel, and Coën possessed facial structures and physical builds that looked like legendary movie figures from my past life.
It made me wonder with intense, genuine curiosity: what would Triss look like when I eventually met her? Or Yennefer? What about Philippa Eilhart, Keira Metz, Dandelion, or Princess Pavetta and the young Lion Cub of Cintra, Ciri?
They were all beautiful before but will they be movie star beautiful?
More importantly, Callum possessed that sealed, Legendary trait: Lost Prince. The rightful, forgotten heir to two paramount bloodlines of the Continent.
If Callum carried that sealed lineage as a fraternal twin... did Calla carry it as well?
I glanced to my right. Calla was sitting close beside me, swirling her cider, her vibrant copper-red hair glowing like spun flame against the backdrop of the bonfires, her fair skin completely unblemished, and her sharp emerald eyes reflecting the flickering embers.
With a focused thought, I engaged Mind's Eye.
A translucent, shimmering blue interface materialized directly in front of my retinas, crisp and detailed.
Mind's Eye Status Window:
Name: Calla (Hillstead)
Age: 15
Race: Half-Elf / Half-Human
Bloodline Trait: (Sealed)
Class: Sorceress
Titles: Potential Female Lead, Genius Supporting Character
Attributes:
Constitution: 15.2
Strength: 10.3
Dexterity: 17.0
Wisdom: 15.4
Intelligence: 25.6
Charisma: 19.5
Luck: 40.0
Mana: 30.0
Abilities & Skills:
Genius (Epic)
Spell Weaver Level 1 (Rare)
Astral Projection Level 7 (Common)
Mental Resistance Level 5 (Common)
Traits:
Lustful Learner (Epic)
Lost Princess (Legendary)
Genius Supporter (Rare)
I stared at the readout, mentally parsing every line.
Her base physical parameters were relatively normal for a fifteen-year-old girl who didn't engage in brutal daily martial conditioning, though her Dexterity was surprisingly high—likely due to the intricate somatic hand gestures required for casting complex spells. But her mental attributes were staggering. An Intelligence of 25.6 and a Mana pool of 30.0 at fifteen years old was terrifyingly prodigal.
Then my eyes locked onto her titles and traits. I opened their detailed tooltips with a flick of my consciousness.
Title: Potential Female Lead
Whether occupying the role of the primary romantic interest, a vital supporting sibling, or an elite peer/mentor to the protagonist, you are inherently favored by the world's structural fate. Destiny ensures higher survival thresholds, superior developmental opportunities, and optimal narrative catalysts to continually support and challenge the protagonist.
Effect: +20% to Wisdom, Intelligence, and Luck when health drops below 50%. +40% to all attributes when health drops below 15%.
Title: Genius Supporting Character
You occupy the definitive pinnacle of supporting presence in this world. Whenever you are in proximity to the primary anomaly (MC), your growth parameters adapt dynamically to challenge, push, and keep pace with their trajectory.
Effect: Mental corruption, psychological manipulation, and madness resistance are increased by +50% in order to provide unwavering support and force the MC toward higher thresholds of power.
Skill: Spell Weaver Level 1 (Rare)
You possess the rare cognitive gift to deconstruct, alter, and manipulate spellcraft across multiple structural layers. You can adjust elemental flow, alter somatic timing, and formulate entirely new magical matrices using existing spells as foundational anchors.
Effect: +14% proficiency to all spells and rituals invoked by caster. +7% to all magical attacks, defensive buffs, offensive debuffs, and environmental wards.
Ability: Genius (Epic)
Provides near-instantaneous knowledge retention and hyper-accelerated cognitive processing across all studied disciplines.
Effect: Grants near-photographic memory and +14% overall learning speed across all academic and magical fields.
Trait: Lustful Learner (Epic)
An unquenchable, obsessive lust for forbidden and esoteric knowledge. No matter how dangerous, morally ambiguous, bloody, or taboo a mystery might be, you are driven to uncover the absolute truth behind anything that captures your intellectual fixation.
Effect: Entering a state of high intellectual or investigative stimulation ([Charmed] state) temporarily increases all attributes by +7.7 points, accompanied by a noticeable decrease in baseline impulse control.
Skill: Astral Projection Level 7 (Common)
The user is capable of separating their conscious projection from their physical vessel, traversing the ethereal boundaries to perceive hidden spiritual phenomena and interface directly with dream corridors.
Skill: Mental Resistance Level 5 (Common)
Innate psychic fortification against external telepathic intrusions, emotional manipulation, and psychic attacks.
Effect: Successful resistance checks permanently reinforce psychic defense thresholds, though prolonged encounters induce temporary mental fatigue.
Trait: Lost Princess (Legendary)
The rightful, forgotten heir to two paramount bloodlines of the Continent.
Effect: [Sealed / Dormant].
I stared at the interface, my mind working through the implications.
She had the Potential Female Lead title, complete with built-in narrative clutch mechanics that triggered massive attribute buffs when her life was in danger. And her Genius Supporting Character title functioned in direct synergy with my own presence, providing passive madness resistance and adaptive growth parameters.
It explained so much. During our journey with the Raven Caravan and throughout our desperate, brutal struggle against the Mutated Ancient Leshen, things had fallen into place with uncanny tactical precision. The proximity buffs between Callum, Calla, and myself had been stacking in the background, creating a subtle layer of reality-warping survivability that kept us all alive through lethal encounters.
It was comforting, but it also made a cold knot of Witcher pragmatism tighten in my gut. What would happen when I eventually struck out on the Path entirely alone, stripped of these narrative proximity safety nets? I couldn't afford to get complacent.
And then there was that Lustful Learner trait.
An unquenchable, obsessive lust for knowledge... accompanied by a decrease in impulse control.
I looked at Calla out of the corner of my eye, a dry, nervous bead of sweat forming on my neck. If she ever caught wind of my Elder Blood, or realized that my Beyonder abilities weren't standard Witcher mutations, what would she do? Would she try to dissect me in her laboratory? Demand my bodily fluids for alchemical analysis? Interrogate me under psychic compulsion? Seduce me to extract the magical genetic lineage?
Probably all of the above, I thought with a grim smirk.
"Cain?" Calla's voice broke through my thoughts. "Are you alright?"
I blinked, suddenly realizing I had been staring intensely at the side of her face for nearly thirty seconds straight.
I dismissed the blue system window with a swift mental command and took another sip of cider. "I'm fine. Just thinking."
"About?" she prompted, turning to face me fully.
"Your half-siblings," I said smoothly, leaning back against the wall. "Or, I suppose, your cousins, now that the late Baroness's dirty laundry has been hung out for the entire province to see."
Calla let out a soft, dismissive snort, resting her chin on her hand. "Ah. That. Honestly, I can't say I'm terribly surprised by the truth. Those two never felt like half-siblings anyway. Huether was always a pampered, arrogant little prick who thought having noble blood made him a master strategist, when in reality he couldn't think three steps ahead of his own appetite. But the girl... Helena. She was different."
I raised an eyebrow. "Different how?"
"Even when we were children before Callum and I were sent away, Helena wasn't like her brother," Calla explained, her tone thoughtful. "She never threw tantrums, never strutted around the castle demanding attention. She was quiet, watchful, always tucked away in the library or the corners of the courtyard with old books. She had this unsettling way of observing the adults, like she knew all their sordid little secrets before they even realized they had them. I always had the impression that, much like myself, she was far too intelligent for the idiots surrounding her."
"Funny you should mention her," I murmured. "When Gregor's men were leading her and Huether back into the castle under house arrest this morning, she looked right at me and said she had a deal for me. Wanted me to come see her in private."
Calla's eyebrows shot up. "A deal? What kind of deal?"
I shrugged. "She didn't elaborate. Just told me to come find her. Anything else you can tell me about her before I walk into whatever web she's spinning?"
Calla crossed her arms over her chest, tapping her index finger against her bicep in a slow, rhythmic cadence. "Not much. She's about fourteen, so a year younger than us. But her lack of overt presence is precisely what makes her dangerous. If our late, unlamented Baroness had an ancient elven grimoire that even a talentless hag could use to bind a Leshen, gods only know what Helena managed to read and memorize while no one was looking. Keep your guard up."
"Understood," I nodded. "I'll be careful. But for now, let's just..."
Before I could finish the sentence, a heavy, muscular arm dropped across my shoulders, while another wrapped firmly around Calla's neck, nearly spilling her cider.
The overwhelming stench of cheap tavern ale, roasted venison grease, and wood smoke hit my nose an instant before Callum's loud, boisterous voice boomed right into our ears.
"Hey! Look at the two of you!" Callum slurred cheerfully, grinning from ear to ear with his cheeks flushed crimson beneath his wild red hair. "Huddled together in the dark like a pair of plotting noonwraiths! Don't tell me... are you two fancying each other while I was busy stuffing my face?"
Calla and I exchanged a single, deadpan glance. Without missing a beat, we decided to lean right into it.
"Yes, brother," Calla said with absolute, icy sincerity, adjusting her collar. "You've caught us red-handed. I fancy your brooding Witcher friend Cain immensely."
"Aye," I added in my flattest, most monotone delivery. "I do like your sister, Callum. She is... quite beautiful."
Calla paused, slowly turning her head to give me a sharp, narrow-eyed glare for the slight hesitation before the word 'beautiful.'
Callum burst into a roaring belly laugh, slapping my shoulder hard enough to rattle my breastplate. "Ha! Well, Cain, if it's you, I give you my blessing to court my dear sister! You'll probably keep her from setting the Continent on fire, or at least help her burn the right people!"
Calla rolled her eyes dramatically. "And who said anything about courting, dear brother? What if we simply fancy a good, vigorous tumble in the hay now and then? I am a free sorceress, and he is a Witcher. It's practically an occupational tradition."
Callum's grin widened, though he wagged a thick, greasy finger at us. "Either way, I'm fine with it! Just make sure you don't do it under Mother's roof. The rooms might be magically expanded, but the stone walls are still thin, and both of us have Witcher hearing. I don't need those kinds of memories in my head."
I let out an exasperated sigh, shaking my head. "How many pints have you had, Callum?"
Callum looked down into his empty wooden mug, blinked several times to count, and gave a wobbly nod. "That was... four. Four very large mugs. And now, I am going to get three more bowls of that beef pot pie you baked! Don't take too long out here, you two!"
With a sloppy wave, Callum turned on his heel and stumbled back toward the roaring bonfires, shouting greetings to random villagers who cheered his name as he passed.
Calla watched his retreating back with an affectionate, exasperated smile. "That idiot brother of mine." She stood up, brushing off her skirts, and offered me a playful, mocking bow. "Well, 'lover.' I'm going to grab another plate of your culinary masterpiece before Callum hollows out the entire tavern pantry."
"Go ahead," I said, offering a faint smile. "I'm going to head up to the castle and see what Helena wanted to talk about before the night gets any older."
Calla gave a casual wave over her shoulder as she walked toward the light. "Don't let her hex you."
I watched her vanish into the crowd, feeling the cool night air wash over me once more. Taking a steady breath, I stepped into the shadows behind the tavern wall and activated Warp.
Space bent silently around me, and in the fraction of a heartbeat, I rematerialized at the crest of the rocky hill overlooking Hillstead Castle.
The massive stone fortress loomed against the starry night, its torchlit parapets casting flickering amber reflections across the dark courtyard below.
Before heading inside to face whatever game Helena was playing, I decided it was time to cash in the rewards from the recent quests. Between the two Rare, two Common, and one Legendary equipment chests sitting in my inventory, I was long overdue for an gear upgrade. And to be completely honest, I had been itching to see what was inside the Legendary chest.
I summoned the system interface and selected all five chests simultaneously in my inventory.
Open All.
The blue holographic interface flared with blinding luminescence, cascading with a barrage of crisp, golden-bordered notifications.
System Notification: 5 Equipment Chests Opened! All Rewards Acquired!
(Rare) Potion of Bear Strength
Description: A dense, blood-red alchemical concoction imbued with a heavy, earthy fragrance of crushed pine and raw iron. Brewed through the synthesized knowledge of ancient Skellige berserkers and long-lost Witcher master-alchemists.
Effect: +10 to Strength and Constitution attributes for 30 minutes. Induces 75 points of internal toxicity and severe physical exhaustion for 24 hours following expiration.
(Rare) Potion of Astral Arcane
Description: A luminescent, sapphire-blue elixir imbued with a sweet, fruity fragrance. Distilled from the forgotten astral manuscripts of an ancient Aen Elle Sage.
Effect: +10 to Intelligence and Mana attributes, vastly enhanced cognitive processing speed, and +25% Spell Potency for 30 minutes. Induces 100 points of arcane toxicity and extreme mental fatigue/headaches for 24 hours following expiration.
(Common) Wolf School Witcher Set
Description: An expertly tailored, reinforced combat gear set consisting of Wolf School Trousers, Reinforced Boots, Studded Leather Tunic, Reinforced Duelist Coat, and Steel-Plated Bracers/Gloves, accompanied by a master-crafted Silver Sword and Steel Sword. Crafted by a forgotten Witcher craftsman who wished for his brothers to survive the Path.
Armor Effects: +4% Physical Defense across all pieces, +10% Climate and Elemental Resistance, +4% Sign Magic Proficiency and Power.
Weapon Effects: +10% Attack Power, +10% Dexterity scaling when engaged in active melee combat.
Set Bonus: Unlocks the passive ability Call of the Sigma Wolf (Rare): All baseline equipment attributes and percentages are permanently doubled. Furthermore, grants a one time passive instant heal the wearer for 50% of their total maximum health upon receiving a fatal blow.
(Legendary) Ascension Ticket (x1)
Description: A radiant, reality-warping parchment inscribed with celestial runes. Once torn, it can forcibly elevate any single Skill, Ability, or Trait to the Legendary rank.
Restriction: Cannot be applied to Job Classes, Beyonder Sequences, or System Titles.
I stared at the floating descriptions, feeling a slow, genuine grin spread across my face.
Now this is what I call a haul.
The two potions were absolute game-changers for emergency situations. A temporary +10 boost to physical attributes from the Bear Strength potion or mental attributes from the Astral Arcane elixir would turn me into an absolute juggernaut in a desperate fight.
The twenty-four-hour toxicity and exhaustion penalties were brutal, but in a life-or-death struggle, trading tomorrow's hangover for surviving today was an easy bargain.
As for the Wolf School Witcher Set, the sheer utility was staggering. The baseline stats were solid, but that Call of the Sigma Wolf set bonus, doubling the armor and weapon parameters while granting a built-in resurrection mechanic that restored half my health upon taking a lethal strike, was borderline absurd.
I looked at the gear in my inventory space, then glanced down at my own twin swords.
Calla had incinerated my standard silver blade during the Leshen fight, and I had lost my favorite hunting knife in the chaos. But I still possessed Eirael, which now had its Stage Two Crescent Bow form unlocked alongside its moonlit frost blade enhancements, plus my trusty steel sword and my growing arsenal of Beyonder abilities.
I should give this set to Callum, I thought after a moment of careful deliberation.
I knew the pragmatic choice would be to hoard every piece of high-tier gear for myself. But after seeing Callum's Lost Prince and Protagonist parameters, and knowing that his survival directly bolstered my own passive buffs, keeping him alive and heavily armored was just smart strategy.
Besides, Callum was my brother. He was heading out onto the brutal Continent with so much coin, a tendency to spend his bounties on food, the women came on their own since he was so damn handsome. He also had a knack for avoiding trouble even when drinking. Giving him the Wolf School set and a few of my standard potions reserves would give me immense peace of mind.
My Cold Blooded trait wasn't actively suppressing any reckless impulses, which meant this decision was completely rational.
Finally, my gaze settled on the Legendary Ascension Ticket.
The possibilities were practically limitless. Being able to elevate any standard skill, trait, or ability straight to the Legendary tier was an incredible trump card. But because of its immense value, I couldn't afford to waste it on an impulse. I needed to hold onto it until I hit an insurmountable bottleneck or faced an apocalyptic threat.
I closed the system windows, rolled my neck, and began making my way down the cobblestone path toward the castle gates.
As I approached the outer gatehouse, the atmosphere shifted drastically.
The castle guards standing watch beneath the iron portcullis weren't relaxing or partaking in the village's festive mood. They were rigid, their hands gripping the hafts of their halberds until their knuckles turned white.
My enhanced senses immediately picked up the sharp, rapid thrumming of their elevated heartbeats, the sour tang of nervous sweat leaking from their pores, and beneath it all... the unmistakable, metallic coppery reek of fresh blood. A lot of it.
Something had gone terribly wrong.
I slowed my pace, approaching the lead guard. "What's happened? Why is everyone on edge?"
The guard turned toward me, his face pale and drawn in the torchlight. "Witcher... it's the boy. Lord Harry's bastard son, Huether. Someone found him dead in his quarters less than half an hour ago. Slit his throat right across the bed. Poor lad didn't even have his clothes on."
My golden eyes narrowed fractionally. "Did anyone see who did it?"
The guard shook his head vigorously. "Impossible! The boy and Lady Helena were locked in their separate chambers on the third floor under direct house arrest. My men were stationed right outside their doors in the hallway. Nobody went in, and nobody came out. The windows are three stories above the sheer cliffside. There's no way in or out!"
A locked-room assassination, I thought, my mind immediately spinning through possibilities.
"Am I permitted inside?" I asked, keeping my voice level. "I have extensive experience with forensic examinations and post-mortem investigations. I might be able to find what your men missed."
The guard let out a relieved breath and stepped aside. "Aye, Captain Gregor and the Baron are up there right now. Go right ahead, Witcher."
I strode through the courtyard and entered the keep. Inside, the heavy silence of the stone corridors was suffocating compared to the roaring music down in the village. The smell of fresh gore grew stronger with every flight of stairs I climbed, mingled with an odd, sweet undertone—floral oils, lavender bath salts, and burning tallow candles.
I reached the third-floor landing and found Captain Gregor standing outside the heavy oak door of the guest suite, flanked by Baron Hector and Callidea.
Hector looked utterly devastated. The man had already endured an emotional meat grinder today, learning his marriage was a lie, executing his wife and brother, and trying to reconcile with his estranged children and their mother. Now, the boy he had raised as his own son for fourteen years lay murdered in his own castle. His weathered face was lined with exhaustion, his jaw tight, his heartbeat hammering with grief and suppressed rage.
"Cain," Hector said, his voice hoarse. "What brings you up to the keep? I thought you were celebrating with the village."
"I finished overseeing the feast and came up to wash the smoke and sweat from my skin," I lied smoothly, maintaining an expression of solemn sympathy.
I need to hide my real reason incase something gets twisted back to me.
"The gate guards told me what happened. I thought I might offer my assistance with the body. Witchers are trained in physical autopsies; if there are trace magical residues, unnatural toxins, or specific wound patterns, I can identify them."
Hector closed his eyes for a second, rubbing the bridge of his nose before nodding weary approval. "Thank you, Cain. Go ahead. Just... tell me what happened to him."
Callidea gave me a long, quiet, unreadable look, then stepped forward to push the heavy oak door open.
I stepped into the bedchamber.
The room was dimly lit by a dozen scented tallow candles burning along the mantle and bedside tables. The sweet, cloying fragrance of vanilla and crushed mint was thick in the air, clearly meant to mask the overwhelming reek of fresh, hot blood pooling across the linen sheets.
On the massive four-poster bed lay fourteen-year-old Huether, completely naked, his pale limbs sprawled in a position of total, relaxed vulnerability. Across his throat was a single, terrifyingly clean horizontal incision that had severed both the carotid artery and the trachea in a single, fluid stroke.
I stepped closer, pulling a small silver knife and a clean linen cloth from my belt pouch. I leaned over the corpse, letting my Witcher senses dissect the crime scene layer by layer.
First: the lack of struggle. There were no defensive bruises on the boy's forearms, no torn fingernails, no signs of thrashing, and no displacement of the pillows beneath his head. His eyes were wide and glazed, caught in a moment of sudden, shock-induced paralysis rather than prolonged terror.
Second: the wound angle. The incision began high on the left side of his neck and drew downward to the right with precise, intimate leverage. The killer hadn't attacked from across the room or leaned awkwardly over the headboard; they had been lying or sitting directly on top of him, inches from his face, executing the strike with an ultra-sharp blade before he could even register the movement.
Third: the scents.
Beneath the heavy vanilla candles and the metallic blood, my mutated olfactory senses picked up the distinct pheromones of recent sexual activity lingering across the boy's skin. And clinging to the sweat on his chest was a faint, unmistakable floral fragrance, a high-end blend of crushed lilacs, mountain elderflowers, and expensive skin oils.
I had smelled that exact floral scent earlier this morning near the Baron's carriage.
I straightened up, turning toward the doorway where Hector, Gregor, and Callidea waited.
"Baron," I said quietly, keeping my tone measured. "I need to speak with Lady Helena. There are a few procedural questions I must ask her regarding what she may have heard through the walls."
Hector frowned slightly, looking exhausted. "Is that truly necessary, Cain? The poor girl doesn't even know her brother has been slaughtered. She's been confined to her chambers since the execution."
Callidea stepped forward, placing a gentle hand on Hector's arm. Her sharp, emerald eyes locked onto mine with subtle, ancient understanding.
"Let him speak with her, Hector," Callidea said softly. "Witchers know what they are looking for. If there is a hidden passage or an assassin lurking in these walls, Helena's safety may depend on what Cain discovers."
Hector hesitated, then gave a slow, defeated nod. "Very well. Her quarters are at the end of the hall, on the right. Gregor, give him access."
"Thank you, my lord," I said. "You will have your answers shortly."
I walked down the quiet corridor to the heavy wooden door at the far end of the hall. Two armored guards stood on either side, their halberds crossing before the threshold until Gregor whistled for them to stand down.
Without knocking, I pushed the heavy door open and stepped inside.
The bedchamber was large, elegant, and filled with the warm, humid mist of steaming water. The fragrance of crushed lilacs and floral bath oils was overwhelming here, far more concentrated than in the hallway.
In the center of the room sat a massive wooden bathing tub filled with hot water and floating flower petals. Reclining casually within the tub, her long, dark brown hair soaked and pinned loosely against her slender neck, was fourteen-year-old Helena.
She was completely naked, scooping warm water with a ceramic bowl and letting it cascade slowly down her pale, glistening shoulders. As the door swung shut behind me, her amber eyes turned toward me for a fraction of a second, entirely devoid of fear, shock, or modesty, before casually looking back toward the water.
"Witcher Cain," Helena remarked, her voice smooth, melodic, and remarkably composed. "To barge into a highborn lady's private quarters without so much as a polite knock. Were you taught no manners in your Witcher school, or does the sudden revelation of my bastardhood make you believe I am no more worthy of respect than a piece of discarded castle furniture?"
I didn't answer immediately. I walked over to the stone wall near the fireplace, leaned my back against the masonry, crossed my arms over my chest, and stared directly at her.
"How long?" I asked flatly.
Helena scooped another bowl of water, pouring it over her collarbones with slow, deliberate grace. "A few minutes, if you don't mind waiting. A proper bath requires patience, and after the chaotic theater my mother and uncle put on this morning, I desperately needed to wash the filth of this castle from my skin."
I held her gaze, my golden cat-like pupils narrowing. "I imagine slitting your own brother's throat after sleeping with him must have been exceptionally exhausting. But that wasn't my question. How long have you been planning this?"
Helena's hands froze for a split second. Then, slowly, a sharp, amused smirk curled the corners of her lips. She turned her head, resting her chin against the rim of the wooden tub, regarding me with bright, calculating amber eyes.
Her heartbeat was astonishingly slow. It was so calm. Rhythmic, and completely untroubled.
"What gave it away, Witcher?" she asked, her tone light and playful.
"I asked you first," I countered.
Helena sighed theatrically, extending a slender, wet arm over the side of the tub. "Please, indulge a lady. After all, you have me cornered and I am completely exposed." She said showing with her hands gesturing outward.
I let out a soft breath through my nose. "When I first investigated the castle rooms for traces of the curse, I entered your brother's quarters. The entire room reeked of sex, sweat, and a very specific blend of lilac and elderflower oils. It wasn't hard to put the pieces together. And just now, when I examined his corpse, that same scent was all over his skin. Add in the angle of the cut, executed from directly above him at point-blank range with zero defensive wounds, and it was obvious he knew his killer intimately."
Helena leaned back against the headrest of the tub, letting out a soft, dismissive chuckle. "Well. It can't be helped, I suppose. Even the best concealment spells can't scrub away every trace of physical pheromones against a Witcher's nose. To answer your question: about two years, on and off."
"Why sleep with him?" I asked, keeping my voice cold. "And why kill him?"
Helena looked at me like I was a child asking why the sun rose in the east. "Really, Cain? You're a made it this far, yet you can't piece together something so painfully simple? My brother was a weak, terrified, pathetic little boy. We slept together out of pure boredom, isolation, and hormonal curiosity. He convinced himself he was desperately in love with me, which made him delightfully easy to control."
"And you didn't love him?"
"Gods, no," Helena sneered, the first genuine flash of disdain breaking through her aristocratic composure. "The idiot didn't even know how to properly touch a woman, let alone how to wield the political power he thought he was entitled to. Eventually, our dear mother caught wind of it because a few chambermaids saw things they shouldn't have. Mother had the servants quietly fed to her pet Leshen, then told us to stop. I told her that if she interfered with me, I would gladly expose her sordid little affair with Lord Harry directly to Baron Hector. We reached an impasse: she ignored my indulgences, and I ignored hers."
"So you knew Lord Harry was your biological father the entire time."
"Of course I did," Helena said smoothly. "I have eyes, ears, and a functioning brain. Nothing that happened in this castle ever escaped my notice."
"Must have been difficult," I remarked dryly. "Being born with magical talent and vast intellectual awareness in a castle full of incompetent schemers."
Helena's amber eyes widened slightly, a genuine, predatory smile spreading across her face. "My, my, Witcher Cain. You noticed that as well? What gave away my magical aptitude?"
"Two things," I replied, ticking them off mentally. "First: your rooms were locked from the outside and guarded by Gregor's men. For you to enter Huether's room, execute him, and return here without alerting the guards in the hallway, you had to use short-range spatial teleportation. Second: my Witcher medallion vibrates whenever I am in close proximity to supernatural conduits. It's been humming ever since I got close too you. And third... your heartbeat."
Helena raised an eyebrow, genuinely intrigued. "My heartbeat?"
"It's the third calmest heartbeat in this entire fortress," I said. "Right behind my own, and Callidea's. Which made things a little more clearer."
A soft, knowing laugh escaped Helena's lips. She raised her right hand from the water, snapping her fingers with a subtle flicker of green Chaos.
Instantly, the water vanished from her skin in a wisp of warm steam, and a luxurious dark green silk robe materialized around her slender frame. She stepped out of the wooden tub with effortless grace, tying the sash tightly around her waist as she walked over to stand less than an arm's reach from me.
"Callidea," Helena murmured, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. "Or, as I know her... my teacher."
I didn't flinch. The puzzle pieces had fallen into place the moment I saw Callidea's calm demeanor in the hallway.
"Callum told me his mother was the smartest woman he ever knew," I said. "She's a master of herbalism, medicine, alchemy, and ancient druidic rituals and more, with a half-elven lifespan far exceeding normal humans. There is no world in which a Leshen rotted this valley for six years without her knowing exactly who conjured it and why."
Helena stepped closer, the sweet fragrance of lilacs and fresh magic rolling off her. "Revenge is a simple word, Cain. Callidea loves Baron Hector, and Hector loves her. But duty and politics kept them apart. Callidea knew about the affair, knew about the Leshen, and knew about the missing servants. But elves are patient creatures. She had centuries to spare. When her children were sent away and the rot threatened to consume everything, she began preparing the board."
"And she found you," I noted.
"She found me, and I found her" Helena agreed, her amber eyes blazing with ambition. "She recognized my magical gifts and my absolute, burning hatred for my mother. Callidea trained me in secret, taught me how to manipulate Chaos, and helped me bide my time. And when you and Callum arrived, the trap snapped shut. Two birds killed with a single stone."
"Why did you hate your mother so much?" I asked.
Helena's composure cracked for a fraction of a second, her jaw clenching with pure, venomous fury. "Because that wretched bitch viewed me as nothing more than livestock! I was meant to be a bargaining chip, married off to some decrepit, abusive lord in the south to secure gold and political contracts for my useless father and incompetent brother! As if I wasn't ten times smarter and more capable than both of them combined! Huether couldn't even wield a training sword without crying, yet he was meant to inherit everything while I was sold into gilded slavery?"
She took a sharp breath, her voice instantly dropping back into its silky, measured cadence. "Well. Now the bitch is headless in the dirt, my brother's throat is open, and no one will ever sell me to anyone."
I studied her for a long moment, feeling the dangerous, sharp intellect radiating from her. "Which brings us to the deal you mentioned."
Helena reached out, resting her slender, warm hands lightly against the leather straps crossing my chest. She tilted her head up, her amber eyes locking onto mine with intoxicating intensity.
"How would you like to be the King of the Elves, Cain?"
I blinked, genuinely caught off guard. "What?"
Helena's lips parted in a sharp, triumphant smirk. She raised her left hand, and from the writing desk across the room, a thick, parchment envelope sealed with dark green wax lifted into the air and floated smoothly into my open palm.
"All you have to do," Helena whispered, "is hold onto that letter. When the time is right, the wax seal will blaze with emerald light. Take it to an certain elf, hand it to them, and say five words: The heir has returned."
I stared down at the sealed envelope, feeling a faint, primordial thrum of ancient magic pulsing beneath the wax.
King of the Elves? The entire concept sounded completely absurd.
"I am a Witcher," I said, looking back at her with heavy skepticism. "A mutated, half-elven monster slayer. Why would any elven group bow to me, and why would I ever want a crown?"
Helena smiled, her fingers lightly tracing the edges of my armor. "Because of who you are, Cain. Do you remember Aiag. Callidea and Aiag belong to an ancient order of druidic elven mages. A secret covenant dedicated to the restoration of the true paramount elven dynasties. I was tasked with delivering this to you by Aiag."
My heart gave a subtle thud. Aiag.
I hadn't heard that name since I completed the Trial of Grasses and Dreams at Kaer Morhen, when I had eavesdropped on the elven druidess speaking with Vesemir about using my blood to restore the Witcher order and how my bloodline is unique anomaly different from the line of Lara Dorren. And now to hear Helena mention her now meant this conspiracy went vastly deeper thanwhat I heard that day.
"And what do you get out of this hypothetical empire?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.
"When you claim your throne," Helena whispered, her amber eyes gleaming with ruthless ambition, "you will grant me the sovereign title of Duchess. Absolute political autonomy, royal resources, and complete authority over the northern provinces. An equal seat at your court."
I almost laughed at the sheer audacity of it. "And why should I even entertain this?"
Helena leaned in impossibly close, her warm breath brushing against the shell of my ear, sending a subtle shiver down my spine.
"Because I can sweeten the pot, Witcher," she murmured seductively. "Callidea's order possesses the lost arcane secrets of cellular transmutation. I can give you the cure to Witcher infertility. I can help you unlock biological and magical thresholds that no mutation has ever reached. And tonight... we can seal this pact with our own bodies. What do you say, Cain?"
I pulled back slightly, looking down into her sharp, beautiful face. Her amber eyes were dilated, burning with a dangerous mixture of calculating ambition and intoxicating allure.
Before I could speak, a heavy fist violently pounded against the outside of the oak door.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
"Cain! Helena!" Baron Hector's anxious, booming voice shouted through the heavy wood. "Is everything all right in there? Open the door!"
Helena didn't let go. Her arms remained wrapped firmly around my chest, her lips inches from mine, her amber eyes daring me to answer.
"Well, Cain..." she whispered, her smirk widening. "What will it be?"
I stood frozen in the candlelit mist, feeling the weight of the sealed envelope in my hand, Hector pounding on the door, and the sheer insanity of the situation pressing down on me.
What the fuck is going on here?