Vesemir led his chestnut mare through the winding path, enjoying the peacefulness of the forest. The sound of birds chirping and leaves rustling in the admittedly icy breeze provided a welcome respite from his arduous journey. As he reached the clearing, he cast a glance at the now moss-filled rocky formations that protruded over the Gwenllech River.
The uneven stones were a key obstacle in the training of young initiates at the School of the Wolf. Instead of taking the dirt road, the boys were required to leave the keep through the dense forest, navigating the wilderness from within. They leapt over thick roots, ducked beneath low-hanging branches, and pressed forward without losing their balance or sense of direction. The final and most grueling challenge was crossing the river, using the jutting stones as footholds—an ordeal that tested both agility and reflexes.
The rocks were not only dangerously sharp but also very slippery, resulting in the deaths of several youths from drowning or lacerations. "They named it the Killer," Vesemir muttered, "and rightfully so. It was supposed to complement our training regimen, but it turned out to be a death trap for so many," he lamented, letting out a slow, weary breath he hadn't noticed he was holding.
A moment of silence later, he nudged the reins and moved forward. Through forested paths and weaving roads that would prove labyrinthine to anyone who didn't know the way, he rode, longing to finally see and rest at his old home.
A hill and a turn later, he finally saw it. Kaer Morhen, in all its ancient glory, a fortress situated atop a steep hill, surrounded by a moat that seemed to be carved out of the very rock beneath it. With its back against the mountain range of the Blue Mountains, its high walls, the sprawling forest beneath it, and the rolling hills surrounding it, the archaic castle drew a menacing picture for all who sought to conquer it.
"I am back, old friend," he whispered, smiling.
He spurred his horse forward, eager to find tranquility in the ancient fortress that had been his home for almost two centuries. His mare, sharing its master's eagerness to find shelter in the closed walls of the fort, galloped at a frenzied pace. The sound of her hooves echoed through the forest, adding to the cacophony of sounds.
As they approached Kaer Morhen and crossed the drawbridge, Vesemir's gaze fell upon the moat. Among the snow-dusted debris and tangled overgrowth, he spotted fragments of skulls and bones, their surfaces worn down by time, nearly crumbling to dust. The sight dragged him back to memories of a battle—a massacre that should never have happened, yet did.
Misguided peasants, roused by the xenophobic propaganda of Monstrum, or a Portrayal of Witchers, and led by greedy mages, had besieged the castle, slaughtering everyone inside. In the summer of 1172, twenty-three witchers and forty students—many of them mere children—perished, along with the rogue sorcerers who had overseen the mutation process. Only those who had been beyond the keep's walls at the time of the attack survived.
That bloodstained day marked the beginning of the end for the order. Though the grandmaster and fencing instructor were replaced, the remaining mages lacked the knowledge and skill to conduct the mutations properly. With each failed experiment, more aspirants died, and everything came to an end in 1236 with the sudden disappearance of their last magician.
Vesemir clenched the reins tightly, his grip white-knuckled as anger and sorrow swelled within him. "You created us to protect humanity from the horrors lurking in the dark," he murmured. "Yet, when you deemed our purpose fulfilled, you butchered us like the very monsters we were trained to destroy. And still… I do not resent you, for I understand the terror the unknown breeds."
He fell silent for a moment, his fingers wrapping around his silver medallion. "What I cannot fathom," he whispered, "is why you did not stop after killing the mages and the witchers. Why murder the children? Why?"
After a moment, he shook his head and drew a deep breath, steadying himself with the practiced motions of meditation—rituals he had performed a thousand times before. Yet, he knew it was nothing more than a futile exercise. His sentimentality—the lingering shred of humanity within him—could neither forget nor forgive that atrocity.
Still, there was nothing he could do now. The past was immutable. Those who had taken part in that slaughter were long gone—either rotting in the moat beneath his feet, their black, hollow sockets gazing up at him in silent reproach, or lost to the relentless march of time.
Leaving the gastly scene behind, he passed over the drawbridge and under the barbican, which formed an unending black tunnel dotted with columns and arcades. A short trot later, he found himself in the vast outer courtyard.
"Home." Vesemir said with awe and affection in his voice, all his previous grievances already forgotten.
He leapt off his horse and led it to the stables with a light step, unusual for a man his age. Fastening the reins to one of the posts, he grabbed a bundle of hay and spread it inside the feeder. Waiting for his partner to finish eating, he peered around the stables, soaking in the familiar sights and smells.
He noticed the old, abused straw columns that served as practice targets for their sword style and the pendulum set atop the battlements; a wooden fence with its upper end flattened and a wooden load bearing post holding a hefty trunk linked to a chain above it.
A smile crept up his face as he remembered the young girl trying to slice and dice her 'opponent' with her little sword. Pirouetting and pouncing on the target like a she-cat while offering snarky remarks at her instructors who tried to remedy her mistakes.
"She might had been a handful," Vesemir mused, his voice carrying the weight of fond reminiscence, "but to this day, she remains one of my finest trainees."
Initially, the old wolf had no idea what to do with the child when Geralt brought her to Kaer Morhen. A scared and traumatized little girl in the midst of superhuman mutants whose very glare could bring a grown man to his knees. At first, Ciri was clinging to Geralt, her only source of comfort in this strange and unfamiliar place. But as time went on, she began to open up to the other witchers, and even Lambert, known for his prickly and agitating character, took a liking to the girl.
As the months trickled by, they taught her how to fight with a sword, how to track monsters, and how to brew potions and oils. She learned the intricacies of monster anatomy and how to use that knowledge to her advantage in battle.
But it wasn't just combat skills that she acquired during her time with the witchers. She also learned about their code of ethics, their unwavering loyalty to each other, and their deep sense of duty towards protecting humanity from monsters.
And though Ciri would eventually leave Kaer Morhen to seek magical tutelage under the famous—and infamous—Yennefer of Vengerberg, she would never forget the lessons she learned there or the family she found within its walls.
"I often find myself wondering about her, that little she-devil," Vesemir admitted with a chuckle tinged with affection.
The snort of his mare jolted Vesemir back to reality. He approached her, scooped up a handful of hay, and began brushing his horse. "You are right. Must be the old age. And they say witchers have no emot-"
Suddenly, Vesemir's wolven medallion started humming and hopping against his chest, which meant there was magic close by or a magical creature.
"Pox take it all! Can't a man have his vacation!" He threw away the hay and drew his silver sword from its scabbard, ready to face whatever was coming his way. Yet, as moments passed, nothing stirred. He glanced at his medallion, still vibrating. "Bloody thing must be broken."
Then, without warning, it happened. The sky darkened abruptly, and a swirling mass of black nothingness materialized above the castle's inner courtyard, menacingly poised to engulf everything in its path. From the heart of the void, a ferocious wind roared, whipping around erratically. The ancient fortifications, already weathered and worn, groaned and trembled under the onslaught of this unnatural force. Centuries-old stone and hastily erected wooden supports splintered and cracked, hurtling into the void as if drawn by an irresistible magnet.
Vesemir swore under his breath and cast Axii to calm down his horse, which had reared up in terror at the wailing wind. Though the gravitational pull hadn't yet reached them, Vesemir knew that if left unchecked, it would inevitably bring the entire castle crumbling down. Despite his initial apprehension, his love for his home burned too fiercely to stand idly by and watch it succumb to ruin.
He grumbled something fierce, pulled a dimeritium bomb from his pouch, and made his way towards the source of the disturbance. As he approached, he had to cast Quen, summoning the translucent, yellowish sphere that would shield him from the debris. The barrier held strong against the onslaught of rubble and sharp projectiles, its shimmering surface flickering with each impact. But near the arched doorway to the inner courtyard, a new threat emerged: gravity itself.
His feet began to lift off the ground, and with no time to waste, he quickly retreated, pressing himself against the nearest wall to avoid being swept away. All my signs are useless in this situation.
As Vesemir considered his options, an epiphany struck him—a simple solution to his perilous predicament. If everything is drawn to that 'thing,' I just need to ignite the bomb and let it fly toward it. A simpleton's plan, certainly, but beggars can't be choosers.
With his 'plan' in place, Vesemir ignited the bomb using a lesser version of Igni and hurled it toward the gaping hole. The bomb shot through the air, trailing a stream of smoke as it sped toward its target. Vesemir held his breath as it detonated just before reaching the void, erupting in a burst of dimeritium particles that began to consume the swirling darkness. The void's grip faltered with each passing second until it faded away, as if it had never existed in the first place.
Vesemir let out a sigh of relief and collapsed to the ground. While witchers are trained extensively to combat all sorts of supernatural creatures, curses, and phenomena, that spatial distortion had been unlike anything the old wolf had ever encountered.
"Just when you think you've seen it all..." Vesemir shook his head in disbelief, picked himself up and cautiously approached the inner courtyard that led to the main keep.
As expected, the sight that greeted him was one of utter destruction. The once orderly courtyard had been reduced to a chaotic tangle of wreckage and debris. Fortunately, the walls and fortifications stood proud and tall. The damage was minimal to the actual facilities themselves. But the same could not be said for the surrounding area. Trees lay uprooted and scattered like matchsticks, and the earth itself had been torn apart, leaving deep furrows in its wake.
Vesemir's eyes scanned the area, searching for any signs of life or movement. Despite the near impossibility of survival in such devastation, he remained vigilant. As he carefully crept toward the main entrance of the keep, a glimpse of a hand, slightly jutting out from the rubble caught his attention.
Moving the wreckage out of the way, he saw... a man. An impossibly tall man in his early twenties, with a wide frame and muscled like a bull. His face was obscured by a lice-infested, untrimmed beard and long, unkempt hair that cascaded well past his shoulders.
His shirtless torso was caked in filth and covered in scars both old and new. In spite of that, his breathing was steady, and he appeared to be merely unconscious.
Vesemir removed his silver medallion and placed it gently on the man's chest. The magically enchanted artifact showed no signs of movement or humming, and the man neither twitched nor transformed upon its contact. "He's not a magical creature," the old wolf muttered, his gaze shifting over the rest of the body. "No evident traces of spells, and I'd be damned if a mage or druid possessed that kind of physique."
He continued his examination, his hands steady as he checked the man's pulse and eyes. "He seems to be in decent health, which is a miracle in itself, but I'll need to inspect him further to determine if there are any fractured bones or internal bleeding. Also, the cut on his abdomen and the multiple lacerations will need constant attention."
Content with his findings and downright curious about the origins of the mysterious stranger before him, Vesemir knelt down and cautiously tried to lift the unconscious man. Unfortunately for him, he was as heavy as he looked.
"I'm too old for this shit," Vesemir grumbled, but after a moment of effort, he finally managed to hoist the man over his shoulder. With a grunt, he began the short trek into Kaer Morhen proper.