SERAPHINA
Seraphina's footsteps echoed in the grand corridors of the palace as she stormed out, her mind a tempest of frustration. Darnell's words still rang in her ears, a bitter aftertaste of disappointment she hadn't anticipated. The cold stone walls, adorned with the symbols of their lineage, seemed to close in around her. She needed air, space to think.
But as she paced near the gallery, waiting for Vernon, she grew impatient. Her brother always took solace in the clash of steel, retreating to the training yard when life's troubles weighed heavily on him. And today was no different. She knew where to find him.
Seraphina swept through the halls, her gown flowing behind her like the tail of a comet, until she reached her chambers. A servant entered, bowing deeply before speaking.
"Your Highness, what may I assist you with?"
"Where is Vernon?" she asked sharply, her voice cutting through the still air.
The servant hesitated, then answered, "He is in the training yard, practicing his swordsmanship, Your Highness."
"Take me to him," Seraphina commanded, her eyes narrowing. She had no patience left for delay.
As they made their way through the palace grounds, the sharp clang of swords rang in the distance, growing louder with each step. When they arrived at the gallery overlooking the training yard, Seraphina immediately spotted Vernon. He was in the midst of a brutal sparring session, his wooden sword an extension of his arm as it crashed against his opponent's shield with relentless force.
His movements were swift, precise, yet there was a ferocity to them, a fire that burned hotter than usual. Sweat poured down his face, but Vernon didn't seem to notice. His eyes were locked in, his muscles taut, his focus unwavering. Every strike was delivered with the intensity of a man who was fighting not just his sparring partner but the battles within his own mind.
Seraphina's gaze drifted across the training yard, scanning the faces of the onlookers. Among them, one figure stood out—Nina Darnell. The young lady stood off to the side, her brown eyes glued to Vernon, her lips slightly parted as if entranced. She didn't blink once. Her attention was singular, and Seraphina noticed.
With a graceful but purposeful step, Seraphina approached Nina. Her presence was commanding, as always, but this time there was a quieter edge to her.
"Do you like my brother?" Seraphina asked, her voice soft but cutting, her eyes locked onto Nina.
Startled, Nina snapped out of her reverie and quickly bowed. "Princess, it's an honor to see you."
Seraphina's gaze didn't waver. She took a step closer. "I asked you a question, Lady Nina. Do you like my brother?"
Nina blushed, her fingers twitching at her side. "N-No, Your Highness. It's not that. We're... we're to be married soon. I thought it best to get to know him."
"Hmm," Seraphina responded, the sound more thoughtful than accusing. "Is that all?"
Before Nina could reply, the loud clash of wooden swords echoed once more from the yard, pulling their attention back to Vernon. His sparring partner was barely able to keep up, and with a final, violent swing, Vernon sent the man's sword flying across the yard. It clattered against the stones, and the fight was over. Vernon stood panting, the remnants of his rage still simmering in his chest.
As he turned to walk away, his eyes fell on Seraphina and Nina. His brow furrowed, and his lips pressed into a thin line. He wiped the sweat from his forehead, his eyes dark with the lingering adrenaline of the fight. Seeing him approach, Nina instinctively reached for her handkerchief, but Seraphina was faster, extending her own to Vernon.
Vernon took it without a word, wiping his face. "What are you two doing here?" he asked, his voice rough.
"Nothing of consequence," Seraphina replied, her tone casual, though her eyes studied him closely.
Vernon's gaze shifted between the two women before landing back on his sister. He could feel her probing questions coming, even before she asked.
"Tell me," Seraphina started, her voice dropping slightly, "why were you so... aggressive just now?"
"Nothing," Vernon responded, his voice tight.
But Seraphina wasn't convinced. She knew her brother well enough to sense when something was wrong. And now, with Nina watching, Vernon seemed even more closed off.
She turned to Nina. "Lady Nina, leave us. I need to speak with my brother."
Nina hesitated for only a moment before bowing and beginning to walk away. But before she could get far, Vernon's voice cut through the air like the edge of a blade.
"Why? There's nothing to talk about." His words were sharp, defensive, as he turned and strode back toward the training yard.
Seraphina watched him go, her lips pressing into a thin line of irritation. After a moment, she sighed and turned on her heel, making her way back to her chambers. Her thoughts swirled, dark and brooding, as the day wore on.
Later that evening, during the dinner, Vernon sat at the long, polished table, his tension more palpable than ever. The candles flickered softly, casting shadows across his face, but nothing could hide the storm brewing behind his eyes. His plate clattered against the fine china as he pushed it away.
Lady Darnell glanced at him, her expression one of concern. "You seem tired, Prince," she ventured carefully. "Would you like us to arrange something for you?"
Vernon paused mid-bite, his fork hovering in the air. He stared at her, his gaze sharp enough to cut. But before he could reply, Lord Darnell's voice rang out across the table.
"LEAVE."
His wife froze, then silently stood and left the room, her steps barely audible.
As the door closed behind her, Lord Darnell turned to Vernon, his face inscrutable. "Prince, would you care to join me for a walk after dinner?"
Vernon gave a curt nod, pushing back his chair and standing.
The evening air was crisp as they walked through the gardens, the silence between them thick with unspoken words. The moon hung low in the sky, casting a silver glow over the path ahead. After what felt like an eternity, Vernon broke the silence.
"The Skaldrith tribe," he began, his voice uncertain. "They're ruthless. How could they fight for someone they don't even know?"
Lord Darnell's footsteps slowed, his gaze drifting to the horizon. His voice, when he finally spoke, was low and cryptic.
"Ah, Skaldrith," he said softly. "The wolves who howl not at the moon, but at the silence between its phases. They are a people forged in frost and steel, knowing neither warmth nor name, for names melt away like snow. What binds them is not the blood in your veins, but the blood you are willing to spill."
Vernon frowned, confusion clouding his features.
"They don't follow a face, a banner, or even a promise," Darnell continued, his voice growing more intense. "They follow the wind—the one that roars and carves paths through mountains and men alike. Stranger or king, it matters not. What matters is the storm within you. If they see it, they will follow you. To the ends of the earth or to the end of you."
Darnell's gaze sharpened as he turned to face Vernon fully. "The Skaldrith fight not for knowledge, Prince, but for the sharpest edge. And they will follow that edge until it breaks... or until it cuts through bone."
Vernon's brow furrowed. "I don't understand."
Lord Darnell smirked, shaking his head slightly. "I expected as much."
He stopped walking, his eyes locking onto Vernon's. "The Skaldrith survive for two things—food and pleasure. They care little for kings or leaders, and they do not even respect their own."
Vernon's confusion deepened. "So how do I make them respect me?"
Darnell's smirk faded, replaced with a hard look. "You give them what they crave."
After a beat, he added, "Their leader provides nothing for them. He takes the best for himself. Show them you are different. Show them you can be their true leader."
Vernon's mind raced. "And how do I do that?"
Darnell took a step closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "That's for you to figure out, Prince. You're the one who wishes to rule."
With that, he turned and continued walking, leaving Vernon to stand in the moonlit garden, his thoughts in turmoil.
GERALT
Ronan was halfway through a meal when his brother Jareth approached him with urgency.
"Brother, the king wants to see you."
Ronan choked on his food in surprise, reaching for his water to clear his throat. Without hesitation, he stood, following his brother out the door.
Geralt stood tall beside his horse, his presence commanding even in the casual setting of the stables. Ansel and Lucan flanked him, the trio preparing for a day that promised more than just sport—it was a test of strength and skill, of power and control, both of which were traits Geralt had long mastered.
Ronan approached in hurried strides, his breath visible in the crisp morning air, the weight of his title clear in his posture. Though he was young, there was an undeniable determination in his eyes—one that both impressed and amused the older men.
"Good morning, Your Majesty," Ronan greeted Geralt, the formality slipping out naturally, though a bit stiff. His voice was steady, but Geralt could sense the undercurrent of nerves.
Geralt swung himself onto his horse with ease, the leather of his saddle creaking softly. He glanced down at Ronan, a slight smirk playing on his lips. "Better now, since you'll be our guide today, kid."
Ronan blinked, confusion flickering across his face. "Sorry?" he asked, hesitating. This wasn't part of the plan—he had assumed they were heading out alone.
"You're coming with us to hunt," Geralt said, his tone casual but firm, leaving no room for Ronan to refuse.
Ronan opened his mouth to protest, the uncertainty on his face clear as he looked from Geralt to the other men. "Bu—"
Before Ronan could finish, Ansel, leaning casually against the side of the stable, cut in with a wicked grin. "Looks like the princess is on her monthly flows," he quipped, the tease laden with mockery.
Ronan clenched his jaw as he stood by the stable, still fuming from Geralt and Ansel's taunting. He glanced toward the stable boy, waiting impatiently for his horse. It wasn't just the hunting trip that had his blood boiling; it was the constant teasing, the shadow of doubt cast over his ability, and the ever-present reminder of his youth among men who had seen more battles than he could imagine.
As he waited, Geralt's voice still echoed in his ears: "Is that it, Princess?" His pride screamed at him to prove them wrong, to show them that despite his age, he was more than capable. The weight of the Winterbane name rested heavily on his shoulders, and Ronan refused to let anyone think he was too soft for it.
When the stable boy finally brought his horse and handed him a bow, Ronan mounted in one fluid motion, his posture rigid with determination. He led the hunting party toward the dense forest that bordered Coldcave, his eyes scanning the thick underbrush, already mapping out their route in his mind.
The forest air was sharp with the scent of pine and damp earth, the cold biting at their exposed skin. As they ventured deeper, the sounds of nature grew louder—the rustling of leaves, the soft scurry of small creatures, and the distant call of birds in the canopy above. Ronan's keen eyes caught movement ahead, but it was just a rabbit darting into the undergrowth.
He turned slightly in his saddle, his voice steady as he spoke to Geralt. "In the North, you can expect to find deer or rabbits. If you're lucky, maybe a bear."
Ansel, riding close behind, couldn't resist a jab. "And how much have you hunted, really?"
Ronan's grip tightened on his reins, and he shot a sharp glance over his shoulder at Ansel. "The last thing I tried to hunt was someone's eye, Prince."
The air between them crackled with tension for a brief moment before Geralt let out a low chuckle. "You've got your father's sense of humor."
At those words, Geralt's smile faded, replaced by a distant look that Ronan recognized immediately. The king's thoughts were elsewhere now, trapped in some memory, his eyes clouded with the ghosts of the past.
Geralt's mind drifted far away, back to a time long before Ronan's birth. The image of his father, Vyreth, filled his thoughts—an imposing figure standing in the shadow of a massive stone citadel. The wind whipped through Vyreth's dark hair as he faced the mighty Zephyros, the last of the dragonkind.
"Ves na kraal thar," Zephyros had said, his deep voice reverberating through the canyon, carrying with it the ancient weight of forgotten promises and betrayed oaths.
Geralt could still see the defiance in his father's eyes as Vyreth had responded, his voice steady despite the threat before him. "Uth nar vehr na sharu nol, Zephyros."
It had been a tense exchange—one that Geralt, as a child hidden in the shadows, hadn't fully understood at the time. But now, the weight of those words pressed down on him with a force that nearly crushed him. The ancient tongue, Velqaar, spoke of bonds long severed, of loyalties questioned, of a power older than kingdoms themselves.
Geralt blinked, shaking his head as the scene faded, only to be replaced by a much more recent one. The memory of his father's final moments clawed at his mind. The pain in Vyreth's voice as he'd whispered his last words, his body broken, his breath shallow.
"Geralt... remember."
And then Zephyros had appeared in the mist of his dying vision. The dragonlord, with eyes that burned like the heart of a flame, had stared into Geralt's soul, as if he were about to speak.
But just as Zephyros opened his mouth, Geralt felt himself being wrenched back to the present. His eyes snapped open to find himself lying in a soft bed, disoriented and drenched in sweat.
The sounds of his present reality came back slowly—the crackling of a nearby hearth, the muffled voices of Rein and Lyanna, speaking in hushed tones near the door.
As Geralt tried to sit up, his body protested, weak and aching. His vision swam for a moment before clearing, and he caught fragments of their conversation.
"He's been having these visions more frequently," Rein was saying, his tone laced with concern.
"You should be resting, Your Majesty," Adeline's voice chimed in softly as she stepped closer to his bedside.
Geralt waved them all off, his hand shaking slightly. "Leave me. All of you."
Rein hesitated, his brow furrowing in frustration. "You're not well, Geralt. You need to—"
"Leave," Geralt snapped, his voice hoarse but filled with enough authority to send the others out the door without another word.
Only Rein stayed behind, his eyes narrowed with frustration but also deep concern. When the door clicked shut, Rein stepped closer to his king, arms crossed over his chest. "What happened to you? Are you ill?"
Geralt lay back against the pillows, his gaze distant as he stared up at the stone ceiling. "I saw him."
Rein's face tightened. "Saw who?"
"Zephyros," Geralt whispered, barely loud enough for Rein to hear.
The silence that followed was thick, and Rein didn't speak for several long moments. When he finally did, his voice was cautious, laced with disbelief. "You're having hallucinations again."
"Shut up," Geralt growled, anger flaring in his eyes as he shot Rein a venomous look.
Rein sighed heavily, dragging a chair over and sitting down beside the bed. His face softened just a bit, concern shadowing his eyes. "Fine. What was he saying this time? More Velqaarian nonsense?"
Geralt nodded, the weight of the ancient language still pressing down on his chest. He had heard the words in his dreams so often now that they were starting to bleed into his waking thoughts. The language, once foreign and strange, now felt like an unwelcome guest in his mind.
Rein stood, his frustration breaking through again as he walked to the door, hand resting on the knob as if he were ready to leave. "You need to get out of Coldcave, Geralt," he muttered, not even turning to look back at the king.
When Geralt didn't respond, Rein left the room, his footsteps echoing down the corridor until all was silent again.
Geralt lay there, staring at the ceiling, his thoughts consumed by the dragonlord's words. Ves na kraal thar. The ancient language swirled in his mind, but the meaning still eluded him. What was Zephyros trying to tell him? What did it all mean?
The cold wind outside howled against the stone walls of Coldcave, and Geralt felt the weight of it press against his chest.
NOTE : FOR THE FIRST TIME I HAVE TRIED MORE DESCRIPTIVE WRITING. PLEASE TELL ME IS IT GOOD OR THE PREVIOUS ONE