The air was thick with incense and murmured chants as the village prepared for the covenant celebration.
Emily's son had been born on the seventh night of Ysara's return, and the villagers were abuzz, eager to welcome the child with the ancient rite of Marking, a baptismal ritual of sorts that recognized the newborn as one of Egasrae's own.
Every child born here—whether witch or Witcher—had passed through this rite, receiving a mystical mark that connected them to the village's protective magic, to its ancient wisdom, and to the community of magic that surrounded them.
Ysara clutched Victore's tiny hand as they approached the center, her heart pounding. She wasn't just attending for Emily's son; the villagers had subtly insisted that Victore, too, should receive the Mark, having returned after so long.
No one knew his true nature—only she did, and she feared how the magic would react to his human blood. But refusing could risk exposing him just as much as participating.
The ritual leader, an elder Witcher named Caelum, raised his arms, beginning the ancient words of blessing, his voice rising like the hum of bees.
One by one, the parents brought their children forward to receive the mark—a symbol traced on their foreheads with a shimmering ink made from rare herbs and the dust of enchanted stones.
Each child sat still, their tiny foreheads lighting up with a faint, ethereal glow as the mark took hold, connecting them to the village's magical essence.
When it was Victore's turn, Ysara's breath caught. She watched Caelum's gnarled fingers as he traced the mark on her son's brow.
For a moment, nothing happened—then, against her worst fears, the mark shimmered faintly, accepting him.
A soft glow pulsed from his forehead, blending in with the marks of all the other children.
Ysara's relief was overwhelming, though she knew her fears weren't over. Victore may have survived the marking, but she could no longer risk such exposure.
He had survived today, but he was still human, fragile, and she vowed that this would be the last time he would be treated as a Witcher.
When the ceremony ended, the villagers cheered, laughing as the children were paraded around. But as Ysara held Victore close, she whispered softly, "Never again, my little one. You'll be safe—I won't let them take you from me."
The celebration swelled around them as villagers danced and chanted, the rhythm of the drums echoing under the night sky.
Laughter and joy filled the air, but Ysara's attention remained focused on Victore, who was bundled safely in her arms, his tiny face half-hidden in his blanket.
"You don't know how happy I am that our Victore is older than that boy," Sam leaned in, her words nearly drowned out by the revelry.
Ysara gave her friend a look, surprised at her intensity. "He's innocent," she replied, a hint of reprimand in her tone. "There's no need to dislike the child already."
Sam's expression darkened, her lips curving into a fierce smirk. "Oh, he won't be for long," she muttered. "And I can't wait for the day I finally use a blindness spell on his father's persistent eyes."
Ysara stiffened. "Is he still looking?" she asked, unable to keep the hint of weariness from her voice.
"He never stops." Sam's eyes gleamed with barely veiled annoyance. Gregory had been a constant shadow in Ysara's life for as long as she could remember, and even now, he couldn't seem to accept her independence, especially now that she'd returned with a child.
"He looks at me as if I'd betrayed him by coming back with a son," Ysara said quietly, bitterness lacing her words. "Meanwhile, he fathered his own with Emily—a woman who was once my frenemy."
Sam scoffed. "Let him stew. I'm glad Victore isn't his."
"So am I," Ysara murmured, gazing down at her son.
Sam paused, then added with a half-smile, "Though he doesn't exactly look like you."
Ysara chuckled, nudging her. "He has my hair color. Close enough."
"Fine, fine," Sam agreed, she's suspicious but decided she'd trust her friend.
Ysara frowned, but a smile softened her face as she looked at Victore again. Almost on cue, the boy peeked up from his wrap, his bright eyes wide with wonder.
He let out a delighted laugh, his joy cutting through the noise around them and sending a warm rush through Ysara's heart.
Holding him close, she realized, maybe for the first time, just how much purpose he'd brought to her life.
Her love and duty were no longer scattered between the whims of the village and the demands of those around her. Victore was her focus now.
She held him tighter, whispering to him amid the sounds of dancing and laughter, "My only purpose is to protect you and keep you alive." And with that, her path forward had never felt clearer.
V
Years Later.
V
"Victore!" Ysara called, setting his small dinner plate on the bench. Silence greeted her, which was unusual.
She waited a moment, her eyes scanning the cottage for any sign of him. It had been two years since she'd returned with him, and even though he could barely walk, she wasn't used to him being so quiet.
Frowning, Ysara started searching the cottage, glancing under tables and around the bed. Victore was nowhere to be found. Her frown deepened as she hurried outside, almost colliding with Miriam, one of the local girls.
"Did you see my son?" Ysara asked, trying to mask her growing worry.
"No," Miriam said, glancing around. "Did he wander off?"
"He can barely walk! I didn't expect him to be out at all," Ysara muttered, her worry now edged with panic.
She hurried to Sam's house and burst in, her face pale. "Did he come here?" she asked, breathless.
"Who?" Sam raised an eyebrow, taken aback by her friend's urgency.
"Victore!" Ysara replied sharply.
Sam gave a nervous laugh, looking out the window as if expecting the toddler to magically appear. "He's two years old, Ysara! How could he wander far?"
"Exactly! But he's not in the compound," Ysara replied, her voice tight with frustration.
"What?" Sam's voice rose in alarm. Realizing the gravity of the situation, she joined Ysara, both of them rushing outside, calling his name.
As their shouts echoed, a ripple of concern spread through the village, and soon, nearly everyone was looking for Victore.
Ysara felt a knot of dread tightening in her stomach as dusk began to settle over the village. She had already combed through the outskirts of the forest, telling herself he couldn't have gone far. Refusing to believe he had gone that far because that meant he was even at more risk of being hurt.
Just when she was starting to lose rationality, she spotted something familiar on the forest floor—a little moss ball, one of Victore's favorite treasures. Her heart leapt.
"Victore!" she called, her voice trembling.
"Mama…" came a soft, stuttering reply that made her freeze, her heart soaring. She scanned the trees, only to stop in horror as she saw him.
High up in a tree, Victore was perched on a thick branch, smiling down at her as if this were an ordinary thing for a two-year-old to do.
"Victore! How did you get up there?" Ysara whispered in shock, her face pale. She could hardly believe her eyes.
Her human son, with his delicate little hands and short, stumbling steps, had somehow climbed a tree.
"Mama!" Victore cooed, grinning with the innocent joy that never failed to melt her heart. But this time, fear outweighed her usual fondness.
"Don't move!" Ysara called, her voice filled with desperate urgency, but Victore, laughing, shifted slightly on the branch and down he was coming.
Sam, who had caught up, turned to the small crowd of kids who had gathered. "Did any of you put him up there?" she demanded.
"No!" A chorus of confused "no's" rippled through the children and a few concerned adults, all looking at each other, equally mystified.
But Ysara had already sprung into action. With one fluid movement, she scaled the tree, catching and gathering Victore carefully into her arms.
The relief washed over her so strongly she didn't even care about the crowd watching, or the questions buzzing around her. She held her son tightly, heading back to her cottage, ignoring everything and everyone else.
In the quiet of her room, Ysara finally let herself breathe. She lifted Victore, bringing his chubby little face to her own, and his smile was as radiant as ever.
She sighed, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead.
He babbled happily, nuzzling into her, blissfully unaware of the worry he had caused.
Looking at him now, she felt an overwhelming surge of love, one that had grown steadily over the past two years. Any thoughts she once had about returning him to his origins had long since faded.
This child was hers, and no one—not even Punditesos—could take him from her.