Chereads / The Witcher: Viscount Victore / Chapter 7 - The Cigam Incident.

Chapter 7 - The Cigam Incident.

The sun hung low over the village of Egasrae, casting golden rays that filtered through the treetops and painted the training grounds in a warm, ethereal glow. 

A group of seven eager children, no older than seven, stood in a loose circle, each immersed in the teachings of witchcraft and the disciplined flow of yoga. 

Their young faces glowed with excitement, their bodies bending and twisting as they balanced on one foot or practiced the hand positions for simple spell-casting.

Their mentor, an older Witcher with a wise gaze and calloused hands, demonstrated each movement with patience, his voice calm and encouraging. "Focus on your breath, little ones. Feel the magic of the village beneath your feet, in the rhythm of your breath."

Giggles rippled through the group as one boy toppled over mid-pose, his laughter infectious enough to draw a round of smiles from the others. 

They caught each other's eyes, their young hearts ablaze with the promise of magic yet to be mastered. All except one.

Sitting just beyond the training circle, slouched with his back against a knotted tree trunk, was Victore. 

His green eyes, dark and stormy, glared at the others from beneath his black hair, casting long shadows over his face. 

He wasn't part of their joy, wasn't part of their laughter. Instead, he was bound by an invisible chain, tethered to the sidelines by a mother who had forbidden him to train with the others. 

He was only a boy, yet he understood what it felt like to be separated, set apart from his peers.

Victore's hands clenched, his nails digging into the earth beneath him. He could see the way the children's eyes lit up as they tried their hand at tiny spells, nothing dangerous—sparks of light, wisps of smoke—but it was magic all the same. 

He imagined himself in their circle, feet grounded in the soil, hands moving gracefully through the air. Instead, he wore only simple, worn clothing, feeling every bit the outsider his mother's rules had made him.

"One day, I'll show them all," he muttered under his breath, his gaze narrowing as he watched the other kids marvel at their own small bursts of power.

From their cottage window, Ysara observed him in silence. Her heart tightened as she watched her son, isolated by her choice. 

She knew that this village had expectations, that children his age would normally be taught to harness the powers within them. 

But she couldn't risk him being exposed for who—and what—he truly was. No one else would understand, and even fewer would accept him.

"Victore!" she called, her voice cutting through the children's laughter and her son's brooding silence.

He looked up, the green in his eyes catching the last light of the evening, smoldering with frustration. 

His shoulders slumped, and he pushed himself off the ground, glancing once more at the others as they continued to train without him. 

With a lingering scowl, he trudged toward the cottage, kicking up bits of dirt with each step.

Inside, the warmth of their modest home met him, his mother standing by the window, her gaze soft but unreadable. 

Victore wanted to demand answers, to ask her why he had to be kept apart, why he couldn't join in the only world he'd known. But as he opened his mouth, he found no words. 

Ysara simply put a gentle hand on his shoulder, guiding him further into the quiet sanctuary of their home, her silence speaking louder than any words.

V

The forest was alive with the sound of chattering voices as witches and Witchers combed through the undergrowth, baskets and cloth bags in hand, searching for roots, berries, and wild herbs. Sunlight slanted down in patches through the canopy, casting glimmers over the ground. 

Victore trailed close to his mother, his eyes flicking from plant to plant, taking in every detail of the magical world he was constantly kept on the edge of.

Then, a faint rustling broke through the usual forest hum. A small white bird tumbled from the branches above, landing in a flutter of delicate, glass-like feathers. 

The creature lay still for a moment, dazed but alive, its pearly form catching the light, creating a strange, almost mesmerizing shimmer.

Victore took a step forward, his hand instinctively reaching out to help the fallen creature. But before he could even graze its feathers, his mother's voice rang out, sharp and startling.

"Don't touch it!" Ysara's voice was more urgent than he'd ever heard it.

She moved quickly, pulling him back by his shoulders with a firm, unyielding grip. Victore froze, confusion flashing across his face as he glanced up at her, then back at the bird.

 Around them, the others had stopped to watch. He saw their puzzled expressions, the shared looks of mild amusement—and something else he couldn't quite name—pass between them.

Sam, Ysara's old friend, stepped forward with a playful smile. "Ysara, it's just a cigam. It can't hurt him."

Ysara's expression didn't soften. Only she knew the truth: the cigam bird, beautiful and harmless to those with magic in their veins, held enough raw power to overwhelm a human boy like Victore. 

If he touched it, the bird's magical energy could send him into a convulsive fit, or worse.

Victore, still standing half behind his mother, shifted uncomfortably. He didn't understand her reaction, but he could feel everyone's eyes on him, judging. 

From the edge of the gathering, Gregory, a grizzled Witcher known for his towering presence, crossed his arms and smirked.

"You spoil your son too much," he said, his voice carrying an edge. "My Edgar would fight a dragon if it ever surfaced."

At that, a surge of heat rose in Victore's chest. He clenched his fists, staring down at the ground, feeling the weight of his mother's hand holding him back. 

Why did she always treat him as if he were fragile, as if the slightest danger would break him? 

He felt a simmering anger, a quiet frustration at the edge of his thoughts, but he buried it down.

Ysara said nothing to Gregory, only tightened her hold on Victore's arm and steered him away from the curious eyes of the villagers. 

Victore followed her obediently, but he couldn't shake the feeling of shame, the way Gregory's words stung deeper than he wanted to admit.

Back in the quiet shelter of the trees, he glanced up at his mother's determined expression. He didn't understand why she treated him this way—so cautiously, like he was made of glass. 

But a part of him wanted to believe it was because she loved him, perhaps even more than the others were loved by their families. And yet, in his heart, he swore he'd show her someday. He was not weak.