The moon hung high above the northeastern farmlands of Ban Ard, drenching the dew-covered fields in silver light. Alaric moved silently, his boots crunching softly against the hardened ground. His steel sword rested on his back, but his silver blade hung ready at his hip, faintly catching the moon's glow. He crouched near a broken fence, studying deep, jagged claw marks raked into the wood. Too wide for wolves. Ghouls.
The stench of rot drifted on the breeze, faint but unmistakable, confirming his suspicions. He followed the scent toward a crumbling barn, each step deliberate, every muscle tense. Something waited in the shadows. His medallion vibrated softly against his chest.
The first ghoul sprang from the dark with a guttural snarl, claws swiping for his throat. Alaric ducked and rolled, the creature's claws grazing the air where his head had been. He came up swinging, his silver blade carving into the ghoul's flank. Black blood sprayed, steaming in the cold night as the creature howled and retreated.
Three more ghouls emerged from the gloom, snarling and circling, their fangs glinting in the pale light. He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword.
They attacked in unison.
The nearest lunged for his legs, but Alaric was faster, driving his blade down into its skull. Bone cracked, and the creature's body went limp. He yanked his sword free, spinning just in time to meet the second ghoul with a burst of telekinetic force. The blast sent it hurtling into a haystack, limbs flailing.
A third charged, claws slashing for his chest. Alaric caught the blow on his bracer, sparks flying as the metal deflected the strike. The force sent him stumbling, but he recovered, countering with a wide, brutal slash that nearly cleaved the creature in half. Its torso split open, spilling black entrails onto the frozen ground as it collapsed in a twitching heap.
The last ghoul hesitated, growling low, its yellowed eyes darting between him and the corpses of its pack. Alaric didn't give it the chance to flee. He surged forward, slamming his shoulder into the creature's chest to knock it off balance. It stumbled, and he drove his blade into its throat. Black ichor gushed over his hands as the creature gurgled and fell limp.
Silence returned to the farm, broken only by Alaric's labored breathing. He wiped his blade on the grass, surveying the carnage. Ghouls lay scattered, their twisted forms still under the moonlight.
A rustle behind him.
He turned, but too late. Another ghoul—the straggler—burst from the shadows, its claws slashing across his back. He staggered forward, biting back a cry of pain. The wound burned, sharp and cold, a shallow but painful reminder of his lack of Quen.
Alaric clenched his jaw, his frustration and pain briefly overwhelming his focus. He turned swiftly, sending a charge of pure force from his palm. The ghoul, caught in mid-air as it prepared for another strike, was sent hurtling backwards, crashing violently into the wall of the barn.
Blood dripped from Alaric's wounds as he straightened. "YOU DAMNED CREATURE!" he roared.
His medallion vibrated fiercely against his chest, but this time it was not from the ghouls, it was from Alaric himself!
The words were a primal release, each syllable seething with rage. Flames erupted from his outstretched palm. Wild, furious torrents of fire, fed by his anger. The blaze roared as it consumed the ghoul in a fiery inferno, its flesh crackling and splitting, the stench of burning rot choking the air.
The ghoul writhed and screamed, its body convulsing as the flames grew hotter, brighter. The fire didn't merely kill—it devoured. Alaric's anger burned as fiercely as the flames, his hand steady as he unleashed everything on the creature. The light reflected in his amber eyes, glowing with an intensity that matched the inferno before him.
When the flames finally subsided, the creature lay in a smoldering heap, and a section of the barn's wall was charred and burnt away.
...…
Alaric sat under a tree not far from the farmers' huts, moonlight glinting off the edge of his blood-streaked blade as he carefully dressed his wound. The wound was shallow but messy, the claw marks jagged and raw, stinging but far from life-threatening.
He pulled a flask of alcohol from his satchel and poured it over the cut. His teeth clenched as the liquid seared the flesh, pain sharp. He grimaced, tying the makeshift bandage tightly to stem the bleeding.
He wiped his blade clean on the grass, slid it back into its sheath, and leaned against the tree. "Damn thing got lucky," he muttered under his breath. The battle replayed in his mind—his misstep, and the momentary lapse in composure from the pain. A Witcher without Quen needed to be doubly cautious, and he chastised himself silently.
The night was quiet now. Alaric closed his eyes, steadying his breathing. He crossed his legs and rested his hands on his knees, trying to fall into a meditative state. The pain in his back dulled as he focused inward, the rhythmic hum of his medallion fading into the background.
Hours passed. The sky shifted from deep black to a soft indigo, the first rays of dawn brushing the horizon. And with the sunrise, his thoughts were as calm as the horizon breaking into light once again.
Alaric stood and called for Willard. Willard approached him. "You survived," Willard said, his voice edged with cautious relief.
"Of course I did, I am a Witcher," Alaric replied, the pride unmistakable in his tone.
Motioning for the men to follow. "Come. You'll want to see what's left of them."
The group followed him to the barn in silence. Together with a few other villagers, they ventured to the barn where the ghoul carcasses remained. The stench hit them first—a foul mix of decay and charred flesh. One of the younger men gagged, covering his mouth with his sleeve.
"By the gods," Willard muttered. The barn was a grim sight. The mangled, burned remains of the ghouls lay scattered, black blood pooling on the dirt floor.
"No more ghouls to terrorize your fields." Alaric said, gesturing to the corpses.
The farmers, at first wary, grew visibly relieved at the sight of the slain monsters.
"Gods bless you, Witcher," Willard said, his voice filled with gratitude. The others murmured their thanks, offering fresh produce—fruits, bread, and cheeses—as tokens of appreciation alongside the agreed-upon coin. "It's not much, but it's all we can offer."
"Much appreciated," Alaric replied, securing the goods in his saddlebags. "Stay vigilant. If you hear or see anything out of the ordinary, send word to Ban Ard."
Willard clasped his hands together. "We will. Safe travels to you."
Without further delay, Alaric secured the goods to his saddlebags and mounted his horse. He glanced back at the farmers, giving them a brief nod before urging his steed onward. The road to Ban Ard stretched ahead.
...…
Reaching Ban Ard Academy by mid-afternoon, Alaric was struck by its grandeur—the towering spires, the ornate stonework, and the sprawling gardens merging into untamed wilderness. Alaric's medallion tingled faintly as he passed through the gates, the air thick with latent magic. Students moved about the grounds, some clutching grimoires, others practicing incantations in the courtyards.
Inside the chancellor's office, he found Gerhart of Aelle, the elderly mage hunched over a desk littered with scrolls and inkpots. His long gray beard almost touched the parchment as he wrote with meticulous care.
Alaric had been standing here for a good minute now. Finally, he coughed a little to get the older man's attention.
The old man looked up, his sharp eyes narrowing. "Ah, the Witcher. Alaric, isn't it?"
"Yes. I was sent here by Dagobert Sulla to further my training."
Gerhart sighed, setting down his quill. "Yes, I received his letter. A peculiar request, I must say. He seems to think you're some unique case."
"I am," Alaric said flatly and handed him another letter.
"You have another letter for me?"
Alaric just nodded, waiting as Gerhart read Dagobert Sulla's words. The older mage hummed thoughtfully, then set the parchment aside.
"I cannot force the mages here to leave their duties, their research, to train you," he said bluntly. "But you're welcome to convince them yourself."
Alaric offered Gerhart a short nod, his expression unreadable.
The old mage waved a hand dismissively. "Good luck, Witcher. You'll need it."
Without another word, Alaric turned on his heel and left the hall, his boots tapping lightly against the polished stone floor. The cold corridors of Ban Ard were like a labyrinth, with students and scholars moving about in quiet determination. Alaric wandered, his amber eyes scanning the faces around him as he considered his next move.
...…
The first mage he approached was an older man in flowing blue robes, his gray hair tied neatly behind his head. He stood near an alchemical workstation, carefully measuring powdered ingredients into a bubbling vial.
"Excuse me," Alaric began, his tone polite but firm.
"No time."
Alaric opened his mouth to respond, but the mage raised a hand. "Good day."
With a sigh, Alaric moved on. He found another mage in the library, a tall man with sharp features and dark hair. He was engrossed in a heavy tome.
"Apologies for the interruption," Alaric said, stepping closer.
He looked up, his eyes narrowing as they settled on his medallion. "A Witcher? Here? Fascinating… though, I suspect you're lost."
"Not lost," he said, suppressing his irritation. "I was sent here to learn. I could use your expertise."
His lips curled into a faint smirk. "I'm sure you could. Unfortunately, I have no time to waste on lessons. Perhaps you should speak to the apprentices. They might be closer to your… level."
Alaric clenched his jaw. "Thank you for your kindness."
He chuckled softly as he turned away, hir attention already back on her book.
The pattern repeated throughout the day— "Your problems are your own." — "I teach theory, not practice."
Indifference, dismissal, or outright disdain. Alaric's patience wore thin, but he forced himself to remain calm. By evening, he was leaning against a pillar in the main courtyard, rubbing a hand over his face in frustration.
"Is this what Father had in mind?" he muttered to himself. "Sending me to a place where no one gives a damn?"
"That's not true!"
The voice came from behind him—bright, energetic, and startlingly close. Alaric turned sharply, his hand instinctively moving toward the hilt of his sword.
Standing before him was a young man, no older than twenty-five, with tousled brown hair and piercing blue eyes that seemed to sparkle in the dim light. He wore simple mage's robes, but his demeanor was anything but ordinary.
"You're Alaric, right?" the young man asked, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet.
Alaric just raised an eyebrow.
"I'm Igor! Igor de Sade! I've heard about you—Dagobert Sulla's Witcher experiment! You're fascinating!"
"Fascinating experiment?" Alaric repeated, his tone flat.
Igor's eyes lit up, and he stepped closer, circling Alaric like he was inspecting a rare artifact. "Yes! A Witcher who's also a Source? It's unheard of! And your aura… it's incredible! It's like a storm contained in human form."
Alaric shifted uncomfortably, glancing around to see if anyone else was witnessing this odd display. "Look, Igor, I appreciate your… enthusiasm. But I need someone to teach me, not to gawk at me."
"I can do both!" Igor declared, his grin widening.
Alaric blinked. "You're serious" he blankly stated.
"Absolutely!" Igor clapped his hands together, his excitement palpable. "I mean, the others won't help you because they're too stuck in their ways. But me? I'm open-minded! I'll teach you everything I know."
Alaric hesitated, studying the young mage. Igor's enthusiasm bordered on madness, but there was a sincerity in his eyes that was impossible to ignore. He had no other options, and Igor seemed genuinely eager to help.
"Alright," Alaric said, exhaling slowly. "I'll take you up on your offer."
Igor's grin somehow grew even wider. "Excellent! This is going to be so much fun!"
"Fun," Alaric muttered under his breath. "Right."
Igor grabbed his arm and started leading him toward one of the smaller towers. "Come on, we'll start with something simple. Maybe we'll start with a few experiments to get a feel of your magic, channeling raw energy, or—oh! I've always wanted to test the limits of Witcher mutations with focused magical surges!"
Alaric groaned inwardly. "What have I gotten myself into?"
Igor laughed, his voice echoing through the corridor. "You'll see! Trust me, Alaric—this is the beginning of something extraordinary!"
-x-x-x-
A/N:-
Got ideas for future arcs or plots? Maybe there's something you'd love to see our main character tackle sometime in the future? Comment down below!
While I have a general direction for the early plot, I'm actively brainstorming for the later arcs. Your input would be incredibly valuable. Even the simplest ideas or spontaneous musings can ignite a spark and help clear those creative blocks.
So, don't hesitate—share your thoughts!
As always, if you have any questions, feel free to comment. I will do my best to answer without spoiling too much.
Clear skies to all of you! ✨