The first light of dawn pierced the dense canopy of trees, casting long, skeletal shadows over the campsite. Days had passed since the battle with the foglings, and the chill of the early morning seemed to mirror the unease still lingering in Eldric's mind. Thorolf's rough hand shook him awake, dragging him from restless dreams filled with shadowy figures and flashing blades.
"Up," Thorolf barked, his tone leaving no room for argument. "The world won't wait for you to be comfortable."
Eldric rolled out of his bedroll, the frozen ground biting against his palms. The campsite was rugged—a ring of stones surrounding a dying fire, their horses tethered to a nearby tree, and the remains of last night's rabbit stew still hanging in the air. Thorolf had chosen this spot for its defensibility: a small clearing bordered by rocky outcroppings and thick underbrush. Eldric had yet to see the threat he was supposedly preparing for, but his father's vigilance was unshakable.
"Pick up your sword," Thorolf ordered, nodding to the steel blade leaning against a boulder. "We'll start with basic forms."
Eldric bit back a groan, grabbing the hilt and dragging the weapon upright. The sword was slightly too heavy for him, its weight making his arms tremble after extended use, but Thorolf insisted he grow accustomed to it. "A Witcher doesn't use a weapon they can't trust," he'd said more than once.
Thorolf's drills were merciless, the harsh rhythm of steel meeting steel filling the clearing like a war song. He circled Eldric like a wolf stalking prey, his movements measured and predatory. The younger man's arms burned with every parry, every strike, and his legs ached from maintaining his stance on the uneven forest floor.
"Keep your guard up! Always!" Thorolf snapped, slamming Eldric's blade hard enough to send tremors through his arms. The sound echoed sharply. "You think a monster will wait for you to recover?"
Eldric clenched his jaw, frustration mounting as sweat dripped into his eyes despite the chill. He adjusted his footing and raised his sword again. "I'm trying," he muttered under his breath, the edge of exhaustion creeping into his voice.
Thorolf's snort was derisive, but his eyes were sharp and appraising. "Trying doesn't stop a ghoul from taking your head. Again," he said, stepping in with a swift overhead swing that Eldric barely deflected in time.
Anger surged through Eldric, giving him a sudden burst of energy. He lunged forward with an aggressive strike aimed at Thorolf's shoulder. The older Witcher sidestepped with practiced ease, his movements almost casual as he spun behind Eldric and planted a boot lightly against the small of his back.
Eldric stumbled forward, his balance wavering, but he managed to stay on his feet. His breath came in ragged gasps, but he tightened his grip on his sword, refusing to let go.
"Better," Thorolf admitted grudgingly, sheathing his own blade for a moment. "You're learning to put weight behind your strikes, but you're still too slow. You hesitate. Hesitation will get you killed faster than the sharpest blade."
The words hung in the crisp morning air, cutting through Eldric's lingering frustration and settling heavily in his chest. He nodded, his resolve hardening. "Again," he said, raising his blade.
As the sun climbed higher, Thorolf transitioned from sparring to more practical lessons. He led Eldric to the edge of the clearing, where a fallen tree created a natural bench. A satchel lay nearby, filled with vials and pouches of herbs.
"You've got strength," Thorolf said, crouching beside the satchel, "but strength isn't everything. You'll need more than your muscles out here." He held up a small vial filled with a thick, red liquid. "Know what this is?"
Eldric shook his head.
"This is Swallow," Thorolf explained, holding the vial up to the light. "Drink this in a fight, and it'll keep you going long enough to finish the job. It helps heal your wounds and keeps you sharp. But it'll burn you out if you rely on it too much. That's what being a Witcher is: pushing your limits without breaking. There are other potions too—Thunder, Cat, Blizzard—but those are for later. You'll learn them when you're ready."
Eldric frowned. "And the blessing I have from Freya? Doesn't that help?"
Thorolf's jaw tightened slightly. He didn't answer immediately, his eyes narrowing at the fire as if considering how much to say. Finally, he shifted his gaze to Eldric, his tone heavy with warning.
"That?" he said, gesturing toward Eldric's back, where the faint glow of the sapling tattoo rested, hidden beneath his tunic. "That's Freya's mark, a gift from the goddess herself. It connects you to the land in ways I don't fully understand. It gives you power, yes—more than I could ever hope for—but power without control? That's a blade without a hilt. Dangerous to everyone, including yourself."
Eldric tensed, his hand unconsciously brushing the back of his shoulder. He'd felt the tattoo stir before—usually in moments of fear or anger. It warmed and pulsed, a living thing tied to his heartbeat, but he still didn't fully understand it.
"You'll have to learn what it means, how to use it," Thorolf continued. "But don't think it makes you invincible. Witchers fight because we have no choice. Freya's blessing gives you an edge, sure, but edges dull if they aren't sharpened." He leaned forward now, the firelight casting shadows on his weathered face. "You have potential, Eldric. More than I had at your age. But potential means nothing if you don't push yourself."
The words hung heavy in the air. Eldric looked down at his hands, the calluses forming on his palms a testament to Thorolf's unrelenting drills.
"What kind of potential?" he asked finally, his voice barely above a whisper.
Thorolf's lips twitched, not quite a smile. "The kind that could change the world. For better or worse—that's up to you."
Later that afternoon, Thorolf set up a different kind of trial. He tied a small sack of dried meat to a branch high above the clearing, just out of reach.
"You want it, you climb for it," Thorolf said simply. "And no magic tricks."
Eldric rolled his eyes but obeyed, reaching for the lowest branch and hauling himself upward. The climb was slow, his muscles burning with effort, but he didn't stop. Halfway up, he felt the familiar tingle of his tattoo warming his back, as if urging him onward. He ignored it, focusing instead on the bark beneath his fingers and the sound of Thorolf's voice below.
"Don't rush! Feel the weight. Plan your next move."
By the time Eldric reached the sack, his arms and legs were shaking. He yanked it free, nearly losing his balance in the process, and climbed back down with aching limbs.
Thorolf met him at the base of the tree, clapping him on the shoulder. "Good. You kept your head. That's what matters."
As the sun was setting, they sat around the campfire, eating the meat Eldric had earned. The night was quiet, save for the crackle of flames and the occasional rustle of leaves. Thorolf broke the silence first.
"You've got potential, Eldric. More than I ever had at your age. But potential means nothing if you don't push yourself. The Wild Hunt won't wait for you to be ready."
Eldric looked into the fire, his thoughts swirling. "I'll be ready," he said softly, more to himself than to Thorolf.
Thorolf nodded, his expression unreadable. "We'll see. Tomorrow's another day."
The firelight cast long shadows across their faces as the night deepened, the weight of Thorolf's words settling like the chill in the air.