Steve Rogers stood in the ruins of Kaer Morhen, the wind howling through the ancient keep's shattered walls. Snow blanketed the courtyard, covering the scars of past battles—some won, many lost.
The air carried the scent of pine, steel, and something deeper: the weight of memory.
He wasn't alone.
Before him stood Vesemir, the old Wolf, his arms crossed, his golden eyes sharp as ever. To his right, Geralt of Rivia, the infamous White Wolf, remained silent, his gaze unreadable. Eskel, the gentle giant with a face marred by a single deep scar, adjusted his grip on his sword. Lambert, ever the cynic, leaned against a broken pillar, exhaling loudly.
And behind them, shadows flickered—ghosts of Witchers long dead, summoned from the abyss for one final duty.
Vesemir broke the silence first.
"Rogers. You don't belong here." His voice was steady, almost fatherly. "And yet, here you stand. Called by a force greater than any of us."
Steve didn't respond immediately. He had fought aliens, gods, and madmen, but standing before legends whose names belonged in forgotten tomes made him feel like a child again.
"I was given a task." His voice was firm, resolute. "To learn. To fight. To protect."
Vesemir nodded. "Then let's see if you can survive."
---
The First Lesson: Strength Is Not Enough
The first strike came without warning.
Geralt moved like lightning, his silver sword cutting the air toward Steve's throat.
Steve barely raised his shield in time, the vibranium sparking as it deflected the strike. Before he could counter, Eskel was already on him from the left, his steel blade humming through the frozen air.
Steve ducked, rolled, and came up swinging. His shield lashed out, catching Eskel's shoulder. The Witcher staggered back—but not before Lambert's boot slammed into his ribs, sending him skidding across the icy stone.
Steve gasped, his ribs aching.
Vesemir sighed. "You're fast, but you fight like a soldier."
Steve clenched his jaw. "Because I am one."
"Not anymore." Geralt sheathed his blade. "You're not fighting men. You're fighting monsters. And monsters don't care about honor."
---
The Trial of Grasses – Death Reborn
Steve had already endured the Super Soldier Serum. His body had been enhanced, strengthened beyond human limits.
But the Trial of Grasses was different.
It wasn't just about making him stronger. It was about making him other.
The Witchers prepared the elixirs, the mutagens, and the alchemical brews that had turned men into something more—and killed nine out of ten in the process.
Steve lay on the stone slab of Kaer Morhen's alchemy chamber, his wrists and ankles bound with enchanted iron. The moment Vesemir poured the first vial down his throat, the agony began.
Fire. Ice. Poison. Lightning.
His veins turned black, his muscles convulsed. He could feel something rewriting him, changing him on a level beyond anything he had experienced. His mind screamed, but his will refused to break.
Ghosts of past Witchers watched from the shadows, whispering among themselves.
"He's fighting it."
"Good. It means he won't die like the rest."
"Or it means he'll break before he bends."
Days passed in a blur of pain.
At some point, Lambert sat beside him, arms crossed. "You're the first one to take this trial and not scream for mercy."
Steve, barely able to breathe, rasped out, "Not… my… first time."
Lambert smirked. "You really are a stubborn bastard."
---
The Second Lesson: Instinct Over Strategy
By the time Steve could stand again, he was different.
His sight had sharpened. In the dead of night, he could see the outlines of the trees beyond Kaer Morhen's walls. His body moved faster, reacted quicker. His strength hadn't increased, but his body felt balanced in a way it never had before.
The Witchers wasted no time throwing him back into combat.
This time, they used a real monster.
A Grave Hag—a twisted, rotting creature with claws like butcher's knives—was released into the courtyard.
Steve had fought worse. He had faced the Chitauri, the Black Order, Ultron. But none of them smelled like this thing—like rot and hatred made flesh.
Vesemir shouted, "No shield. No hammer. Only your swords."
Steve drew the two Witcher blades he had been given—one silver, one steel. The Grave Hag lunged.
At first, he fought like a soldier. Precise strikes, powerful blocks. But the Witchers shouted at him.
"You're thinking too much!"
"Feel its movements!"
"React, don't predict!"
The Hag nearly took his arm. Steve barely dodged, rolling under its sweeping claws. Then—instinct took over.
He switched stances. Not the rigid combat form of a soldier, but the flowing, adaptive movements of a Witcher. He let the creature's attacks dictate his rhythm, moving with them rather than against them.
And when he struck—
His silver sword found flesh, severing the Hag's arm in one smooth motion.
It screeched, staggering. Steve didn't hesitate. He leaped, twisting midair, and brought his blade down in a perfect arc—severing the monster's head.
Silence.
Then Geralt chuckled. "Not bad."
Steve exhaled. For the first time since arriving, he felt it—the difference.
He wasn't Captain America here.
He was something else.
A Witcher.
---
The Final Lesson: The Weight of the Path
The Witchers stood before him, their faces solemn.
Vesemir spoke first. "You've learned what we can teach. But this path is not just about fighting."
Eskel nodded. "We're killers, yes. But we choose what we fight for."
Geralt stepped forward. "You're going to a world filled with monsters. But not all of them will have claws and fangs. Some will wear crowns."
Steve's jaw tightened. He understood what they meant.
Lambert smirked. "Try not to get yourself killed, old man."
Vesemir placed a hand on Steve's shoulder. "You walk this path alone now, Wolf of the North. May you always find your way."
And then—
They vanished, their spirits returning to the void.
Steve was alone in Kaer Morhen's ruins, the wind howling through the mountains.
He strapped his swords to his back. His shield to his arm. Mjolnir to his side.
And then he walked.
Toward the next trial.
Toward Westeros.