The moment I arrived at the house, the pungent smell of a medieval city hit me—damp earth, smoke, and the faint tang of sewage. I had forgotten to wear my mask, so I quickly secured it over my face, the enchanted gold mask fitting snugly against my features. Stepping outside, I moved deliberately through the streets, the whispers of the people around me impossible to ignore. Their eyes darted toward me with a mix of awe and fear. My armor, gleaming gold and intricately engraved, radiated an otherworldly aura. Every inch of it was enchanted, and even the dullest peasant could sense its power.
I ignored their murmurs and made my way to the Borsodi Auction House. The mages had been inquiring about me, and it was time to address their curiosity. As I approached the grand building, the guards at the entrance straightened their posture, their expressions shifting from boredom to respect.
"Welcome, my lord," one of them said, bowing slightly. "How may we assist you?"
I didn't waste time with pleasantries. "Where is Maximillian?"
The guard gestured toward a door on the right side of the auction house. "Lord Maximillian is in his solar, my lord. He has guests."
I nodded and made my way to the solar. As I walked, I could hear muffled voices from within. Without hesitation, I pushed the door open and stepped inside. The room fell silent as all eyes turned to me. The occupants—Maximillian and two mages—were clearly startled by my sudden entrance.
I took a moment to observe their reactions. Their eyes widened as they took in my appearance. The gold armor, the mask, the aura of power—it was all designed to intimidate, and it worked. The mages exchanged uneasy glances, whispering something to each other before one of them stood up.
"Hello," the man said, his voice carrying a tone of forced confidence. "I am Baldric of Angren, and this is my companion, Jonas Velmuth. We are members of the Brotherhood of Sorcerers." He introduced himself with pride, but I could see the tension in his posture.
I ignored them for the moment, walking past them to stand in front of Maximillian. "I want to auction some potions," I said, my voice calm but commanding. With a wave of my hand, six bottles materialized on the table.
"The five clear ones are truth potions," I explained. "A single drop can make anyone divulge their deepest secrets." Maximillian's eyes widened, and the mages exchanged shocked glances. The implications of such a potion were not lost on them—it could change the balance of power in the Northern Realms.
I continued, unbothered by their reaction. "And the pink one, as you already know, is a love potion." I then turned to the mages, my tone dismissive. "What do you want?"
Jonas, clearly annoyed by my disregard, snapped, "Have some respect!"
Baldric quickly intervened, pulling Jonas back into his seat. "Apologies for my companion's enthusiasm," he said, bowing slightly. "He's still tired from our travels." He glanced at my mask, and I gave a curt nod, acknowledging his apology.
Baldric continued, "We are here to extend an invitation to the Brotherhood of Sorcerers. We've heard that you are the best alchemist in Novigrad, according to the rumors." His eyes flicked toward the potions on the table, and I could see the greed in his gaze.
Maximillian shifted uncomfortably in his seat, clearly uneasy with the tension in the room. I turned my attention back to Baldric, my voice cold and calculating. "What benefits do I get by joining your organization that I couldn't obtain myself?"
Baldric hesitated, then replied, "The Brotherhood has many connections that could aid you in your work."
Jonas, unable to contain himself, added, "The Brotherhood is the most powerful organization in the Northern Realms. You would be a fool to refuse."
I pondered their words for a moment. Joining the Brotherhood could provide me with resources and connections that would accelerate my research. And if I refused, they would likely continue to pester me, disrupting my studies. Besides, the Brotherhood would disband in 1267—no real downside.
"Very well," I said, my tone final. "I accept your invitation."
Without waiting for a response, I turned and left the room, heading back to my laboratory. The mages could deal with the formalities.
The solar of the Borsodi Auction House was a lavish room, adorned with rich tapestries and finely carved furniture. Maximillian Borsodi sat behind his ornate desk, his fingers steepled as he listened to our proposal. My companion, Jonas Velmuth, sat beside me, his impatience barely concealed. We had traveled far to extend an invitation to this elusive alchemist, Lucian Faust, and I could feel the weight of the Brotherhood's expectations pressing on my shoulders.
The door creaked open, and the man himself stepped inside.
I had heard the rumors, of course. The whispers of a master alchemist crafting potions and artifacts of unparalleled power. But nothing could have prepared me for the sight of him. His armor was a masterpiece of gold and enchantment, gleaming even in the dim light of the solar. The mask he wore obscured his face, but his presence was undeniable—cold, calculating, and utterly commanding.
The room fell silent as he entered, his every movement deliberate and unhurried. Jonas stiffened beside me, his pride bristling at the alchemist's disregard for formalities. I, however, remained calm. This was not a man to be trifled with, and I had no intention of provoking him.
He walked past us without a word, stopping in front of Maximillian. "I want to auction some potions," he said, his voice calm but carrying an edge of authority. With a wave of his hand, six bottles appeared on the table.
"The five clear ones are truth potions," he explained. "A single drop can make anyone divulge their deepest secrets."
My breath caught in my throat. Truth potions? Such a thing was unheard of. The implications were staggering—political intrigue, espionage, the very fabric of power in the Northern Realms could be unraveled with such a tool. Jonas and I exchanged a glance, and I could see the same realization dawning in his eyes.
The alchemist continued, unbothered by our shock. "And the pink one, as you already know, is a love potion."
Maximillian's face was a mask of astonishment, but he quickly composed himself, nodding as if this were an everyday occurrence. The alchemist then turned to us, his tone dismissive. "What do you want?"
Jonas, ever the hothead, bristled at the man's tone. "Have some respect!" he snapped, rising slightly from his seat.
I placed a hand on his arm, pulling him back down. "Apologies for my companion's enthusiasm," I said, bowing my head slightly. "He's still tired from our travels."
The alchemist's mask gave nothing away, but I could feel his gaze on me, assessing, calculating. I straightened and continued, choosing my words carefully. "We are here to extend an invitation to the Brotherhood of Sorcerers. We've heard that you are the best alchemist in Novigrad, according to the rumors."
I gestured toward the potions on the table, hoping to appeal to his pride—or perhaps his greed. "The Brotherhood has many resources and connections that could aid you in your work. We believe your talents would be a valuable addition to our organization."
The alchemist's response was measured, his tone cold and detached. "What benefits do I get by joining your organization that I couldn't obtain myself?"
I hesitated, sensing the weight of his question. This was not a man who would be swayed by empty promises. "The Brotherhood has access to rare ingredients, ancient texts, and powerful allies," I said, trying to sound confident. "We could provide you with the means to further your research and expand your influence."
Jonas, unable to contain himself, added, "The Brotherhood is the most powerful organization in the Northern Realms. You would be a fool to refuse."
I shot him a warning glance, but the damage was done. The alchemist's mask turned toward Jonas, and for a moment, I feared he might retaliate. Instead, he simply nodded, as if considering our words.
"Very well," he said, his tone final. "I accept your invitation."
Before I could respond, he turned and left the room, his golden armor glinting in the dim light. The door closed behind him with a soft click, leaving the three of us in stunned silence.
Jonas was the first to speak. "That man is insufferable," he muttered, crossing his arms. "Does he think he's better than us?"
I sighed, shaking my head. "He is better than us, Jonas. At least when it comes to alchemy. And that's exactly why the Brotherhood wants him."
Maximillian cleared his throat, drawing our attention. "Gentlemen, if you'll excuse me, I have an auction to prepare for."
I nodded, rising from my seat. "Of course. Thank you for your hospitality, Lord Borsodi."
As we left the solar and stepped into the bustling streets of Novigrad, I couldn't shake the feeling that we had just made a deal with a force far beyond our understanding. Lucian Faust was not a man to be controlled or manipulated. He was a storm, and the Brotherhood had just invited him into our ranks.
The streets of Novigrad were alive with activity, the air thick with the scent of roasting meat and the sound of merchants hawking their wares. Jonas walked beside me, his expression still sour from our encounter with the alchemist.
"I don't trust him," Jonas said, his voice low. "He's arrogant, disrespectful, and far too powerful for his own good."
I nodded, my thoughts echoing his concerns. "I don't trust him either. But the Brotherhood needs him. His potions alone could shift the balance of power in the Northern Realms."
Jonas snorted. "And what happens when he decides he doesn't need us anymore? What then?"
I didn't have an answer. The truth was, Lucian Faust was a wildcard, and the Brotherhood had just placed him in our hand. Whether he would be our greatest asset or our downfall remained to be seen.
For now, all we could do was watch and wait. And hope that we hadn't just unleashed something we couldn't control.
After leaving the auction house, I teleported back to my laboratory beneath Battle Isle. The familiar hum of magic and the scent of alchemical ingredients greeted me like an old friend. As I stepped through the portal, I saw Kiyan leaning against the entrance, his yellow eyes narrowing as he noticed my arrival.
I waved him over, and he followed me to the alchemy table without a word. The table was cluttered with half-finished potions, rare minerals, and enchanted tools. Kiyan crossed his arms, his expression wary.
"What do you need me for?" he asked, his voice low and gravelly.
I removed my mask, setting it down on the table, and turned to face him. "I want you to go to Kaer Morhen and give a communication mirror to someone named Vesemir."
Kiyan's eyes narrowed further, his tone cautious. "Kaer Morhen? The witchers' stronghold? What are you planning to do?"
"I want to make a deal with the School of the Wolf," I replied, my voice calm but firm.
Kiyan's expression darkened. "You want to make more witchers, don't you?"
I didn't respond, but my silence was answer enough. Kiyan shook his head, muttering something under his breath. "You're playing with fire, Faust. The Trials of the Grasses are brutal. Most don't survive, and those who do… they're not exactly human anymore."
"I'm aware," I said, my tone cold. "But the Trials are flawed. I can improve them. Make them stronger, faster, more resilient. They'll be more than witchers—they'll be perfect warriors."
Kiyan snorted, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Perfect warriors, huh? And what happens when they turn on you? You think you can control them?"
"I don't need to control them," I replied, my voice steady. "I just need to give them a reason to fight for me."
Kiyan stared at me for a long moment, his yellow eyes searching mine. Finally, he sighed and shook his head. "You're a madman, you know that? Fine. I'll deliver your mirror. But don't come crying to me when this blows up in your face."
Without another word, he turned and left the laboratory, his footsteps echoing in the cavernous space.
A week later, I teleported directly to the Borsodi Auction House, my latest batch of potions in hand. The guards at the entrance nodded respectfully as I passed, and I made my way to Maximillian's solar without delay.
When I opened the door, Maximillian was seated at his desk, his expression lighting up as he saw me. "Ah, Master Faust," he said, rising to his feet. "What do you have for me today?"
I placed the potions on the table, my voice calm and measured. "Ten water-breathing potions and one Draught of Living Death. The draught puts the drinker into a deep sleep until they are cured or die."
Maximillian's eyes widened at the mention of the Draught of Living Death. "Fascinating," he murmured, examining the vial. "This will fetch a high price. The nobility will be clamoring for it."
"I don't care who buys it," I said, my tone indifferent. "As long as I get my payment."
Maximillian chuckled nervously, handing me a pouch filled with crowns. "Five thousand five hundred, as agreed."
I took the pouch, securing it to my belt, and turned to leave. As I stepped into the hallway, I saw Baldric of Angren approaching. His expression was tense, and I could tell he had something important to say.
"What do you need?" I asked, my tone indifferent.
Baldric hesitated, then spoke. "The Brotherhood is calling all mages to Sodden Hill to defend against Nilfgaard."
I nodded, already anticipating this. "I'll head there tomorrow."
Baldric's eyes widened in surprise. "Just like that? No questions, no hesitation?"
I fixed him with a cold stare. "Do you expect me to refuse? Refusing so many volunteers would be counterproductive."
Baldric's eyes widened at the realization of my intention for agreeing so easily. I could acquire favors to use at a later date from the kings and mages there while testing some potions on the prisoners. Little to no downside.
As I teleported back to the laboratory, I began preparing for the journey to Sodden Hill. The battle would be a turning point in the war, and I intended to use it to my advantage. I gathered a selection of potions—Ironskin, Lifeforce, Rage, Regeneration, Swiftness, and Wrath—and secured them in a satchel.
As I worked, my mind wandered to the modifications I had made to the Trial of the Grasses. The formula was nearly complete, but it still needed testing. Kaer Morhen would be the perfect place to conduct those tests. The witchers there were already accustomed to mutation, and Vesemir's knowledge of the Trials would be invaluable.
I glanced at the communication mirror. Once Kiyan delivered one, I would be able to negotiate directly with the School of the Wolf. The witchers were a dying breed, but with my improvements, they could expand again. I would need them to expand to lessen the chances of the Wild Hunt winning in the future. Them getting the Elder Blood would be an inconvenience.
For now, though, my focus was on Sodden Hill. The battle would be a crucial step in my plans. Having the reputation of a powerful person would help a lot during these coming years.
The journey to Kaer Morhen was long and arduous, but I had made it in record time. The ancient fortress loomed ahead, its crumbling walls a testament to the witchers' fading glory. As I approached the gates, I was met by a grizzled old witcher with a scar running down his face. His medallion vibrated faintly as I drew closer, a sign that he sensed the magic radiating from me.
"Who are you, and what do you want?" the witcher demanded, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. His tone was sharp, but I didn't flinch.
"Name's Kiyan," I replied, my tone calm but firm. "I've got a message for someone named Vesemir."
The witcher's eyes narrowed, his scarred face twisting into a frown. "A message from who?"
"From Lucian Faust," I said, watching his reaction closely. "He's got a proposition for the School of the Wolf."
The witcher hesitated, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword. "Lucian Faust, huh? Never heard of him."
"You will," I said, my voice low. "Now, are you going to let me in, or do I have to stand out here all day?"
The witcher grunted, his expression skeptical, but he nodded. "Wait here."
A few minutes later, Vesemir appeared at the gates. His eyes were sharp, his expression wary but curious. He was older than the others, his face lined with years of experience, but there was a keen intelligence in his gaze.
"You've got a message for me?" Vesemir asked, his voice steady but cautious.
"Yeah," I said, stepping forward. "I'm here to deliver a communication mirror. It can be used to communicate over long distances."
As I retrieved the mirror from my storage ring, I noticed the other witchers tense, their medallions vibrating more intensely. Hands moved to sword hilts, and I quickly raised my free hand to defuse the situation.
"Relax," I said, my tone calm but firm. "The ring is enchanted storage magic. Faust gave it to me to carry items. No tricks, no traps."
Vesemir's eyes flicked to the ring, then back to me. His expression was unreadable, but I could see the gears turning in his mind. "Faust, you said? Who is this man, and why should we trust him?"
"You'll see," I replied, activating the mirror. The surface shimmered, and after a moment, Lucian's masked face appeared. He was, as always, clad in his golden armor, the mask obscuring his features. I still didn't understand why he insisted on wearing such an impractical getup, but I had to admit—it was intimidating. The way the light caught the gold, the way his presence seemed to fill the room even through the mirror—it was hard to ignore.
I handed the mirror to Vesemir, stepping back to let them negotiate. The other witchers kept their eyes on me, their hands still hovering near their weapons. I crossed my arms and leaned against the wall, watching the exchange with mild interest.
The man in the mirror was unlike anyone I'd ever seen. His golden armor gleamed even through the reflective surface, and his mask gave nothing away. But his voice—cold, measured, and dripping with authority—commanded attention.
"Vesemir of the School of the Wolf," the man said, his tone calm but firm. "I am Lucian Faust. I understand you are the de facto leader of the School of the Wolf."
I nodded, my expression guarded. "That's correct. What's your interest in us?"
"I want to make a deal with you," Faust said, his voice devoid of emotion. "I can help you with the Trials. Improve them. Lower the mortality rate. I could even enhance your men with runes, though the process would be… painful."
I frowned, my mind racing. The Trials were brutal, yes, but they were necessary. The idea of having a mage oversee them was tempting, and the thought of improving them even more so. Having a mage stationed here would be beneficial, and procuring materials for him wouldn't be an issue—our mages had done the same in the past when Kaer Morhen was at its peak.
"And what do you want in return?" I asked, my tone cautious.
"Your cooperation," Faust replied. "In return, I would need your people to gather any ingredients I may need. I will share my improvements with you. Your School could rise again, stronger than ever."
I glanced at Kiyan, who was leaning against the wall, his expression unreadable. Then I looked back at the mirror. "And if we refuse?"
Faust's mask tilted slightly, as if he were considering the question. "Then you will remain as you are—a dying breed, clinging to the past. The choice is yours."
The room fell silent, the weight of his words hanging in the air. The other witchers exchanged uneasy glances, but no one spoke. Finally, I nodded.
"We'll consider your offer," I said, my tone firm. "But know this—if you betray us, there will be consequences."
Faust's mask gave nothing away, but I could almost sense a hint of amusement in his voice. "I wouldn't expect anything less."
The mirror's surface rippled, and his image faded. I handed the mirror back to Kiyan, who tucked it into his ring with a smirk.
"Told you he'd get your attention," Kiyan said, his tone laced with sarcasm.
I ignored the jab, my mind still reeling from the conversation. Lucian Faust was a dangerous man, but his offer was tempting. The School of the Wolf had been in decline for decades. If there was a chance to restore it—to make it stronger—could we afford to pass it up?
For now, though, I needed time to think. The witchers of Kaer Morhen had survived this long by being cautious. I wasn't about to throw that away on the word of a stranger.
After finishing my conversation with Vesemir, I turned my attention to the trip to Sodden Hill. The Northern Coalition was gathering there to fight Nilfgaard, and while I didn't care much about their cause, the chaos of war offered opportunities I couldn't ignore. I grabbed a few potions from my stockpile—Ironskin, Lifeforce, Rage, Regeneration, Swiftness, and Wrath—and stored them in my enchanted ring. They'd be useful for trading or bartering, and I might need them myself.
I left the workshop beneath Battle Isle and stepped into the sunlight. The streets of Novigrad were busy as usual, filled with merchants, beggars, and guards. My golden armor and mask drew some stares, but I ignored them. People here were used to strange sights, but I still stood out.
I walked into Vivaldi's bank, and the teller behind the counter straightened up immediately. "Welcome, my lord," he said, sounding a little nervous. "How can I help you?"
"I need to see Vivaldi," I said, my tone calm but firm.
The teller nodded quickly. "Of course, my lord. Right this way." He led me through the bank's fancy halls until we reached Vivaldi's office. The door opened, and I stepped inside.
Vivaldi was at his desk, surrounded by stacks of papers. He looked up as I entered and smiled. "Lucian! Good to see you. What do you need?" he asked, his tone friendly but curious.
"I need a carriage to Sodden Hill," I said, getting straight to the point.
Vivaldi's smile faded, and he leaned back in his chair. "Ah, yes. I've heard the Brotherhood and the Northern kings are gathering there to fight Nilfgaard. It's going to be messy. You sure you want to get involved?"
I nodded. "The war's happening whether I like it or not. I've got skills they'll need, and I can use the chaos to my advantage."
Vivaldi sighed. "Nilfgaard's not messing around. They've been rolling through the South like it's nothing. If the North falls, who knows how far they'll go. Novigrad could be next."
"The North's problems aren't my concern," I said, my voice calm. "But wars create opportunities. I need resources, connections, and test subjects. Sodden Hill is where I'll find them."
Vivaldi studied me for a moment, then nodded. "Alright. I'll get you a carriage. Come with me." He stood and led me out of the office, signaling to one of his men. "Get a carriage ready for Master Faust. Make it a good one."
As we stepped outside, the noise of the city surrounded us—hooves clattering on cobblestones, merchants shouting, people talking. Vivaldi turned to me, his expression serious. "You know, Lucian, this war's going to change everything. Nilfgaard's not just another enemy. They're an empire, and they don't stop until they've taken everything."
"I know," I said, my tone calm. "But empires rise and fall. My concern isn't their conquests. It's what I can get out of the chaos."
Vivaldi raised an eyebrow. "And what exactly are you after?"
"Knowledge," I replied. "Resources. Test subjects. The war will create a demand for my skills, and I plan to use that to further my work."
Vivaldi chuckled, though it wasn't exactly a happy sound. "You've always been focused, Lucian. I'll give you that. Just… be careful. Wars have a way of swallowing people whole."
Before I could respond, the carriage arrived—a solid, well-maintained vehicle pulled by two sturdy horses. The driver nodded respectfully as I approached.
"Thanks, Vivaldi," I said, turning to him. "I'll be in touch."
He nodded. "Good luck, Lucian. Stay sharp."
I stepped into the carriage, and the door closed behind me with a soft click. As the driver urged the horses forward, I leaned back in the seat, my mind already working through plans and calculations. The trip to Sodden Hill would take a few days, but I had plenty to think about.
The war was coming, and I intended to make the most of it. For now, there was only the work.
The carriage rolled steadily along the dirt road, the rhythmic clatter of hooves and the creak of wheels filling the air. Outside, the landscape shifted from the bustling streets of Novigrad to the quieter, more rural outskirts. Fields of wheat and barley stretched out on either side, interrupted occasionally by small villages and farms. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the land.
I opened my enchanted ring and retrieved a small notebook, flipping through its pages. Inside were detailed notes on the potions I had prepared, as well as sketches of runes and alchemical formulas. Each page was filled with meticulous calculations and observations, the product of countless hours of research and experimentation.
As I reviewed my notes, my thoughts turned to the battle ahead. Sodden Hill would be a turning point in the war, and I needed to ensure that my presence there would yield the maximum benefit. The Northern kings and the Brotherhood of Sorcerers would be gathering their forces, and I intended to position myself as an indispensable ally.
My potions would be key. They could give the Northern forces a significant advantage against Nilfgaard, enhancing their strength, speed, and endurance, while also providing crucial healing and protection. These potions could turn the tide of battle, and I planned to use them to secure the resources and connections I needed.
The carriage hit a bump in the road, jolting me slightly. I closed the notebook and returned it to my ring, leaning back in the seat. The journey would take several days, and I needed to conserve my energy. There would be little time for rest once I reached Sodden Hill.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, the carriage continued its steady pace. The world outside grew darker, the fields and villages fading into shadow. Inside the carriage, the only light came from a small enchanted crystal I had placed on the seat beside me. Its soft glow illuminated the space, casting flickering shadows on the walls.
I closed my eyes, letting the rhythmic motion of the carriage lull me into a state of calm.
The carriage came to a slow halt at the edge of the sprawling Sodden Hill encampment. The once-quiet countryside had been consumed by war preparations—rows of tents stretched across the rugged landscape, banners fluttering in the cold wind. The air smelled of damp earth, sweat, and steel, punctuated by the occasional acrid scent of alchemical concoctions brewing in makeshift laboratories.
I stepped out of the carriage, the hem of my long dark robe brushing against the muddy ground. Embroidered with intricate golden patterns, the robe marked me as someone of importance, yet it was the mask I wore that drew attention. A smooth, featureless piece of polished silver, it caught the light with an eerie gleam. It was not meant to intimidate but to conceal. Anonymity was a weapon as potent as any blade.
Soldiers and mages paused in their duties to stare, whispers rippling through the camp like a chill breeze. I ignored them. I had come for business, not admiration.
As I moved deeper into the encampment, the order amid the chaos became clearer—Temerian knights sparred under the watchful gaze of Vernon Roche, Kaedweni cavalry readied their steeds, and Aedirnian infantry stood in disciplined formations. War had drawn together kings, sorceresses, and warriors alike, bound by the singular goal of repelling Nilfgaard.
My destination was obvious—the largest tent at the heart of the camp, its banners displaying the crests of the Northern kingdoms. Two guards in chainmail stood at the entrance, hands tightening on the hilts of their swords as I approached.
"Halt," one of them commanded. "State your business."
I tilted my head slightly, my voice calm but unwavering. "I am Avicebron, the master alchemist from Novigrad. I have an offer for the Northern Coalition."
The guards exchanged glances. One disappeared inside the tent while the other remained, studying me warily. A moment later, the flap was pulled back, and I was ushered inside.
The interior was dim, lit by lanterns and the dull glow of magical sigils etched into the wooden support beams. A large war table dominated the space, covered in maps marked with ink-stained battle plans. Around it stood the rulers and commanders of the North—each one carrying the weight of war on their shoulders.
At the head of the table stood King Foltest of Temeria, his regal bearing unmistakable. His dark eyes swept over me with scrutiny. Beside him, Demavend III of Aedirn leaned forward, his expression skeptical. Henselt of Kaedwen, his broad frame clad in a thick fur-lined cloak, regarded me with barely concealed distrust.
Among them, the most dangerous presence was Philippa Eilhart. The sorceress stood slightly apart, her piercing blue eyes locking onto me like a predator studying prey. I could feel the hum of magic in the air around her, subtle yet potent.
Foltest was the first to speak. "So, you're the famed alchemist. We've heard of your work, Avicebron." His voice was even, measured. "Queen Calanthe swore by your potions, claiming they helped turn the tide against Nilfgaard's first advance. Tell us, what exactly are you offering?"
I stepped forward, placing a leather satchel onto the table. Unfastening the straps, I pulled out a series of glass vials—each filled with liquids of varying colors and viscosity. Some shimmered like molten gold, others pulsed with an unnatural glow.
"I offer strength," I said, my voice carrying through the tent. "Swiftness. Endurance. Clarity. Potions that allow a warrior to fight past his limits and keep standing long after his wounds should have felled him." I lifted a vial filled with a deep crimson liquid. "This grants the drinker accelerated healing—wounds close within moments, and pain dulls."
I placed it down and picked up another, this one a dark, almost inky blue. "This sharpens the senses, heightens reflexes. A soldier under its effects will strike first, dodge faster, see through the feints of his enemy."
I stepped back, letting them absorb my words before delivering the final blow. "One thousand of each combat potion. Five thousand of the healing elixirs." I let the silence settle. "I can deliver them before the next battle."
Demavend exhaled sharply. "That is… a staggering offer." He leaned back, crossing his arms. "And what do you want in return?"
"Not gold," I said simply. "Resources. Herbs, ores, and refined metal. These are what I require to continue my craft."
Henselt scoffed, shaking his head. "You claim you can produce these in such numbers. And yet, we've seen no proof." He turned to Foltest. "We don't need a snake-oil merchant promising us miracles."
Before I could respond, a new voice spoke up.
"I'll be the judge of that."
Vernon Roche stepped forward from the shadows, his cold eyes assessing me. He was a man of action, not words. "Give me one. Let's see if your alchemy is worth anything."
I held up a vial, a clear liquid that rippled with faint golden streaks. "Swallow this."
Roche took the vial without hesitation, uncorked it, and downed the contents. The change was immediate—his posture straightened, his breath sharpened, and his pupils dilated slightly. He flexed his fingers, as if testing the newfound energy coursing through his veins.
Then he moved.
In a blur, Roche unsheathed his dagger and lashed out, stopping the blade mere inches from Demavend's throat. The king barely had time to flinch before Roche stepped back, spinning the weapon between his fingers with inhuman dexterity. His movements were too fast, too precise.
"…Shit," he muttered, a small smirk forming. "I feel like I could take on a dozen Nilfgaardians at once."
The tent was silent. The skepticism had been replaced by something else—calculated interest.
Foltest exhaled through his nose. "Impressive." He turned back to me. "Very well, Avicebron. You'll have your resources. But know this—if you betray us, not even that mask will save you."
Philippa Eilhart stepped forward, her eyes unreadable. "We have an agreement, then. But make no mistake, alchemist… we will be watching."
I met her gaze and inclined my head. "Then let us hope I remain an ally."
The deal was struck. The war had shifted. And I had just ensured that Sodden Hill would become the battlefield where the tides of history turned.
The Northern rulers had made their choice. They had given me what I required—herbs, ores, refined metals. In return, I had delivered what I had promised.
The crates of potions were already stacked beside the command tent when Philippa Eilhart arrived. She moved through the camp like a specter of authority, the soldiers parting for her without a word. She was perceptive, dangerous, and—above all else—untrustworthy. That suited me fine.
She stopped before me, her piercing blue eyes scanning the sealed wooden containers, then flicking up to my mask. "Efficient," she remarked.
I merely nodded. Words were wasted on fools who needed convincing. Philippa was no fool. She gestured, and two mages moved forward, unsealing one of the crates. Inside, rows of neatly arranged vials caught the torchlight, shimmering in shades of crimson, gold, and deep blue.
She reached inside and plucked a vial at random, rolling it between her fingers. "And these are stable?"
"They will function exactly as I stated," I said.
Her lips curled in amusement. "Such confidence." She uncorked the vial, sniffed it lightly, then recorked it. A calculated move—she would not test it herself. Instead, she turned to one of the soldiers standing nearby. "Drink."
The man hesitated only for a second before obeying. He swallowed the potion, his face twisting slightly at the taste.
Then the change took hold.
His posture straightened, breath sharpening. A moment later, he moved—drawing his sword in a motion so fast and fluid that even he seemed startled by it. He exhaled sharply, his fingers flexing around the weapon, adjusting to his newfound speed.
Philippa watched with cool satisfaction before turning back to me. "Acceptable."
I said nothing. Approval was irrelevant.
She snapped her fingers, and another mage stepped forward, handing me a small ledger. "These detail the shipments of your requested materials. More will follow."
The ledger was tucked away in Lucian Faust's robes, its weight negligible compared to the certainty of the deal that had just been sealed. The Northern rulers had their potions. He had his resources—herbs, ores, and metal bars. Nothing more needed to be said.
Without a word, he turned from the command tent and walked through the encampment. The flickering torchlight caught the polished surface of his mask, the golden embroidery of his robes shimmering faintly in the firelight. The whispers followed as they always did, but he paid them no mind. The soldiers feared what they did not understand. Let them. Their concerns were beneath him.
At the camp's perimeter, his horse stood waiting. A dark creature, silent and still, as well-trained as he required it to be. He mounted swiftly, sparing only a final glance at Sodden Hill before turning toward his next destination.
The mages.
Twenty-two of them, concealed in the hills, preparing their ambush against Nilfgaard. They believed they could strike first, cripple the enemy's advance before it reached the Northern armies. A bold plan.
But Lucian already knew how it would end.
Thirteen of them would die.
But he would not let that happen—not entirely.
Not for their sake.
For his.
The hills were silent save for the restless wind that twisted through the trees. Magic lingered in the air, woven into the landscape—sigils carved into bark, runes traced in the dirt, energy coiled and waiting for release. The mages had been thorough in their preparations.
Lucian arrived unannounced. They noticed immediately.
A ripple of unease spread through the group as he dismounted, his robes barely stirring in the cold night breeze. Tissaia de Vries stood at the center, as poised as ever, her gaze unreadable. To her side, Vilgefortz, ever watchful, ever ambitious. The others were scattered in loose formations, murmuring among themselves. Some wary. Some indifferent.
Lucian ignored them all.
Tissaia spoke first, her voice calm but edged with suspicion. "Avicebron. You rarely involve yourself in direct conflict."
He inclined his head slightly. "I am not here for the battle."
Vilgefortz smirked, his tone dripping with mockery. "Then why come? To admire the scenery?"
Lucian stepped forward, his voice as even as ever. "Because thirteen of you will die before this night is over."
A hush fell over them.
One of the younger mages, Artaud Terranova, scoffed. "You speak as if fate is written in ink."
"It might as well be," Lucian replied, his tone devoid of emotion.
Tissaia studied him closely, her sharp eyes narrowing. "And you came here to warn us?"
"No," he said simply. "That's for me to know and you to find out."
She frowned slightly at that. The others exchanged uneasy glances, uncertain of his meaning.
Vilgefortz tilted his head, intrigued. "You intend to save them?"
Lucian did not answer. Not with words.
Instead, he turned toward the battlefield below, where the Nilfgaardian forces stretched like a living tide beneath the moonlight. The time for explanations had passed. The battle was coming.
And when the moment arrived, he would act. To keep his pieces in play for when he needed them.
The assault began with fire and thunder.
From the moment the first spell was cast, the battlefield was illuminated in violent bursts of arcane fury. Flames erupted from the ridgeline, cascading down into Nilfgaardian ranks, incinerating men and steel alike. Lightning cracked through the sky, spearing through armor, turning bodies into charred husks. The ground itself trembled under the weight of the onslaught.
For a time, it seemed as though the mages would succeed.
Then the counterattack came.
Nilfgaard had not advanced this far through arrogance alone. Their own mages retaliated with ruthless precision. Defensive barriers shimmered to life, absorbing the worst of the assault. Then, one by one, the Northern spellcasters fell.
I remained where I was, unmoving, as the first of the fated thirteen collapsed.
A sorceress, her chest pierced by a Nilfgaardian spear, staggered back, eyes wide in shock. Before her body could hit the ground—before death could truly claim her—I raised a hand.
Frost bloomed in an instant.
The ice engulfed her, consuming flesh, steel, and fabric in a perfect crystalline prison. She remained standing, untouched by time, her final breath frozen within the clear barrier.
The battle raged on. More fell. More were taken.
One by one, as the fated thirteen reached the brink of death, I sealed them away.
Some were struck by arrows mid-incantation—I caught them in ice before the shafts could pierce their flesh.
Others were burned by Nilfgaardian sorcery—I encased them before the flames could reduce them to ash.
A final mage—one who had fought viciously, furiously—collapsed as a black-clad soldier ran a sword through his back. Ice swallowed him whole before his blood could stain the earth.
By the time the battle ended, only nine mages remained standing.
To them, it was a victory paid in blood. They counted their dead, but they never questioned why there were no corpses.
Because they did not see what I had done.
Their fallen were not lost.
They were merely waiting.
The survivors left with their wounds and their grief, believing thirteen of their comrades had perished in the firestorm of war.
I lingered.
The battlefield was still, the frozen figures scattered among the ruins of the conflict, hidden beneath debris, concealed by the night's cold embrace. I walked among them, my gaze impassive as I examined my work.
They would not age. They would not rot.
They were mine now.
I had no need for them now, but the future was uncertain. Wars shifted, alliances broke, circumstances changed.
And it was always useful to have something no one else knew existed.
One day, I might require leverage. A favor. A bargaining chip.
The mages believed their allies were lost forever. But I knew otherwise.
The frozen thirteen would remain exactly where they were, untouched by time, hidden beneath the world's notice.
And when the day came that I needed them…
I would unseal them.
One by one.
And they would owe me everything.
With that thought, I turned away from the battlefield and mounted my horse once more.
The night swallowed me whole, and I vanished into the darkness, leaving only whispers behind.
The night was cold, the air biting with the promise of winter. The moon hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the battlefield. The ground was littered with the remnants of the battle—broken weapons, shattered shields, and the charred remains of those who had fallen.
As I rode away, I could still feel the lingering traces of magic in the air. The mages had left their mark, their spells etched into the very fabric of the land. But it was not their magic that would endure.
It was mine.
The frozen thirteen were a testament to my power, a reminder that even in the face of death, I could bend the rules to my will. They were my insurance, my guarantee that no matter what the future held, I would always have the upper hand.
The wind howled through the trees, carrying with it the faint echoes of the battle. But I paid it no mind. My thoughts were already elsewhere, focused on the next step, the next move in the game I had been playing for so long.