Lucian Faust materialized in the dimly lit chamber of his hidden laboratory, deep beneath Battle Isle. The air was heavy with the mingling scents of crushed herbs, molten metals, and the faint tang of arcane energy. The room was a labyrinth of shelves, each lined with meticulously organized vials, jars, and tools. The soft glow of enchanted braziers cast flickering shadows on the stone walls, illuminating the intricate runes etched into the surfaces.
He moved with purpose, his gloved hands reaching for a set of ingredients without hesitation. The rhythmic hum of enchanted tools filled the space, a constant reminder of the alchemical processes at work. Lucian's mind was already calculating the next steps, his focus unbroken by the outside world.
The news of the war against Nilfgaard had reached him, even in this secluded sanctuary. The Northern Kingdoms had achieved an overwhelming victory, and whispers of his potions' role in the triumph had spread like wildfire. The name "Avicebron" was now on the lips of kings, soldiers, and peasants alike—not just in Novigrad, but across all the Northern Kingdoms. A treaty had been signed, and the war, for now, was over.
But Lucian paid little heed to the politics of men. His work was far from done. The victory at Sodden Hill was merely a proof of concept, a demonstration of what his alchemy could achieve. The real work—his true purpose—lay in the refinement of his craft. The world above could celebrate their triumph, but Lucian's mind was already fixed on the next challenge.
Weeks passed, and the echoes of the war's aftermath began to settle. In the ancient halls of Kaer Morhen, Vesemir called a meeting of the remaining Witchers from the School of the Wolf. The summons was answered by only three: Lambert, Eskel, and Geralt. The fortress, once bustling with the sounds of training and camaraderie, now felt hollow, its grandeur faded with time.
The great hall was dimly lit, the flickering light of torches casting long shadows across the stone walls. The Witchers gathered around the long wooden table, their expressions a mix of curiosity and unease. Vesemir stood at the head of the table, his weathered face etched with lines of both wisdom and weariness. His voice, steady and commanding, broke the silence.
"We've all heard the rumors," he began, his tone grave but resolute. "Avicebron's potions turned the tide at Sodden Hill. The North won because of him." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over the room. The air grew heavier, charged with the implications of what he was about to propose.
"Now," Vesemir continued, his gaze sweeping across the faces of his brothers, "he's offered us something more—a way to rebuild the School of the Wolf. To make Witchers again."
Lambert, ever the skeptic, leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His sharp eyes narrowed as he processed Vesemir's words. "And you believe him?" he asked, his voice dripping with skepticism. "This masked alchemist shows up out of nowhere, and suddenly he's our savior? Sounds like a load of crap to me."
Eskel, seated beside him, remained silent for a moment, his brow furrowed in thought. Finally, he spoke, his voice calm but measured. "He's not wrong, Lambert. The world's still full of monsters, and there are fewer of us every year. If this Avicebron can help us, we'd be fools not to at least hear him out."
Geralt, who had been standing near the hearth, turned to face the group, his golden eyes reflecting the firelight. "I've seen what his potions can do," he said, his voice low and steady. "If he can make Witchers stronger, safer… it's worth considering."
Lambert scoffed, shaking his head. "And what's the cost, huh? You think he's doing this out of the goodness of his heart? People like him always want something in return."
Vesemir's gaze hardened, his voice firm. "We don't have the luxury of turning away help, Lambert. The School is dying. If we don't act, there won't be any Witchers left to protect the world from the monsters."
Eskel nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. "Vesemir's right. We can't afford to let pride or suspicion get in the way. If this Avicebron can help us, we need to take the chance."
Geralt stepped closer to the table, his arms crossed. "But we need to be careful. We don't know his true intentions. We can't just hand over the future of the School to a stranger."
Lambert threw up his hands in frustration. "Exactly! This is exactly what I'm talking about. We're talking about making more of us—more kids going through the Trials, more lives ruined. And for what? To trust some alchemist who could be playing us for fools?"
Vesemir's voice cut through the tension like a blade. "Enough." The room fell silent. "This isn't a decision to be made lightly. But we don't have the luxury of time. The world is changing, and if we don't change with it, we'll be left behind."
He looked at each of them in turn, his gaze unwavering. "I've already contacted Avicebron. He's agreed to meet us here. We'll hear what he has to say, and then we'll decide. Together."
Lambert muttered something under his breath but didn't argue further. Eskel nodded, his expression resolute. Geralt remained silent, his thoughts unreadable.
The meeting ended with a heavy silence, the weight of the decision looming over them like a storm cloud. Each Witcher knew what was at stake—the survival of their kind, the future of their School, and the cost of what they might have to sacrifice.
A week later, Lucian arrived at Kaer Morhen, accompanied by Kiyan, a Witcher from the School of the Cat. Kiyan was a living example of the traditional Witcher mutations—strong, skilled, and resilient, but untouched by Lucian's enhancements. Before leaving his laboratory, Lucian sealed it beneath Battle Isle. With a wave of his hand, the entrance was swallowed by the earth, buried under layers of rock. He had no intention of returning anytime soon.
As they approached the fortress, Lambert was waiting at the gates, his arms crossed and his expression unimpressed. "Took you long enough," he muttered, his tone dripping with sarcasm.
Lucian didn't even glance at him as he stepped past. "I wasn't aware I was on a schedule," he replied coolly, his voice devoid of emotion.
Kiyan followed silently, his yellow eyes scanning the courtyard with a predator's gaze. He said nothing, but his presence was enough to make Lambert's scowl deepen. "And who's this?" Lambert asked, jerking his chin toward Kiyan.
"Kiyan," Lucian said simply, not bothering to elaborate.
Lambert raised an eyebrow. "That's it? Just 'Kiyan'? No title, no explanation?"
Kiyan's lips curled into a faint smirk, but he remained silent. Lucian, already several steps ahead, didn't slow down. Lambert muttered something under his breath but followed them into the courtyard.
Inside, Geralt and Vesemir were training Ciri. The young girl moved with agility and determination, her silver hair glinting in the sunlight as she parried Geralt's strikes. But she was still raw, untested—a blade not yet sharpened. Vesemir called for a pause and turned to the newcomers.
"This is Avicebron," he said, gesturing to Lucian. "And Kiyan."
Ciri lowered her sword, her breath coming in short gasps as she wiped sweat from her brow. She studied Lucian with a mix of curiosity and wariness. His golden mask and imposing presence were unlike anything she'd seen before.
Lucian's gaze settled on her, and for a moment, the courtyard was silent. Then he spoke, his voice calm but carrying an undeniable weight. "I knew your grandmother. She was one of my best customers."
Ciri froze, her expression faltering. The fall of Cintra was still a fresh wound, and Lucian's words cut deeper than he perhaps intended. Her grip tightened on the hilt of her sword, but she said nothing.
Geralt stepped forward, his golden eyes narrowing. "That was unnecessary," he said, his voice low and dangerous.
Lucian tilted his head slightly, his mask giving nothing away. "It was a statement of fact. Nothing more."
Geralt's jaw tightened, but before he could respond, Vesemir intervened. "Enough," he said, his tone firm. "We have more important matters to discuss."
Ciri glanced at Geralt, her eyes searching his for reassurance. He gave her a small nod, his expression softening slightly. "Go inside," he said gently. "We'll continue training later."
She hesitated for a moment, then nodded and walked toward the keep, casting one last glance at Lucian over her shoulder. The alchemist watched her go, his expression unreadable behind the mask.
Lambert, who had been leaning against the courtyard wall, pushed himself off and walked over. "Well, that was awkward," he said, his tone dry. "You really know how to make an entrance, don't you?"
Lucian ignored him, turning to Vesemir. "Where is the laboratory?"
Vesemir gestured toward the right tower. "It's been prepared for you. We'll discuss the details inside."
Lucian nodded and began walking toward the tower without another word. Kiyan followed, his movements silent and deliberate. Lambert shook his head, muttering to Geralt, "I don't trust him. There's something off about that guy."
Geralt's gaze followed Lucian's retreating figure. "We don't have to trust him," he said quietly. "We just have to see if he can deliver."
After the tense introductions in the courtyard, the group moved inside the keep. Vesemir led them to the great hall, where a long wooden table dominated the room. The Witchers took their seats, their expressions a mix of curiosity, skepticism, and unease. Lucian stood at the head of the table, his golden mask catching the flickering light of the torches. Kiyan, the Witcher from the School of the Cat who had accompanied Lucian, leaned against the wall near the doorway, his yellow eyes scanning the room with a predator's calm.
Before Vesemir could begin, the sound of hoofbeats echoed from the courtyard. Geralt stood and moved to the window, his sharp eyes narrowing as he recognized the newcomer. "Looks like we've got company," he said, his tone neutral but carrying a hint of surprise.
Vesemir joined him at the window, his expression shifting to one of cautious curiosity. "Who is it?"
"Coen," Geralt replied. "From the School of the Griffin."
Lambert groaned, leaning back in his chair. "Great. Just what we need—another Griffin sticking his nose in our business."
Eskel raised an eyebrow. "What's he doing here?"
Vesemir sighed, his shoulders relaxing slightly. "He's come to winter here. It's not uncommon for Witchers from other schools to seek shelter during the colder months. We'll need to make room for him."
Geralt glanced at Lucian, who remained unmoved by the news. "This could complicate things."
Lucian's voice was calm, almost dismissive. "It changes nothing. The process will proceed as planned."
Vesemir nodded, his expression thoughtful. "We'll need to inform him of what's happening. He may have questions—or objections."
Lambert snorted. "Let him object. He's a guest here, not a leader."
Eskel stood, stretching his arms. "I'll go greet him. We'll need to figure out where to put him."
As Eskel left the room, the others followed, their minds still heavy with the weight of the decision they had just made. The arrival of Coen added another layer of complexity to an already precarious situation. But for now, the focus remained on Vesemir and the path he had chosen to take.
Coen dismounted in the courtyard, his breath visible in the cold air. He was a broad-shouldered Witcher with a calm demeanor, his Griffin medallion glinting in the pale sunlight. Eskel approached him with a nod of greeting.
"Coen," Eskel said, extending a hand. "It's been a while."
Coen shook his hand firmly, a small smile playing on his lips. "Eskel. Good to see you. I hope I'm not intruding."
Eskel shrugged. "You're always welcome here. But you've picked an interesting time to arrive."
Coen raised an eyebrow. "Oh? What's going on?"
Eskel hesitated, glancing back toward the keep. "It's… complicated. Come inside. Vesemir will explain."
As they entered the great hall, the tension in the room was palpable. Coen's presence added a new dynamic, his calm and observant nature contrasting with the skepticism and unease of the others. Vesemir stepped forward, his voice steady.
"Coen," he said, nodding in greeting. "Welcome to Kaer Morhen. You've arrived at a pivotal moment."
Coen's gaze swept the room, taking in the masked figure of Lucian and the silent presence of Kiyan. "I can see that," he said, his tone neutral but curious. "What's going on?"
Vesemir gestured for him to take a seat. "We're discussing the future of the School of the Wolf. Avicebron here has offered us a way to rebuild—to make Witchers again."
Coen's eyes narrowed slightly as he studied Lucian. "And you trust him?"
Vesemir's expression was resolute. "We're considering it. But the decision is not without risk."
Lucian stepped forward, his voice calm and measured. "The process I propose will require time, resources, and a few children to train. The ingredients are rare, and the process is delicate. But if successful, it will produce Witchers stronger and more resilient than any before."
Lambert leaned forward, his elbows on the table and his expression skeptical. "And what exactly are you planning to do to these kids? Turn them into Witchers like us?"
Lucian's gaze was unwavering. "I will refine the process. The Baptism of Blades will make them stronger, faster, and more resilient than any Witcher before them. But first, I will enhance the current Witchers here. Your bodies will be reforged, infused with magical circuits and engraved with runes to make you stronger."
Kiyan, who had been silent until now, spoke up. His voice was low and gravelly, carrying the weight of experience. "I've seen what he can do. The process works. But it's not without its risks."
Coen leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed. "And what happens if it doesn't work? If it kills us or turns us into something worse?"
Lucian's tone was calm but firm. "The risk is yours to take. But the rewards are worth it."
Lambert slammed his fist on the table, his frustration boiling over. "This is insane! You're talking about experimenting on us like we're nothing more than lab rats. We're Witchers, not some alchemist's playthings!"
Eskel nodded in agreement, his expression grim. "Lambert's right. This isn't something we can just jump into. We need to think this through."
Geralt, who had been silent until now, spoke up. His voice was calm but carried an edge of warning. "We've all seen what happens when people play with forces they don't fully understand. If this goes wrong, it could destroy us."
Vesemir stood, his presence commanding the room. "I'll go first."
The room erupted in protests. Lambert shot to his feet, his face red with anger. "No! You're not doing this, Vesemir. You're the closest thing we have to a leader. We can't afford to lose you."
Eskel joined in, his voice rising. "There has to be another way. We can't just throw you into this blindly."
Coen, who had been silent during the exchange, finally spoke. His tone was calm but firm. "If you're going through with this, I'd like to observe. If nothing else, I can provide an outsider's perspective."
Lambert turned on him, his anger flaring. "This isn't your call, Griffin. You're a guest here, not one of us."
Coen met his gaze evenly, unflinching. "I may be a guest, but I've fought beside you all more times than I can count. If this affects the future of Witchers, it affects me too."
Vesemir raised a hand, silencing the room. "Enough." His voice was firm, leaving no room for argument. "This is my decision. And it's final."
Lambert shook his head, his frustration evident. "This is a mistake, Vesemir. A damn mistake."
Eskel sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I don't like it either, but if you're set on this, we'll stand by you."
Geralt's gaze shifted to Lucian, his golden eyes narrowing. "If anything happens to him, you'll answer to me."
Lucian showed no reaction to the threat. To him, it made no difference who went first or who objected. But the old Witcher's resolve was unshakable.
The morning was cold and silent as Lucian Faust led Vesemir up the winding stone staircase into his newly built laboratory atop the right tower of Kaer Morhen. The others watched from below—Geralt, Lambert, Eskel, and even Ciri—but none followed. The air was thick with tension, the weight of what was about to happen pressing down on everyone.
Before closing the reinforced doors, Lucian turned and spoke. His tone was flat, his words absolute.
"No matter what you hear, do not enter this room."
Geralt frowned, his golden eyes narrowing. "For how long?"
"Two days."
Silence followed, heavy and unyielding. Geralt exchanged a glance with Vesemir, who gave a slow, resolute nod. The old Witcher's face was calm, but there was a flicker of determination in his eyes. He had made his choice.
Lambert, however, wasn't as composed. "Two days? What the hell are you planning to do to him in there that takes two days?"
Lucian's masked gaze turned to Lambert, unflinching. "The process is intricate. It cannot be rushed."
"And if something goes wrong?" Lambert pressed, his voice rising. "What then? Do we just sit here and listen to him scream while you—"
"Lambert," Vesemir interrupted, his voice firm but calm. "Enough. This is my decision."
Lambert clenched his fists but said nothing more. Ciri, standing a few steps behind Geralt, looked up at Vesemir with wide, worried eyes. "Will you be all right?" she asked softly.
Vesemir gave her a small, reassuring smile. "I'll be fine, girl. This is just another trial."
Lucian shut the door behind him, sealing the chamber with runic locks. The sound of the mechanisms clicking into place echoed through the hall, a finality that sent a shiver down Ciri's spine.
And then, the work began.
Inside the laboratory, Vesemir lay on the stone table, his body stripped bare of armor, his aged form exposed to the alchemical process. Lucian worked with perfect precision, his gloved hands moving swiftly as he prepared the tools and ingredients. The air was thick with the scent of herbs, metals, and the faint tang of magic.
"This will be painful," Lucian said, his voice devoid of emotion. "But necessary."
Vesemir nodded, his jaw clenched. "Do what you must."
The first step was the infusion of magical circuits. Lucian's hands moved with surgical precision, embedding arcane pathways into the Witcher's muscles, veins, and bones—intricate designs that wove into his very essence. The pain was immediate and excruciating.
Screams tore through the stone walls.
Outside, the others heard them, even from below. Ciri sat on the staircase, her knees pulled to her chest, her violet eyes fixed on the closed doors. Geralt stood nearby, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white. Lambert paced back and forth, his frustration evident in every step. Eskel remained still, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable.
"How long has it been?" Lambert growled, his voice tight with anger.
"An hour," Geralt replied, his tone clipped.
"An hour of that?" Lambert gestured toward the door, his face twisted in disgust. "This is insane. We shouldn't have let him do this."
"It was Vesemir's choice," Eskel said quietly, though his eyes betrayed his unease.
Ciri said nothing, her gaze never leaving the door. The screams continued, each one a dagger to her heart. She had seen Vesemir as a mentor, a father figure. Hearing him in such pain was almost too much to bear.
Two days later, the doors finally opened.
Lucian emerged, unbothered, his robes as pristine as when he entered. His masked gaze swept across those waiting before he gave his report.
"The procedure was a success. Vesemir's body has accepted the magical circuits."
Geralt stepped forward, his voice tight with barely restrained emotion. "How is he?"
"Alive," Lucian replied simply. "His mana capacity has increased significantly. His resistance to magic has strengthened. His physical form is enhanced, but it will take time to stabilize. We will begin the second procedure when he has fully healed."
Lambert let out a sharp breath, his anger still simmering. "And if he doesn't stabilize? What then?"
Lucian's gaze turned to him, cold and unyielding. "Then he will die. But that is the risk he chose to take."
Ciri stood abruptly, her voice trembling. "Can we see him?"
Lucian nodded once. "Briefly. He needs rest."
They filed into the laboratory, their footsteps heavy with apprehension. Vesemir lay on the stone table, his body covered in faintly glowing runes. His breathing was shallow but steady, his face pale but calm.
Geralt placed a hand on his mentor's shoulder, his voice soft. "You're a stubborn old man, you know that?"
Vesemir's lips twitched into a faint smile. "Takes one to know one."
A month had passed since Vesemir's first procedure. The old Witcher had healed—not completely, but enough. His body had adapted to the magical circuits, his strength and resilience noticeably improved. But the process was far from over. The second procedure, Lucian explained, would be even more grueling: the engraving of runes into Vesemir's bones.
The morning of the procedure was cold and gray, the sky heavy with the promise of snow. The Witchers gathered in the great hall, their expressions a mix of apprehension and resolve. Vesemir stood at the center, his posture straight, his face calm but determined.
Lucian entered the room, his golden mask gleaming in the dim light. He carried a small, ornate box, its surface etched with runes that seemed to pulse faintly. The room fell silent as he set the box on the table and turned to face them.
"The second procedure will begin today," he announced, his voice calm and measured. "The runes will be engraved directly into Vesemir's bones, enhancing his reflexes, durability, and combat instincts. The process will be… intense."
Lambert, who had been leaning against the wall, pushed himself off and stepped forward. "Intense? That's one way to put it. Last time, we listened to him scream for two days straight. What's this going to be like?"
Lucian's gaze turned to him, unflinching. "Worse."
Lambert's jaw tightened, but before he could retort, Vesemir spoke. "I've made my decision, Lambert. This is necessary."
"Necessary?" Lambert shot back, his voice rising. "You're letting him carve into your bones, Vesemir. Do you even know what that's going to do to you?"
Vesemir's expression softened, but his voice remained firm. "I know the risks. But if this can make us stronger—if it can ensure the survival of the School—then it's worth it."
Geralt stepped forward, his golden eyes fixed on Lucian. "How long will it take this time?"
"Two days," Lucian replied. "Possibly longer, depending on how his body reacts."
Eskel, who had been silent until now, spoke up. "And if something goes wrong? If the runes don't take?"
Lucian's tone was matter-of-fact. "Then he will die. But I have no reason to believe that will happen."
Ciri, who had been standing quietly near the doorway, finally spoke. Her voice was soft but filled with worry. "Is there anything we can do to help?"
Lucian turned to her, his masked gaze unreadable. "No. Your presence is unnecessary."
Ciri flinched slightly at his bluntness, but Geralt placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "We'll be here," he said, his voice steady. "If you need anything, we'll be right outside."
Lucian nodded once, then turned to Vesemir. "Are you ready?"
Vesemir took a deep breath, then nodded. "Let's get this over with."
As Lucian and Vesemir ascended the stairs to the laboratory, the others watched in silence. The sound of the door closing echoed through the hall, followed by the faint click of runic locks engaging.
And then, the screams began.
On the morning of the third day, the doors finally opened.
Lucian emerged, his robes as pristine as ever, his masked gaze sweeping across the room. The Witchers turned to him, their expressions a mix of hope and dread.
"It is done," Lucian announced. "Vesemir will awaken in one month."
Geralt stepped forward, his voice tight with barely restrained emotion. "How is he?"
"Alive," Lucian replied simply. "The runes have been successfully engraved. His body will need time to adapt, but the procedure was a success."
Lambert let out a sharp breath, his anger still simmering. "And if it wasn't? If you'd killed him?"
Lucian's gaze turned to him, cold and unyielding. "Then he would be dead. But he is not."
Ciri stood abruptly, her voice trembling. "Can we see him?"
Lucian nodded once. "Briefly. He needs rest."
They filed into the laboratory, their footsteps heavy with apprehension. Vesemir lay on the stone table, his body covered in faintly glowing runes. His breathing was shallow but steady, his face pale but calm.
Geralt placed a hand on his mentor's shoulder, his voice soft. "You're a stubborn old man, you know that?"
Vesemir's lips twitched into a faint smile. "Takes one to know one."
Ciri lingered in the laboratory long after the others had left. She sat by Vesemir's side, her hand resting lightly on his arm. The faint glow of the runes cast an eerie light over the room, but she paid it no mind. Her thoughts were elsewhere.
She had seen Vesemir as a mentor, a father figure. Hearing him in such pain had been almost too much to bear. And now, as she watched him sleep, she couldn't shake the feeling that something was changing—not just in Vesemir, but in all of them.
The Witchers were becoming something more, something stronger. But at what cost? And what did that mean for her?
Ciri's power had begun to manifest in ways none of them had foreseen. It was not Witcher alchemy. It was something else—something ancient and uncontrollable. She had tried to hide it, to push it down, but it was getting harder to ignore.
As she sat there, lost in thought, Geralt entered the room. He stood beside her, his presence a quiet comfort.
"You should get some rest," he said softly. "He's going to be fine."
Ciri looked up at him, her violet eyes filled with uncertainty. "Do you really believe that?"
Geralt hesitated, then nodded. "I do. Vesemir's tough. He'll pull through."
Ciri sighed, her gaze returning to Vesemir. "I just… I don't know if I can handle losing anyone else."
Geralt placed a hand on her shoulder, his touch reassuring. "You won't have to. We're all in this together."
As the days passed, the Witchers began to prepare for the next phase of Lucian's plan. The success of Vesemir's procedures had given them hope, but it had also raised questions.
Geralt, Lambert, and Eskel gathered in the great hall, their expressions serious. Ciri sat nearby, her presence a reminder of what they were fighting for.
"We can't keep doing this," Lambert said, his voice tight with frustration. "We're not lab rats. We're Witchers. We should be out there, hunting monsters, not letting some alchemist experiment on us."
Eskel nodded, his expression grim. "I get where you're coming from, Lambert. But if this works, it could change everything. We could be stronger than ever."
Geralt sighed, running a hand through his hair. "It's a risk. But if it means we can protect Ciri, protect the School… then it's a risk we have to take."
Ciri looked up at them, her voice soft but filled with determination. "I don't want anyone else to get hurt because of me."
Geralt's expression softened. "This isn't just about you, Ciri. This is about all of us. About the future of the School."
Lambert let out a sharp breath, his anger still simmering. "I just hope we're not making a mistake."
A year had passed since Vesemir's procedures. The old Witcher had awoken stronger than before, his Signs sharper, his body reforged. The others saw the results—and they could not deny them. One by one, they followed.
Geralt was next. Then Lambert. Eskel hesitated but eventually agreed. The process was grueling, the pain unbearable, but the rewards were undeniable. The Witchers who had undergone the Baptism of Blades were stronger, faster, more resistant to both steel and sorcery.
Yet amidst all this, Ciri had changed as well.
Her power had begun to manifest in ways none of them had foreseen. It was not Witcher alchemy. It was something else—something ancient and uncontrollable. She had tried to hide it, to push it down, but it was getting harder to ignore.
The gates of Kaer Morhen opened once more, this time for Triss Merigold. She arrived on horseback, her crimson hair a stark contrast to the snow-covered landscape. The Witchers greeted her with a mix of relief and apprehension. Kiyan, the Witcher from the School of the Cat, stood silently near the entrance, his yellow eyes watching her with a predator's calm.
Geralt stepped forward, his golden eyes meeting hers. "Triss. Thank you for coming."
Triss dismounted, her expression a mix of curiosity and concern. "Geralt. What's going on? Your message was… vague."
Geralt hesitated, then gestured toward the keep. "It's complicated. Come inside. We'll explain."
They led her through the stone halls, the air thick with tension. When they reached the great hall, Lucian was waiting, his golden mask gleaming in the firelight. Triss froze, her eyes narrowing as she studied him.
"Who's this?" she asked, her voice sharp.
"This is Avicebron," Geralt said, his tone neutral. "He's been… helping us."
Triss's gaze flicked to Lucian, her expression wary. "Helping you how?"
Lucian tilted his head slightly, his voice calm but carrying an edge of indifference. "You're the mage who nearly died at Sodden Hill."
Triss blinked, taken aback. "What?"
"The battle was interesting to watch," Lucian continued, his tone utterly detached.
Triss's breath hitched as the realization struck her. "You were there? You stood there and watched while we fought—while we died?"
Lucian's gaze was unflinching. "Of course."
Magic flared around Triss's fingertips, her fury igniting. "You could have saved them! You could have—"
Geralt stepped between them, his voice firm. "Triss, stop."
Triss wrenched herself free from his grip, her eyes burning. "Do you know what he did? Do you know how many people died because he just stood there and watched?"
Lucian's voice was calm, almost dismissive. "If I had interfered, it would not have changed the outcome. The fated died. The survivors lived."
Triss trembled with rage, her hands clenched into fists. "You're a monster."
Lucian tilted his head slightly, his tone carrying a hint of cold amusement. "A monster? Perhaps. But according to the peasants, I am the one who contributed the most to the war effort. They speak of my potions, my alchemy, my… miracles. To them, I am a savior, a hero. Funny, isn't it? How perspective changes everything."
Triss's eyes widened, her fury momentarily replaced by disbelief. "You think that justifies what you did? Watching people die while you did nothing?"
Lucian's voice remained calm, almost clinical. "I did my part. The potions I provided turned the tide of the battle. Without them, the North would have fallen. My role was not to fight but to ensure victory. And I succeeded."
Kiyan, who had been silent until now, stepped forward, his voice low and gravelly. "He's not wrong. His potions saved lives. But his methods… they're not for everyone."
Triss turned to Kiyan, her expression softening slightly. "And who are you?"
"Kiyan," he replied simply. "School of the Cat."
Triss studied him for a moment, then nodded. "I see."
Geralt exhaled, his voice low but firm. "Triss, we didn't bring you here to argue. We need your help."
Triss hesitated, her gaze flicking between Geralt and Lucian. "With what?"
"Ciri," Geralt said simply. "She's a Source. We need your expertise to help guide and train her."
Triss's expression softened, her anger giving way to concern. "A Source? That's… rare. And dangerous if not handled properly."
Geralt nodded. "We know. That's why we called you."
Triss sighed, running a hand through her hair. "All right. Show me to her."