Just as a seemingly easygoing yet faintly intriguing smile appeared on Karl El's face, the subtle but oppressive sense of danger that had caused Borchi's heart to race suddenly receded like a withdrawing tide. In its place came a surge of doubt—deep, heavy, and impossible to ignore. A flicker of gravity crossed Borchi's eyes, the kind that appeared only when one's instincts screamed a warning the mind refused to accept.
"Is it an illusion?" he questioned silently, his thoughts churning. "He's just a human… perhaps a little stronger than most."
Yet no matter how he tried to rationalize it, the unease would not disappear.
"How could a human make me feel like this?" Borchi thought, forcing his breathing to remain steady. "This shouldn't be possible."
He understood his own nature and power with absolute clarity. Ordinary humans—no matter how gifted, whether warriors hardened by countless battles or sorcerers steeped in ancient magic—should never be capable of provoking such a vivid premonition of death within him.
Karl El, still wearing that faintly mysterious smile, broke the silence first. His voice was relaxed, almost friendly, as though the tension in the air did not exist at all.
"Hey, buddy. I'm Arnulfati," he said lightly. "A friend of Geralt's."
Borchi suppressed the lingering shock in his heart and forced a polite smile in return. His expression appeared calm, but his mind remained on high alert.
"Arnulfati?" he repeated. "A name that means 'Sun,' if I'm not mistaken. Very fitting. Your aura is… impressive."
He inclined his head slightly. "I am Three Jackdaws, though most people call me Borchi. Whichever you find easier. I hail from Zerrikania."
With a casual gesture, Borchi indicated the two young women riding silently at his sides. Their sharp eyes scanned the surroundings with unwavering vigilance.
"Oh, and just so there's no misunderstanding," Borchi added in a relaxed tone, "I don't personally carry weapons. These two are my weapons—as well as my guards."
The party pressed onward, traversing treacherous mountain paths as they ventured deeper into the mist-shrouded peaks. The journey was far from smooth. They encountered rock trolls entrenched in narrow passes, bands of greedy brigands emboldened by rumors of dragon treasure, and restless monsters drawn by the unmistakable scent of a dragon.
None of these obstacles posed any real threat to the dragon-hunting party.
For Karl El, Geralt, and the others, such encounters barely qualified as a warm-up. They watched without intervening, letting the hired fighters and mercenaries deal with the nuisances while conserving their own strength.
As they advanced further into the mountains, the air grew heavy with the stench of sulfur. Beneath it lingered a musky, oppressive odor unique to a dragon's presence. Borchi inhaled deeply, his nostrils flaring as he caught the unmistakable scent of the creature they were supposedly tracking—a Green Dragon.
In his heart, he knew the journey was nearing its end.
His gaze lingered on the figures ahead of him: Geralt riding with his usual stoic posture, and Natasha beside him, her expression unreadable yet brimming with suppressed anticipation. Borchi's eyes then shifted to the back of Arnulfati—the man who had stirred such inexplicable unease within him.
A silent decision was made.
Taking advantage of a moment when the group became slightly disorganized while navigating a dangerous scree slope, Borchi slipped away without a sound. He dismounted swiftly and vanished into the dense, shadowy coniferous forest beside the path, moving with practiced ease.
Only his two loyal Zerrikanian warrior women continued onward with the group, their expressions betraying nothing.
At the very instant Borchi's figure was swallowed by layers of dark green shadow, Karl El—who had seemed entirely absorbed in the surrounding scenery—turned his head.
His gaze settled precisely on the spot where Borchi had disappeared.
The corner of Karl El's mouth curved upward as he chuckled softly, his voice barely more than a whisper meant only for himself.
"Looking for a place to transform?" he murmured. "So this really is it."
His eyes gleamed with unmistakable interest. "The legendary Golden Dragon… Just how powerful are you, Three Jackdaws? Don't disappoint me."
The hunting party soon followed the increasingly obvious signs of a dragon's lair. Massive droppings radiating a pungent stench lay scattered along the path. Thick trees had been snapped cleanly in half by claws of unimaginable strength, and deep gouges scarred the rocky ground.
At last, they reached a colossal cave carved into the side of a sheer mountain cliff.
Bones littered the cave entrance—some animal, others disturbingly large. The sulfurous air was so thick it burned the lungs with every breath.
Yet what awaited them above the cave entrance, standing upon a massive stone platform, was not the weakened Green Dragon they had expected.
Instead, a dragon of far greater size and majesty gazed down upon them.
Its body was clad in scales that shimmered like molten gold, each one reflecting sunlight in brilliant, regal hues as the mist parted around it. Powerful wings folded neatly against its sides, and its long, thick tail moved with deliberate, lethal grace, striking the rock with a deep, resonant thud.
Those vertical golden pupils fixed upon the intruders below, cold and calculating. Within that gaze lay not only scrutiny—but a faint trace of pity.
Chaos erupted among the hunters.
"What in the gods' names is that?!"
"By the heavens—it's a Golden Dragon!"
"A Golden Dragon? The information was wrong! We were supposed to find a poisoned Green Dragon!"
"Who cares what kind it is? It's still a dragon! If it's a dragon, it dies!"
"The value of its scales alone—far more than any Green Dragon!"
Greed swiftly overwhelmed fear.
At the rear of the group, the dwarves acted with grim efficiency. Using the shouting crowd as cover, they maneuvered several massive ballistae into position. The heavy mechanisms creaked softly as they adjusted the angles, carefully aiming their deadly weapons at the golden behemoth above.
Natasha stared upward, her breath catching in her throat. Awe and agitation warred within her, her eyes shining with a fervor she could not suppress.
"So the legends were true," she whispered, voice trembling. "Golden Dragons… I read about them in ancient scrolls long ago."
She swallowed hard. "They're far rarer than Green Dragons. Stronger. Wiser. This is—this is incredible."
Suddenly, she turned and seized Geralt's arm, her fingers gripping his leather armor with desperate intensity.
"Geralt," she pleaded, her voice low but urgent. "You have to help me."
Her eyes burned with determination. "This Golden Dragon… its power, its blood, its materials—there might be a way. A way to cure my condition."
She did not say the words aloud, but Geralt understood all too well.
The Witcher's expression hardened, his already impassive face becoming like carved stone. His feline pupils locked onto Natasha's desperate gaze, and his response was immediate and unyielding.
"No," he said.
The single word fell like a blade.
"I will not hunt a dragon," Geralt continued firmly. "Especially not one that has done nothing to harm human settlements."
He gestured subtly toward the Golden Dragon. "Creatures like this—ancient, intelligent—are not threats to humanity."
His gaze shifted to the surrounding hunters, their eyes gleaming with avarice, faces twisted by desire.
"It's humans who hunt dragons," Geralt said quietly. "Out of greed. Out of fear. Or for reasons like this."
He looked back at Natasha, his voice heavy with conviction. "What right do we have to strip such a being of its life just to satisfy that greed—or our own wishes?"
Natasha's expression darkened instantly, frustration and despair colliding within her. She had not expected Geralt to be so resolute, so unyielding, on this matter.
Above them all, the Golden Dragon watched in silence, ancient eyes reflecting the fragile, dangerous nature of those who dared stand before it.
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