1241 – BLAVIKEN
The heavy wooden gates of Blaviken loomed before Sven as he stepped onto the cobblestone approach, the town's name carved deep into weathered planks overhead. A fine drizzle had begun to fall overnight, leaving dark puddles scattered across the street and turning the thatched roofs of nearby homes a deep, sodden brown. He'd been looking forward to this stop for weeks—Blaviken's market was known for drawing traders from across the Northern Realms, and he'd calculated that his stock of spices and maps could fetch him enough coin to fund a trip to Oxenfurt's gambling halls before winter set in.
But as he passed through the gates, he felt eyes on him—hard, suspicious stares from townsfolk who'd paused in their morning errands to watch him pass. An old woman pulling a cart of firewood narrowed her gaze at his yellow-gold eyes before hurrying away. Two men loitering by a barrel of salt muttered under their breath, their hands drifting to the hilts of their knives. Sven let out a quiet huff, adjusting the strap of his satchel on his shoulder. Witcher eyes, he thought. Always the same reaction. They'd probably run screaming if they knew the truth.
He paid them no mind, making his way toward the market square where colorful awnings stretched over wooden stalls laden with goods. The first stop was a food stall run by a broad-shouldered woman named Marta, whose spicy stews were famous in the region—and whose need for quality herbs and cinnamon was well-known. As he set his satchel on her counter, she leaned back, crossing her arms over her apron.
"Another one of those," she muttered, nodding toward his eyes. "I don't want no trouble in my stall, stranger."
Sven's lips curved into his most charming smile, reaching into his bag to pull out a small cloth pouch filled with dried thyme. "Trouble's the last thing I bring, Marta—though I must say, your stew's been known to cause a bit of trouble for folks who can't handle spice. I've got some cinnamon from the south that'd make your meat pies sing, and thyme so fresh you'd think it was picked this morning."
He spoke smoothly, complimenting her stall, asking about her family, even making a joke about the rain turning the town's cobblestones into a slip-and-slide for clumsy merchants. Slowly, her wariness softened. When he pulled out his hand-drawn maps of the Pontar Valley—marked with safe paths and hidden streams—she leaned forward, her eyes brightening with interest. Within twenty minutes, he'd sold half of his spices and three maps, pocketing thirty crowns and earning a promise from Marta to recommend him to other stall owners in the square.
With his satchel lighter and his coin pouch heavier, Sven turned toward the town's blacksmith—his real prize, the silver sword diagram, tucked safely in his inner pocket. He'd planned to offer it to the smith for whatever he could get, but as he rounded a corner near the town well, he stopped short.
Standing in the middle of the street was a figure he'd recognize anywhere: a Witcher, with stark white hair tied back in a loose tail, clad in weathered leather armor that bore the unmistakable wolf head sigil of Kaer Morhen. Two swords—steel and silver—crossed his back, and his amber eyes scanned the street with the sharp focus of a predator. This was Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf himself—Sven had heard tales of him from traders and tavern keepers alike, stories of monsters slain and kings crossed.
A grin spread across Sven's face. Better than a blacksmith, he thought. A Witcher'd pay more for a quality sword diagram than any smith in the North.
He started forward, his hand raised in a friendly wave. "Morning to you, friend—impressive armor you've got there."
The words were barely out of his mouth before Geralt's hand was on the hilt of his steel sword, his body tensing like a coiled spring. His amber eyes fixed on Sven's face, narrowing with suspicion. "Who are you?"
Sven paused, holding his hands up in a placating gesture, his smile never wavering. "Easy there—no need for sharp steel. Name's Sven. They call me the Merchant with the Cat's Eye, though I prefer just Sven."
Geralt's grip on his sword loosened slightly, but his posture remained guarded. "Geralt of Rivia. Wolf School. You've got Witcher eyes—what school are you from?"
Sven let out a short laugh, shaking his head as he stepped closer. "No school, no training—just a trader who's had a few… unusual experiences. I'm not here to hunt monsters or start fights. Matter of fact, I was on my way to see the blacksmith, but seeing you made me think I'd found a better buyer."
He reached into his satchel, pulling out the rolled parchment and unrolling it to reveal the intricate diagram. Geralt's eyes flickered from Sven's face to the parchment, his expression shifting from suspicion to curiosity. He stepped forward, his calloused fingers tracing the lines of the blade's design—rune slots carved with precision, a hilt shaped like a coiled basilisk, notes in Elder Speech detailing the metal composition needed to make it sing against monsters.
"Where did you get this?" Geralt asked, his voice low.
"Found it on some bandits who thought they'd rob me a few days back," Sven said casually. "Figured a real Witcher'd get more use out of it than a smith who'd just burn it down for scrap. Thought I'd offer it to you first."
Geralt looked up from the diagram, his eyes studying Sven's face for any sign of deception. After a long moment, he nodded toward the street leading out of the square. "Come with me. We can talk somewhere quieter."
They set off down the cobblestones, the rain beginning to pick up again as they passed the Black Cloak Tavern and a row of timber-framed homes. Sven, never one to let silence linger, turned to Geralt with a grin. "So, what's it really like being a Witcher? All the stories say you spend your days fighting griffins and your nights drinking alone in taverns. Is that true?"
Geralt let out a quiet grunt, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. "Stories exaggerate. Most days are spent walking, waiting, or negotiating with folks who'd rather pay you in insults than crowns."
"Ouch," Sven said, feigning sympathy. "Must be rough. Do you have to be so brooding all the time? I mean, yellow eyes are bad enough—adding a permanent scowl can't help with haggling."
Geralt shot him a sharp look, but there was no real anger in it. "It keeps people away. Makes the job easier."
"Easier, maybe," Sven said, "but less profitable. You could make a fortune if you'd just smile every now and then. I once sold a bag of dried parsley for twice its worth just by complimenting a lord's terrible hat."
Geralt said nothing, but Sven could see the corner of his mouth twitch slightly as they turned onto a street leading to the town's livery stables. The wooden sign overhead read BLAVIKEN LIVERY & STABLES, and through the arched entrance, Sven could see hay scattered across the stone floor and the dark shapes of horses in their stalls.
Inside, Geralt led him to a small table tucked away in a corner, away from the curious eyes of the stable hand. He laid the diagram out on the wood, his fingers tracing the rune slots again as he examined every detail. After a few minutes, he looked up at Sven. "This is quality work—could fetch a hundred crowns easy from a master smith or a wealthy mercenary. Maybe more."
Sven leaned against the table, pulling a few coins from his pouch and flipping them in his hand. "I'll sell it to you for fifty crowns."
Geralt blinked, his amber eyes widening slightly in surprise. "Fifty? Are you certain? That's less than half its worth."
Sven grinned, setting the coins down on the table beside the diagram. "I'm not just selling you a piece of parchment, Geralt. I'm buying a favor—or, well, friendship, if you'd prefer the word. I plan to expand my trade soon—maybe start a caravan running goods between Blaviken and Oxenfurt. Having a friend who's a Witcher wouldn't hurt when it comes to keeping bandits and monsters away from my wagons."
Geralt stood straight, crossing his arms over his chest as he looked down at Sven. "I don't make deals like that. Favors get complicated."
"Friendship isn't a deal," Sven said, laughing as he clapped Geralt on the shoulder. "It's just… having someone to call when things get rough. And I'd do the same for you—if you ever need spices, maps, or someone to help you win at dice, I'm your man."
Geralt stared at him for a long moment, his face as impassive as stone. Sven felt a shiver run down his spine—even with his own mutations, there was something unsettling about the way Witchers could keep their expressions perfectly still. "It's the mutations," Geralt said, as if reading his mind. "They affect more than just strength and speed. We don't feel emotions the way other people do—or at least, we don't show them."
He reached into his own pouch, pulling out fifty crowns and setting them on the table beside Sven's coins. "The diagram is worth more, but I'll take your offer. And if your caravan ever needs protection… find me in Oxenfurt come winter. I'll see what I can do."
Sven beamed, rolling up the diagram and handing it to Geralt before pocketing the crowns. "Deal. And when I'm rich enough to buy my own wagon, I'll make sure you get the best cinnamon money can buy. You'll see—friendship with a merchant is more valuable than any monster bounty."
Geralt let out a quiet hum, tucking the diagram into his own bag as he turned toward his horse—a magnificent silver dapple standing calmly in its stall. "We'll see, Sven. We'll see."
As the rain began to pour in earnest, Sven waved goodbye to the White Wolf and headed back toward the market square, his coin pouch heavy and his mind already racing with plans for his future caravan. Maybe, just maybe, having a Witcher as a friend was worth more than any profit he could make from his wares.