1241 – BLAVIKEN
As Sven tucked his coin pouch back into his satchel and turned to head out of the stables, Geralt's eyes drifted toward the arched entrance. A familiar figure stood there—an older man with silver hair and weathered features, dressed in a simple brown vest over a linen shirt. Caldemeyn, Blaviken's alderman and an old acquaintance from years past, watched them with a slight smile on his face.
"Geralt of Rivia," Caldemeyn called out, stepping into the stable's dim light. "I'd heard a Witcher was in town. Good to see you're still in one piece."
Geralt crossed his arms over his chest, a faint nod of recognition passing between them. "Caldemeyn. I've got a kikimore carcass I was hoping to sell—thought you might be interested in the components for the town's healers."
The alderman's smile faded slightly as he shook his head. "Wish I could help you there, friend. The coffers are running low after repairing the bridge last month—we've got no coin to spare for monster parts. But I know someone who might. There's a mage staying in the old tower on the edge of town—calls himself Master Irion. He's been helping us with minor enchantments and potions lately, and I've heard he pays well for rare materials."
"Master Irion?" Geralt frowned, tilting his head slightly. "I've not heard of him. What's his business here?"
"Keeps to himself mostly," Caldemeyn said, adjusting the pouch at his waist. "Says he's researching local flora and magical currents. He's been useful enough—fixed our well when it went dry, helped clear a curse from the miller's daughter. Seems trustworthy enough for a mage." He paused, his gaze drifting toward the door where Sven had just exited. "Speaking of travelers… that young man you were talking to—Sven, was it? I know him by reputation. He's known for walking from town to town alone, selling spices and maps. Reliable, from what I've heard."
Geralt raised an eyebrow. "You know him?"
"By name only," Caldemeyn said, pulling a folded piece of parchment from his pocket. "My brother lives in Oxenfurt—runs a tavern near the university. I've been meaning to send him word about our mother's health, but the usual couriers charge a fortune. I was wondering… if you've got any sort of connection to Sven, could you ask if he'd carry this letter for me? I'd pay him, of course—enough to make it worth his while."
Geralt thought back to Sven's offer of friendship, his grin as he'd talked about expanding his trade routes. "We just met," he said, "but he seemed serious about building connections. I'll see what I can do."
Caldemeyn's face brightened with relief. "Thank you, Geralt. Means more than you know." He handed over the letter, then gestured toward the street outside. "The tower's not far—just follow this road past the market square, then take the lane that curves up the hill. You'll see it clearly enough—it's the only stone tower left standing from the old fortress."
They set off together through Blaviken's cobblestone streets, the sky still heavy with gray clouds. Caldemeyn pointed out landmarks as they walked, occasionally stopping to nod at townsfolk who greeted him. When they reached the base of the hill, he came to a halt, pointing up toward a tall stone structure that loomed against the skyline.
"Up there," he said. "I'll leave you to it—got to get back to the burgomastery and sort out the grain supplies. Good luck with the mage."
Geralt nodded his thanks and continued up the winding lane. The tower grew larger with each step—its walls were covered in moss and ivy, and the massive wooden doors at its base were reinforced with iron bands shaped like curling vines. As he approached, he reached for the door knocker, but his hand stopped short. His medallion began to hum softly against his chest, a low vibration that told him magic was near. He pressed his palm against the wood—and felt a jolt of energy pass through his fingers, as if the door was wrapped in a thin layer of lightning.
Enchanted, he thought, stepping back to study the entrance more closely.
Inside the tower, in a room high above the door, a man stood before a large crystal ball filled with swirling blue light. He watched as Geralt examined the gates, his lips twisted into a thin smile. With a wave of his hand, the glowing energy around the doors faded away, and the wood swung open with a low creak.
Geralt paused, his hand drifting to the hilt of his silver sword. The medallion's hum had quieted, but he still felt a prickle of unease at the back of his neck. He stepped through the doorway into a courtyard that seemed to bloom with life—colorful flowers climbed up stone walls, a fountain shaped like a wolf's head spouted clear water into a pool below, and sunlight streamed down from a skylight in the ceiling above.
But as he took another step forward, his medallion began to hum again—louder this time, a sharp warning that cut through the peaceful air. The vibrant colors of the garden seemed to blur and shift, the flowers' petals melting into wisps of green smoke.
"It's an illusion," a voice called out from the shadows. "Though I must say, you're quicker to notice than most."
A figure emerged from behind a stone pillar—tall and stooped slightly at the shoulders, with pale skin etched deep with age and a long, flowing white beard that reached his chest. His silver hair was thin at the temples, swept back from a high forehead lined with wrinkles that spoke of centuries of scheming. He wore a rich dark green robe embroidered with intricate gold runes that shimmered faintly in the light, the fabric draped over broad shoulders and falling to the stone floor. A heavy medallion hung around his neck, and he leaned on a gnarled wooden staff carved with symbols that matched those on his robes.
Geralt's hand tightened on his sword hilt as recognition dawned in his amber eyes.
"Stregobor," he said flatly, his voice cold. "I should have known. 'Master Irion'—really? That's the best you could come up with?"
The mage's lips curved into a cynical smile, his pale eyes glinting with amusement as he stepped into what was now revealed to be a bare stone courtyard, the fountain nothing more than a pile of cracked rock. His beard shifted as he spoke, each word measured and deliberate.
"It suits the role I'm playing here," Stregobor replied, tapping his staff against the ground with a sharp click that echoed through the space. "And it's better than being chased out of town by angry peasants, don't you think? They're so much more willing to accept help from a 'Master Irion' than from the sorcerer they've heard tales of".
He adjusted the collar of his robe, the gold embroidery catching the faint light filtering through the tower's walls. Even in his disguised role, there was no mistaking the sharp intellect and cold ambition that radiated from him—qualities that had made him one of the most feared mages in the Northern Realms.