1241 – BLAVIKEN
Stregobor waved his hand toward the spiral stone staircase at the tower's core, his weathered fingers catching the faint blue glow of the wall torches he'd conjured with a flick of his wrist. "Come, Witcher—we'll speak more comfortably in my study. The air up there is clearer."
He led the way up steps worn smooth by centuries of use, his staff tapping against each tread in a steady rhythm that sent soft echoes through the tower's stone belly. Moss grew in patches along the walls, and the scent of old paper, dried herbs, and something faintly metallic hung heavy in the cool air.
They soon emerged into a high-ceilinged room where towering shelves stretched from floor to vaulted ceiling, stuffed with leather-bound tomes, sealed scrolls tied with twine, and jars of preserved specimens that glimmered in the light.
Stregobor settled into a carved wooden chair with high, ornate backrests shaped like twisting vines, gesturing to another beside him with worn leather cushions. "Sit, Geralt. Even Witchers must rest their legs eventually—your kind may be enhanced, but you're not made of stone."
Geralt remained standing, his silver medallion still humming faintly against his chest—though not with the sharp warning of immediate danger this time, but with the constant, low thrum of magic thick in the air around them. He ran a hand through his white hair, his amber eyes scanning the room for hidden threats before settling on the mage's face. "I'll stand. I've learned not to trust luxury from men who hide their true names and get to the point, Stregobor. Why hide behind 'Master Irion'? Blaviken's alderman speaks highly of you—as do the townsfolk who think you're some wandering sorcerer here to help."
The mage let out a sharp laugh, steepling his fingers as he leaned back in his seat. "Ah, direct as ever. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised—you've never been one for pleasantries. Very well—I'll tell you a tale that explains more than you know. Years ago, in the kingdom of Creyden, a princess was born under the sign of the black sun—a celestial event that hasn't been seen in nearly three hundred years. They named her Renfri, and from the moment she drew breath, the priests and augurs declared her cursed."
He paused, reaching for a small crystal vial on the table and swirling its contents—green liquid that sparkled like crushed emeralds. "I was there when the council made their judgment. I'd been called to advise the king on matters of magic, and I confirmed what the prophecies had foretold. The child would bring ruin to all she touched. But the king was weak—he couldn't bring himself to end her life, so instead he cast her out into the woods, to be raised by bandits and outcasts. Now she hunts me across the realms, leaving a trail of burned villages and dead men in her wake. Blaviken's folk would turn on me in an instant if they knew who I was and what ties I have to her past—they'd see me as the cause of whatever destruction she might bring here."
Geralt let out a short bark of a laugh, a mocking edge to his voice as he crossed his arms over his chest. "Hiding from a princess? That's a new one for you, mage. I remember when you faced down a djinn in Kovir without flinching, yet now you cower behind a false name because a woman seeks revenge."
Stregobor's face hardened, his pale eyes narrowing as he set the vial back on the table with a sharp click. He opened his mouth to speak, his lips parting to deliver what Geralt knew would be a carefully crafted plea—but the Witcher cut him off before a single word could pass his lips. "Before you offer me coin—I'll save you the trouble. I take contracts to kill monsters. Creatures that feast on men, spread disease, or tear apart villages for sport. Not to act as an assassin for mages running from their mistakes. Whatever wrong you did to Renfri, that's between you and her."
Down in Blaviken's market square, the sun had broken through the clouds, casting warm golden light across wooden stalls piled high with goods—sacks of grain, bolts of cloth in rich colors, fresh bread still steaming from the ovens, and baskets of wild berries. Sven moved through the crowd with ease, his satchel of spices and maps slung over one shoulder as he made his way to his usual spot near the well, where he'd set up a small wooden table covered with a clean linen cloth.
He'd barely unpacked when a burly merchant with bushy brown sideburns and calloused hands approached, his eyes fixed on the large parchment map Sven was unfurling across the tabletop. The man wore a leather apron stained with grease and wine, and the scent of salt fish and cedar clung to him—signs he traded along the coast and inland rivers.
"Pontar Valley," Sven said, tapping a finger against the inked paths and marked locations, his voice clear enough to carry over the market's chatter. "Every route here is tested—I've walked each one myself, from the forests of Verden all the way to the banks of the Pontar. See these red X's? Monster nests—griffins nesting in the high crags, drowners lurking in the slow-moving streams, a few wraiths haunting the old battlefield where the Northern Wars raged fifty years ago. This map guides you to the safest, shortest path and keeps you clear of them all—saves you time, coin, and your life, if you're smart enough to follow it."
The merchant squinted at the parchment, running a thick finger over one of the marked trails before looking up at Sven with a skeptical frown. "And how do I know you're not just making marks on paper? Any fool with ink can draw lines and put crosses where he pleases. Besides—if you know where these beasts are hiding, why not hunt them instead of avoiding them? A dead monster's worth more than a pile of dried herbs and a piece of parchment."
Sven met the man's gaze, his amber eyes steady and clear as he folded his arms across his chest. "Then why make a map to avoid them at all? Some folk need to get where they're going alive—not fight every beast in the wilds just because they can. A dead merchant can't sell his wares, can he? And not everyone has the strength or skill to face down a griffin. My trade is helping people move through the world safely—not turning every road into a battlefield."
The merchant stared at him for a long moment, then burst out laughing, clapping Sven on the shoulder hard enough to make him stumble slightly. "Smart lad! You've got a way with words—I'll give you that. Fifty crowns, and we'll call it done. My caravans have lost too many men to things that go bump in the night—I'll take all the help I can get."
Sven carefully rolled the map, tying it with a length of soft leather before handing it over, tucking the heavy coins into his pouch with a satisfied nod. The weight felt good—enough to buy fresh supplies for his next journey, and maybe a warm room for a night or two instead of sleeping under the stars.
After selling all of his maps, he made his way to the herbalist's stall at the square's edge, where dried herbs hung in bunches from wooden beams and glass jars lined shelves behind a rough-hewn counter. The herbalist, a thin man with spectacles perched on his nose and hands stained dark with plant juices, looked up as Sven approached, wiping his palms on his apron.
"Got some good stock for you today, Master Henrik," Sven said, laying out his collection on the counter—bundles of white myrtle with its sweet-smelling leaves, clusters of crow's eye with their dark berries, and fresh mountain parsley still dusted with soil from the high hills. "Picked them myself just three days ago, up near the old quarry where the soil's rich and clean."
The herbalist leaned forward, pushing his spectacles up his nose as he sorted through the plants with practiced hands, sniffing each one and running his fingers over the leaves. "Good quality, I'll give you that—strong scent, no signs of blight or pests. But I'll be honest with you, lad—the harvest was strong this year. The farmers up in the hills brought in more than I can sell, so supply's high. I can only offer you ten crowns total."
Sven's shoulders fell slightly—he'd hoped for more, enough to buy new boots for the road ahead—but he offered no argument. He'd traded with Henrik before and knew the man's prices were fair, if sharp. "Fair enough," he said, pocketing the coins and folding the empty cloth he'd used to wrap the herbs. "I'll bring more when I pass through again next moon—maybe some wolf's bane if I can find it growing safe from contamination."
"Be careful with that stuff," Henrik warned, his voice low as he tucked the herbs into a large wicker basket. "Wolf's bane's tricky—one wrong step near a tainted patch, and you'll be sick for a week. Or worse."
Sven nodded, slinging his satchel back over his shoulder. "I know the risks. Thanks for the coin, Master Henrik."
Back at the tower, the sun had begun to sink low in the sky, painting the horizon in shades of orange, gold, and deep purple. Geralt and Stregobor stood on the battlements, the wind whipping through their hair as they looked out over Blaviken and the lands beyond. The mage had spent the last hour trying to sway him, his voice smooth and persuasive as he laid out scrolls of prophecy and accounts of villages he claimed Renfri had destroyed.
"I see a girl driven by revenge," Geralt said flatly, cutting through Stregobor's latest plea about saving innocent lives. "You branded her a monster before she'd drawn her first breath, convinced her father to cast her out to die, and spent years hunting her across the realms. Now you want me to finish the job you started—because you're too afraid to face her yourself."
Stregobor gripped his staff tighter, his knuckles white as his face twisted with frustration. "You're being pedantic, Witcher. Have you not heard of Eltibald's prophecy? The ancient texts are clear—girls born under the black sun will bring ruin to civilization. Plagues that sweep through cities like wildfire, wars that burn kingdoms to ash, the fall of every order we've built over centuries. Killing one to save thousands… that is the lesser evil. It's simple mathematics."
"Lesser, greater, middling," Geralt said, turning away from the view and toward the tower's entrance. "It's all the same—evil is evil. There's no scale that makes one life worth more than another, no prophecy that justifies condemning a child to death before she's done a single wrong. I won't choose. Your request is denied."
He descended the tower steps without another word, his boots making no sound on the stone as he moved through the quiet courtyard—now stripped of its illusory beauty, leaving only bare flagstones and dead grass. As he stepped onto the cobblestone lane leading back to town, he didn't notice the figure pressed against the stone wall of a nearby alley, hidden in deep shadow.
Red hair fell loose from a dark cloak, and sharp green eyes followed his every move, tracking him as he walked through the streets and merged with the crowd heading toward the market square. Renfri turned a small silver coin over and over in her gloved hand, the metal cool against her skin as she watched the Witcher vanish from sight. After a long moment, she tucked the coin into her pouch and melted into the shadows, moving silently toward the Drunken Mare inn.
That evening, as darkness began to fall over Blaviken and lanterns were lit along the streets, Sven pushed open the heavy wooden door of the Drunken Mare, the warm glow of the hearth fire washing over him and chasing away the chill of the approaching night. The inn was already half-full—farmers sharing tales of their fields, merchants counting coins at their tables, and a group of guards from the town watch laughing as they passed a jug of wine between them.
He made his way to the bar, where polished wooden casks lined the back wall and the scent of ale, roasted meat, and pipe smoke hung thick in the air. The barmaid—a sturdy woman with curly brown hair tied back in a bun—looked up as he approached, wiping her hands on her apron before setting a tankard before him.
"Your usual, spice boy?" she asked, her voice gruff but warm.
Sven nodded, slapping a few copper coins on the counter. "Aye, Lina. Pour me a full one—I've had a long day on my feet."
He lifted the tankard and took a long sip, then immediately made a face, pushing it back across the wood with a grimace. "Lina, this isn't ale—it's more like muddy water someone's been washing their boots in. You can't charge full price for swill like this. I'll give you half what I paid, or I'll tell every traveler who comes through here what you're passing off as 'fine Blaviken brew'."
The barmaid planted her hands on her hips, her cheeks flushed with annoyance as she leaned forward across the counter. "Half? You're lucky I don't pour it over your head, you cheeky little merchant—this is the same ale we've served for ten years, and no one else's complained!"
"Easy there, lass," a rough voice cut through the air, making both of them turn. A man with a scar cutting across his jaw and dark hair tied back in a messy tail leaned against the bar beside Sven, leering as he looked him up and down. He wore leather armor stained with dirt and dried blood, and at his hip hung a dagger with a worn hilt. "Look at those eyes—freakish gold, just like that Witcher freak who took out our mates last week up near the old mill. What're you, his little pet? Running errands for mutants now?"
He reached out to grab Sven's shoulder, his fingers curled into a fist—but before his hand could make contact, the inn door swung open again with a loud bang against the wall. Cold air rushed in, carrying with it the scent of pine and rain, and a woman stepped inside, it was Renfri.
"Civril," she said, her voice low but clear enough to be heard over the inn's noise. "Leave him be. We've got more important things to worry about than picking fights with spice merchants."
The man pulled his hand back quickly, bowing his head in deference as he stepped away from the bar. Sven looked up at the red-haired woman, his hand tightening around his tankard as he tried to place where he'd seen her before—something about the set of her shoulders, the way she held herself… it was as if he'd crossed paths with her in a dream, or heard tales of her from other travelers along the road.