I stood in the kitchen area of Callum and Calla's mother's home, letting my senses map the space.
The home was generous with its space, far more than I'd expected from the outside, and put together with the kind of quiet precision that spoke of someone who valued function as much as comfort. If I didn't know better, I would have assumed Callidea was one of the wealthiest women in the village. Shelves lined the walls, stacked with books whose spines showed the wear of actual use rather than decoration. Bundles of dried herbs hung from the exposed rafters, filling the air with layered scents I could pick apart individually if I concentrated, sage, wolfsbane, something that might have been arenaria. A modest alchemy set sat in one corner, simple in its construction but larger than anything I'd seen outside of Kaer Morhen's own laboratory, the glass retorts and copper coils gleaming faintly in the firelight. Several documents were stacked neatly beside it, and my heightened senses picked up fragments of the words on the topmost pages along with the sharp chemical tang of ink not yet fully dry.
Hillstead itself carried a natural pine scent that seemed to soak into everything, I'd noticed it on Callum and Calla the moment I met them, that particular green, resinous smell that clung to skin and clothing alike. Callidea was no different. It was woven into the house itself, into the herbs, into the woman herself.
All of it, the books, the herbs, the careful documentation, the modest but serious alchemy setup, told me the same thing my instincts had already whispered the moment I walked through her door. This woman was intelligent. Capable. And beneath the warmth she'd shown her children, there was an edge to her I recognized instinctively, the same edge I saw in Vesemir, in Geralt, in anyone who had survived long enough in this world to become truly dangerous. I catalogued several of the herbs on her shelves without meaning to, the Witcher training running on autopilot, and recognized more than a few that could serve as medicine in one dose and poison in another.
I decided to let my mind focus on something simpler. Cooking. One of the few genuine pleasures I'd found in this world, one of the few things that felt entirely mine, untouched by the mutations, being a transmigrator or System.
My hands moved instinctively as I began preparing a hearty stew as an appetizer, the knife working through root vegetables with practiced rhythm while a pot of bone broth simmered low over the fire.
But the stew was only the beginning. Tonight called for something more.
Callum and Calla were being reunited with their mother after nearly nine years apart. That wasn't a small thing, not in a world where nine years could easily have meant nine years of silence, of not knowing whether the other was alive or dead. It deserved more than a simple appetizer.
Roasted duck stuffed with apples and prunes, I'd decided, served alongside buttered root vegetables and thick, crusty rye bread. In this world I remembered, duck had been an ordinary bird, cheap enough for anyone. Here, it was a luxury dish, one reserved for celebrations, for exactly the kind of occasion unfolding in this kitchen tonight.
While I worked, chopping apples into wedges and pitting prunes for the stuffing, the rest of the family sat at the long wooden table behind me, their voices filling the space with a warmth that had nothing to do with the fire.
Callum was smiling brightly, the way he always did when he was genuinely happy, and Calla sat with a proud, satisfied look on her face, the two of them bantering back and forth about everything they'd each survived over the years apart. Callidea sat between them, her warm gaze moving from one child to the other, listening with the kind of attention that made it clear she wasn't just hearing them, she was drinking them in, as if trying to make up for nine years of absence in a single evening.
Then she spoke, her voice soft but carrying easily over the crackle of the fire.
"You've both seen and done so much, I'm just glad you both made it home."
She turned then, her gaze settling on me even though my back was still to them at the counter.
"Cain. Thank you for watching out for Callum, and for helping him make it home."
I waved a hand without turning around, focused on tucking the apple and prune stuffing into the duck's cavity.
"Ma'am, Callum's too stubborn to die, and something tells me if he did, he'd come back just for my cooking."
That earned a round of laughter, and I heard Callum's chair creak as he shifted.
"Cain, if I die, it'll have to be after eating your food first. Death can wait. Your food, It's just like Mom's cooking. Filled with something special."
"Seasoning," Calla and I said in unison, deadpan, without missing a beat.
Callidea let out a delighted giggle, and Callum just sighed.
"No, you two. Love."
Calla rolled her eyes so hard I could practically hear it. "It's herbs and salt, Callum. Don't be ridiculous."
Callidea looked to me, her expression shifting into something more serious, though the warmth never fully left her eyes. "Cain, you're a guest in this house. I shouldn't have you cooking for us."
I shook my head, checking the fire beneath the stew pot before straightening. "With respect, ma'am, I'd rather cook. It's not a burden. It's one of the few things I actually enjoy doing."
As the food finished, I moved to set the table, only for Calla to flick a single finger, sending the wooden dishes floating gracefully through the air to arrange themselves without a hand touching them. I raised an eyebrow at the casual display. I need to learn that trick.
"No, Mother," Calla said, "you should have his cooking. It's even better than the cooks in the castle."
Callidea raised an eyebrow at that, a playful glint entering her eyes. "If they heard you saying that, they'd be hurt. When you were younger, you used to say their cooking was the best cooking in the world." She said the last part in an exaggerated, childlike voice that made Calla's composure crack slightly.
Calla kept a remarkably straight face despite it. "Well, Mother, I've eaten all over the Continent since then. My palate has improved considerably. Cain is that good of a cook."
That was when Callum made his move, reaching out with his fork toward the roasted duck, still cooling on its platter at the center of the table.
Callidea didn't even look up. She simply smiled and waved her hand gently, and Callum's chair slid backward across the floor with a smooth, silent motion, putting several feet between him and the duck before he could get his fork anywhere near it.
"Callum," she said, her tone light but unmistakably firm, "I know I taught you better table manners than that. Don't tell me your time with the Witchers made you forget them."
I crossed my arms, unable to resist the opening. "Wait. Callum has manners?"
Callidea looked at me with genuine curiosity.
"Whenever I see him eat, he attacks his food like it's water and he's been in a desert for a week. It's actually disgusting, honestly. He just eats and eats like he's a bottomless pit, and he steals my food constantly. Shows no manners whatsoever."
Callum's expression shifted rapidly from amusement to genuine alarm. "Cain. Stop. Please. You're making it worse."
He wasn't wrong. Suddenly vines erupted from seemingly nowhere, curling up from the floorboards and wrapping around Callum's arms and torso, binding him firmly to his chair. Callidea's hand was raised, her expression calm, almost serene, but there was a coldness beneath the smile that made something primal in me stand at attention. Even with my Cold Blooded trait always active, suppressing fear responses that should have been automatic, I felt a genuine flicker of alarm in that moment.
I do not want to mess with this woman. Ever.
"Now, Callum," Callidea said, her voice carrying that particular blend of motherly warmth and absolute authority that made it clear she was not to be argued with, "I thought I raised you better than this."
"Mom, it's not...." Callum started, but more vines rose swiftly, wrapping around his lower face and sealing his mouth shut mid-sentence.
Callidea pressed a finger to her own lips. "Shush, my child. Your mother is talking." She reached out and gently caressed his restrained cheek with one of the vines, the gesture almost tender despite the circumstances. "I raised you with manners befitting someone of your station, and of your lineage. Even Cain seems to have better manners than you, and your sister remembers everything I taught her. But to hear you're still stealing food and eating worse than swine..." She sighed theatrically. "I suppose while you're here in Hillstead, I'll have to re-educate you on your manners, my sweet boy."
She turned to me then, her expression warming back into simple hospitality as if she hadn't just demonstrated the kind of casual, terrifying control that could bind a fully trained Witcher without visible effort.
"Cain, my boy, will you let me carve the duck, at least?"
"Yes, ma'am," I said, gesturing toward the platter with a slight, respectful nod.
She looked back to Callum, whose eyes above the vine gag had taken on a distinctly betrayed expression. "You will eat last, my child."
I heard Callum groan through the vines, the sound muffled but unmistakably despairing.
She carved the duck with quick, with practiced strokes of the knife, portioning generous servings onto plates for Calla and me. As we began to eat, I caught Callum staring at us with the wide-eyed intensity of a man watching food he could smell but not touch. Some part of me felt a twinge of guilt at his suffering.
But karma is a bitch, I thought instead, shoving the guilt aside without much effort. Next time, don't steal my food and eat like a pig.
"So, Cain," Callidea said, settling into her own seat with her plate. "Tell me about yourself. I've heard plenty from my children, but if you're going to be considered part of this family, I should know you as well."
I set down my fork, considering how much to share. "There's not much to know, honestly. I woke up with almost no memory. I knew my name. I knew I was six years old. That was it."
I told her about waking up naked in the cold, about the katakan that had found me before I understood what danger even meant, about the Witcher who'd saved me and carried me to Kaer Morhen. I told her about growing up alongside Callum, about the years of training, about the bond that had formed between us out of shared hardship rather than blood. I was careful, deliberately careful, to leave out the System entirely. No one knew about it, and I intended to keep it that way. I said nothing about the Elder Blood either.
Callidea listened without interrupting, her green eyes giving little away but remaining sharp and fully present throughout. When I finished, she was quiet for a moment.
"I'm sorry you went through something like that," she said finally, her voice gentle. "But I'm glad to see it hasn't stopped you from living."
"Thank you," I said. "I actually heard from our teacher, Vesemir, that you were involved in the alterations made to the Cat School's Trial of the Grasses. The version the Wolf School Witchers use on Callum and I."
Something flickered across her expression, pride, perhaps, or simple relief. "I'm glad it worked," she said, looking between Callum and me. "So you already knew about my children, then, before coming here. Especially after seeing me, I imagine you've put more pieces together."
I nodded. "Callum told me about his lineage. As a descendant of elves. You're half-elf, like me, and their father, the lord of this village, is one-third elf, though the two of you take more after him in looking human."
"Yes," Callidea said. "I'd like to inform you more thoroughly on your elven heritage, Cain, since I doubt Callum has done so with any real depth." Her expression grew more perceptive. "I take it you've already experienced some negative treatment from peasants. Not only for being a Witcher."
I stopped chewing for a moment, then sighed. "I know."
I thought back to when I'd first woken and realized what I was, what I would always be seen as. It was strange, being spared the worst of the judgment for my light brown skin only to trade it for a different, sharper kind of judgment, half-elf blood layered over Witcher mutation, all of it crowned by golden cat eyes that were unlike any other Witcher's I'd encountered. Eyes that caught and held attention whether I wanted them to or not. Eyes that made me impossible to ignore, and therefore impossible to fully blend in.
"I know what I am," I continued. "I've read books on our people's history. But they're just books. They're not the same as hearing it from someone who actually lived it."
Callidea nodded slowly. "Then how about this. When you have the time, I'll tell you about our people, before the Conjunction of the Spheres, and after. I lived through part of the latter myself. It's better to hear it from someone than to keep relying on texts, which can occasionally be wrong."
"I'd like that," I said. "Yes, ma'am."
She smiled at the address, then tilted her head. "So. What are you and Callum planning to do here in Hillstead?"
"Find some work," I said. "Figure out where to go next after that."
Her expression sobered slightly. "That's sensible. The area's grown more dangerous as of late. People have gone missing. There have been rumors of dead bodies, human and animal both. Even the magic in the area has been fluctuating."
Calla looked up sharply from her plate. "Fluctuating how, Mother? As in a power source?"
"It grows strong for a day," Callidea said, "and then nothing for weeks. Then another spike randomly. I haven't been able to find the source."
I thought back to the strange feeling I'd experienced the moment I'd entered Hillstead, that faint, indefinable wrongness at the edge of my senses. Could it be connected?
"I'll investigate with you, Mother," Calla said immediately. "Two heads are better than one."
Callidea's smile returned, softer now, approving. "Good. You can show me what the Rectoress Tissaia taught you."
Calla's eyebrows rose. "I didn't know you were familiar with the Rectoress, Mother."
"Oh, we go way back," Callidea said with a knowing smile that revealed absolutely nothing. "But that's a story for another day."
I definitely want to hear that story eventually, I thought, filing it away alongside everything else I'd catalogued that evening.
As we finished eating, Callidea turned to me with genuine warmth. "Cain, this meal is lovely. Thank you."
"I'm glad you like it," I said, then gestured toward Callum, who was still bound to his chair, watching us with the desperate patience of a starving man. "What about him?"
Callidea's smile turned mischievous. "Ah, yes. Let's feed the little piggy."
She murmured a short incantation, and the vines unwound from around Callum in a smooth motion, his chair sliding forward to the table under its own power. She produced a large wooden spoon, holding it with the same casual authority she'd shown all evening.
"Now, my boy," she said, "let's re-teach you some manners."
Callum looked distinctly nervous.
Calla stood, stretching. "I'm going to get my room set up."
"I'm going to go swing my sword," I said, rising as well. "Work off this meal."
The door closed softly behind me as I stepped out into the night, and I paused for a moment on the threshold. The new moon hung dark and silent overhead, giving way to a canvas of stars unmarred by any lunar glow. It was beautiful in its own austere way, the kind of darkness that felt full rather than empty.
I made my way through the quiet streets toward the town wall, my enhanced senses picking up the last murmurs of Hillstead settling in for the night, and climbed over the wall with the same ease I'd climb a low fence, dropping silently into the tree line beyond.
The forest greeted me with pine and cold air and the profound quiet of a world without moonlight. I found a small clearing, moonless starlight filtering thin and pale through the canopy above, and felt the familiar shift settle over me, the warmth of the family dinner giving way to something more solitary, more watchful. This was the part of me that never fully rested, no matter how much love surrounded me at a table.
I summoned Eirael.
The blade materialized in my hand with its usual instant grace, and even after all this time, the sight of it still caught something in my chest. The curved, fluid arc of the sword seemed to defy the rigidity of ordinary steel, forged from what looked like silver but carrying a sapphire-blue hue that seemed to pulse from somewhere deep within the metal itself, as if the blade were lit from the inside. The edge remained impossibly sharp, as it always was, catching what little starlight existed and turning it into something sharper, colder, more present.
The new moon's darkness seemed to draw something out of the blade rather than diminish it. The sapphire glow deepened, pulsing faintly in a rhythm that almost matched a heartbeat.
Then the system panel flared into existence before my eyes.
System Notification: Stage two of Eirael has been unlocked.