Vaes Drakarys - The Preparation
Angelus - First Person
The morning after the decisions were made, I gathered Geralt, Ciri, and Arya in my private laboratory—a chamber I had constructed specifically for magical research and alchemical experimentation. The space was filled with equipment that would have seemed foreign to anyone from this world: distillation apparatus, containment circles for volatile reagents, and shelves lined with ingredients harvested from creatures across multiple merged continents.
"Before we begin the transformation process," I said, shifting into my Dragonborn form for easier communication, "there's a matter of education to address."
Geralt leaned against a workbench, his arms crossed. His Witcher medallion hummed faintly in response to the ambient magic saturating the room. "You want us to understand what we're getting into. Can't say I blame you—the original Trials weren't exactly well-documented, even among Witchers."
"It's more than that." I moved to a large table covered in diagrams and notes I had prepared. "Ciri, Arya—you've both chosen the Dragon Witcher path. If you survive, you'll be the first of your kind. Which means that eventually, you'll need to train others. To do that, you need to understand not just how the process works, but why it works, and how to replicate it."
Arya's eyes sharpened with interest. "You're teaching us to make more Dragon Witchers."
"That, along with how to found a Witcher School. The School of the Dragon won't be worth much if it dies with its first two members because neither of you understood the alchemical foundations well enough to pass them on." I gestured at the diagrams. "The traditional Trials of the Grasses involve a complex series of mutagenic compounds, herbal decoctions, and magical infusions. The process was developed over centuries by the first Witcher creators, and most of that knowledge was lost when the various Schools were destroyed or scattered."
"Vesemir knew some of it," Geralt said quietly. "But not all. He could perform the Trials, but even he admitted there were components he didn't fully understand—formulas he followed by rote because the original reasoning had been lost generations ago."
"Which is why I'm going to teach you the reasoning." I spread a map across the table—a detailed chart of the surrounding regions with specific locations marked. "The Trials of the Grasses require specific ingredients, some of which can only be harvested from particular creatures or locations. For the Dragon Witcher variant—which I'm calling the Trials of the Scales—we'll need everything required for the standard Trials, plus additional components to integrate the draconic elements safely."
Ciri studied the map. "You want us to gather the ingredients ourselves."
"I want you to understand where they come from, why they're necessary, and how to identify them properly. The knowledge matters as much as the materials." I tapped several locations on the map. "I'll provide you with a detailed list. Some ingredients can be found in the markets here—we've been stockpiling alchemical components since we established trade routes. Others will require hunting specific creatures or harvesting from particular environments."
"And you're sending all three of us," Arya said, her tone carrying a note of challenge. "Even though Ciri already knows some of this."
"Ciri knows Witcher lore, but she's never actually performed the Trials or prepared the compounds. Her knowledge is theoretical—valuable, but incomplete." I met Arya's gaze steadily. "You, on the other hand, have no alchemical training at all. If you're going to help found a new Witcher School, that needs to change. This expedition is as much about your education as it is about gathering materials."
Geralt pushed off from the workbench. "What about me? My mutations are already complete—I'm just here for the enhancement."
"Your enhancement requires different ingredients—components that can integrate with existing Witcher mutations rather than creating new ones from scratch. Some of them overlap with what the girls need; others are unique to your situation." I handed him a separate list. "I'm also sending you because you have decades of experience identifying alchemical components in the field. Teach them what you know. By the time you return, I want them to be able to recognize mutagen sources, harvest them properly, and understand basic alchemical theory well enough to follow the more complex preparations."
The Witcher examined the list. "Some of these are rare. Forktail glands, griffin feathers, specter dust... we could be searching for weeks."
"You have permission to request assistance from any Wyrmborne forces you think might be useful. The Draconians have been cataloging creature populations throughout our territories, and several hunting parties are already tracking some of the species you'll need. Use those resources—this isn't meant to be a test of your survival skills, it's meant to be efficient."
"And while we're gone?" Ciri asked. "What will you be doing?"
Angelus counts them off her claws. "Preparing the ritual chambers, synthesizing the base compounds that require my direct involvement, and designing the specific modifications needed for each of your transformations." I allowed a slight smile to cross my Dragonborn features. "Arya's will be the most straightforward—standard Dragon Witcher protocol. Ciri's will be more complex due to her Elder Blood, which could interact with the draconic elements in unpredictable ways. And Geralt's enhancement requires an entirely different approach, since we're modifying existing mutations rather than creating new ones."
"How long?" Geralt's question was direct.
"The expedition should take three to five days, depending on how efficiently you locate the required components. The preparations on my end will take approximately the same time—possibly a day or two longer for the more complex syntheses. Once everything is ready, the transformation process itself will take roughly a week for each of you, though you'll undergo them simultaneously to save time."
Arya's expression had grown thoughtful. "You mentioned a name earlier. The Trials of the Scales. Is that what we're calling the Dragon Witcher process?"
"It seemed appropriate. The original Trials were named for the grasses—the herbal compounds that form the foundation of the mutation process. Our variant adds draconic blood and scales to the mixture, which changes both the nature of the mutations and the challenges involved in surviving them." I paused. "If you have a better suggestion, I'm open to alternatives."
"No." A slight smile crossed Arya's face. "Trials of the Scales works. It sounds like something that belongs to us, not something borrowed from the old Schools."
"That's the point." I handed each of them a pack containing the detailed ingredient lists, maps, and notes on identification. "One more thing before you go. The Wyrmborne you encounter will be ordered to assist you, but they won't coddle you. If you want their help, ask for it clearly and specifically. If you try to do everything yourselves out of pride and waste time as a result, that's your choice—but remember that the longer you take, the longer everyone waits for the transformations to begin."
Geralt shouldered his pack with the ease of long practice. "We'll be back within four days. Five at most."
"I'll hold you to that, Witcher."
The Expedition
Ciri - Third Person
The expedition proved to be exactly what Angelus had intended: a crash course in alchemical procurement that left no time for idle speculation about the transformations to come.
Geralt led them into the wilderness beyond Vaes Drakarys. Within the first hour, he had located a forktail nest and demonstrated the precise technique for extracting the venom glands without contaminating the precious fluids inside.
"The tissue around the gland is acidic," he explained, his hands moving with practiced precision while Ciri and Arya watched. "Cut too deep and you rupture the gland itself. Cut too shallow and you leave residue that degrades the potency of the venom. The margin for error is about three millimeters."
Arya leaned closer, her eyes tracking every movement of Geralt's blade. "How do you know when you've got it right?"
"Experience, mostly. The gland changes color slightly when it's been exposed to air—you want a pale yellow, almost translucent. If it starts turning green, you've already made a mistake." He finished the extraction and held up the intact gland for their inspection. "Your turn."
The forktail had three venom glands. Ciri took the second extraction while Arya observed, then Arya attempted the third under Geralt's watchful eye. Her first cut was too shallow; her second slightly off-angle. But she adjusted quickly, her hands steadying as she fell into the focused concentration that Geralt had taught her during their months of training.
"Better," Geralt said when she finished. "Not perfect, but better. You'll get cleaner with practice."
They traveled for two days, moving through terrain that shifted from coastal scrubland to rocky foothills to the edges of a forest that felt wrong in ways Ciri couldn't quite articulate. The trees grew at odd angles, and the shadows seemed to move independently of the light.
"Conjunction territory," Geralt said, his medallion vibrating constantly. "This area was affected heavily when the worlds merged. The magic here is unstable—good for finding certain kinds of ingredients, bad for predictable encounters."
A Wyrmborne patrol found them on the second evening: a squad of Draconians led by a copper-scaled warrior who introduced himself as Sergeant Tharos.
"Lady Angelus mentioned you might be in this area," Tharos said, his slitted eyes taking in their expedition gear with professional assessment. "What do you need?"
Geralt consulted his list. "Griffin feathers—specifically from a royal griffin, not the standard variety. The records show a mated pair nesting somewhere in these hills."
"We've been tracking them. The female was killed by something last week—we're not sure what—but the male is still active. Aggressive, too. Lost a scout to him three days ago." Tharos's tail flicked with obvious frustration. "If you want his feathers, you'll need to kill him first."
"Show us where."
The hunt that followed gave Ciri her first real opportunity to observe Geralt operating in his element. The royal griffin was everything its reputation promised: massive, territorial, and utterly fearless. It spotted them approaching its territory and launched into an attack without hesitation, its screech echoing across the hillside as it dove from above.
SCREEEEECH!
Geralt's response was immediate and precise. He cast Aard to disrupt its dive, forcing it to pull up short, then followed with Igni to singe its wing feathers and limit its aerial mobility. The griffin crashed into the rocks twenty meters away and came up snarling, its lion's body coiling for a pounce.
"Ciri, left flank. Arya, stay back and watch for openings." Geralt drew his silver sword in a single fluid motion. "Royal griffins are smarter than the standard variety—it'll try to isolate us and pick us off one at a time."
The battle lasted perhaps five minutes. Ciri engaged from the left as instructed, her blade scoring a wound along the creature's flank that forced it to turn toward her. Geralt exploited the opening immediately, driving his sword into the base of its neck with enough force to sever the spine.
The griffin collapsed with a final, gurgling cry.
"Clean kill," Arya observed, approaching the corpse carefully. "The feathers look undamaged."
"That was the point. A messy kill risks destroying the components you're trying to harvest." Geralt cleaned his blade and sheathed it. "Now—royal griffin feathers have specific properties depending on where they're located on the body. The ones from the wings are best for flying potions and aerial enhancement. The ones from the mane are better for defensive applications. For the Trials, we need both."
The harvesting took nearly an hour. By the time they finished, Ciri's hands were covered in blood and feather dust, and she understood more about royal griffin anatomy than she had ever expected to learn.
They returned to Vaes Drakarys on the fourth day, their packs heavy with ingredients and their minds full of new knowledge. Sergeant Tharos's patrol had accompanied them for the final leg of the journey, providing security against the various creatures that stalked the Conjunction-touched wilderness.
"Four days," Geralt said as they approached the city gates. "As promised."
Ciri smiled despite her exhaustion. "Angelus is going to be insufferably pleased with herself."
"She usually is." But there was a note of respect in Geralt's voice that hadn't been there before they'd left.
The Preparations
Angelus - First Person
The ingredients they brought back were excellent—better than I had hoped, actually. Geralt's experience showed in every harvested component: clean cuts, proper preservation, minimal degradation.
"You've obviously done this before," I observed, examining the griffin feathers with my enhanced senses.
"More times than I can count. The difference is usually whether I'm selling the components or using them myself." He watched me sort through the materials with obvious curiosity. "You're not what I expected, you know."
"I've heard that a lot lately. What did you expect?"
"Honestly? A monster." He said it without malice, simply stating a fact. "Dragons in my experience are either mindless beasts or creatures so ancient and alien that they don't think in ways humans can understand. You're neither. You plan like a general, teach like a mentor, and apparently care enough about your people to design a transformation process that won't kill seventy percent of them."
"The original Trials were wasteful," I replied, beginning the process of organizing the ingredients into their proper categories. "Seventy percent mortality means you lose seven candidates for every three Witchers you create. That's not just cruel—it's inefficient. Why design a system that destroys most of its own potential?"
"Because the creators were desperate. The first Witchers were made to fight a specific threat, and the people who made them didn't have time to refine the process." Geralt's tone sounded like someone who had spent a long time thinking about this. "By the time the threat was contained, the knowledge was already fragmented. The Schools that survived did so by repeating what worked, not by understanding why it worked."
"And now you have someone who understands the why." I set aside the griffin feathers and moved to the next batch of ingredients. "The modifications I'm making aren't just about adding draconic elements. I'm also correcting inefficiencies in the original design—removing unnecessary pain, eliminating components that increase mortality without providing corresponding benefits, and streamlining the magical integration process."
"The mortality rate you quoted. Thirty percent for the enhanced Trials, forty for the Dragon Witcher variant." Geralt's golden eyes were intent. "How confident are you in those numbers?"
"Confident enough to stake my reputation on them. The thirty percent figure is based on my analysis of the original Trials combined with my understanding of mutagenic processes—I've been studying transformation magic for a long time, and I've made modifications that should significantly reduce the physiological shock. The forty percent figure for the Dragon Witcher variant is higher because it's untested, and the draconic elements add complexity that I can't fully predict." I met his gaze directly. "If I'm wrong, Ciri and Arya could die. That's not something I take lightly."
"And yet you're proceeding anyway."
"Because they chose this with full knowledge of the risks." I paused in my work. "I could have refused. I could have told them the risk was too high and offered only the safer options. But that would have been treating them as children who needed protection from their own decisions, and neither of them deserves that kind of condescension."
Geralt was quiet for a long moment. Then he nodded slowly. "Fair enough. What do you need from me?"
"Rest, for now. The preparations will take another two days. After that, we begin."
Daily Life in Vaes Drakarys
The days that followed were a study in contrasts.
Ciri spent her time alternating between the library and the training grounds, her mind clearly torn between intellectual curiosity and physical restlessness. I watched her through the Soul Link—a passive observation that she was aware of and had consented to—as she devoured texts on draconic biology and Witcher history, then worked off her nervous energy sparring with whoever was willing to face her.
Arya, by contrast, threw herself into physical training with almost manic intensity. She was in the training yards from dawn until well past sunset, pushing her body to its limits in what I recognized as a coping mechanism for anxiety. The girl was afraid—not of the transformation itself, but of the waiting. Action was her comfort zone; inaction left her vulnerable to the thoughts she normally outran.
Yennefer found me in my laboratory on the second day of preparations, her midnight scales gleaming in the alchemical lighting.
"You're worried about them," she said without preamble.
"I'm always worried. It's the price of caring about people who insist on taking risks." I continued my work on the synthesis, carefully measuring the reagents. "Arya is handling it by exhausting herself. Ciri is handling it by trying to understand everything she can. Geralt is handling it by pretending he's not handling anything at all."
"And you're handling it by working yourself into the ground." Yennefer moved closer, her violet eyes sparking with contained lightning. "When did you last sleep?"
"Dragons don't need as much sleep as humans. I'm fine."
"That's not what I asked."
I paused in my work, acknowledging her point with a slight inclination of my head. "Three days ago. Briefly."
"You're pushing yourself too hard. The preparations can wait another few hours while you rest."
"They can't, actually. Some of these syntheses are time-sensitive—if I don't complete them within specific windows, I have to start over from scratch." I returned to my work. "I appreciate the concern, but I know what I'm doing."
Yennefer was quiet for a moment. Then she moved to stand beside me, close enough that I could feel the electrical charge her new nature constantly generated. "Show me what you're doing. If I understand the process, I can help."
"It's complex. Draconic alchemy isn't something you can learn in an afternoon."
"Then I'll learn what I can and assist where I'm able." Her voice carried the characteristic stubbornness that I was beginning to recognize as one of her defining traits. "You're not going through this alone, Angelus. That's what having a harem means—we share your burdens as well as your bed."
I couldn't help the slight smile that crossed my features. "We haven't shared a bed yet."
"A technicality." But there was warmth in her voice that softened the deflection. "Show me."
So I showed her. And to her credit, Yennefer proved to be exactly as quick a study as I had expected—her understanding of Chaos magic translated surprisingly well to alchemical principles, and within a few hours she was competently handling tasks that would have taken most apprentices weeks to master.
Triss joined us later that evening, her Fire Draconian nature providing useful assistance with the heat-sensitive portions of the synthesis. The three of us worked through the night, and by dawn the most critical preparations were complete.
"Two more days," I said, surveying our work. "Then we begin."
Brienne and Barristan had found their own ways to occupy the waiting time.
The Lady of Tarth—now sworn to my service—had integrated herself into the Wyrmborne training regiments showing the determination of a woman who had spent her entire life proving herself in martial environments. The Dragonborn and Draconians had initially been skeptical of her abilities; after she defeated three of them in succession during a sparring session, that skepticism had transformed into grudging respect.
"She fights like someone who has spent her entire life compensating for perceived disadvantages," Commander Vaelos reported during one of our briefings. "Height, reach, strength—she uses all of them, but she doesn't rely on them. Her technique is technically perfect, almost obsessively so. I've rarely seen a human fight with such precision."
"She's been underestimated her entire life because of her gender and appearance," I replied. "That kind of consistent dismissal either breaks a person or forges them into something exceptional. Brienne chose to be forged."
Barristan had taken a different approach. The old knight spent most of his time observing—watching the Wyrmborne train, studying their tactics, asking careful questions about their organization and capabilities. He was gathering intelligence, I realized, but not for hostile purposes. He was trying to understand what kind of force Daenerys would be inheriting when she took her place as co-ruler of our growing empire.
I respected that. A knight who served blindly was a tool; a knight who sought to understand was a partner.
On the evening of the second day, I found him standing on one of the observation terraces, watching the sun set over the harbor.
"You've been quiet," I said, shifting into my Dragonborn form to join him.
"I've been thinking." He didn't turn to look at me, his attention still fixed on the horizon. "When I served Aerys—the Mad King—I told myself that my duty was to obey, not to judge. I stood outside doors and heard things that should have made me act, and I did nothing because I convinced myself that loyalty meant acceptance."
"And now?"
"Now I'm watching your forces prepare for operations that would make any army in Westeros weep with envy, and I'm wondering whether I've learned anything at all." He finally turned to face me. "You're building something that could conquer the world if you wanted to. What stops you?"
"Nothing, technically. I have the power to do exactly what you're describing—sweep across the continents, crush every army that opposes me, establish myself as the sole ruler of everything that exists." I moved to stand beside him, my tail coiling around my legs. "But conquest without purpose is just destruction with extra steps. I don't want to rule the world; I want to protect the people who have earned my loyalty. The difference matters."
"Does it? From the perspective of those being conquered?"
"Ask the former slaves of Yunkai and Qarth whether the distinction matters to them." I let the words hang for a moment. "Conquest can be liberation, if it's done with the right intent and followed by the right policies. The slavers who ruled those cities thought they were building something that would last forever. Now they're dead, and the people they owned are free citizens of a nation that values them for what they can contribute, not what they can be forced to surrender."
Barristan was quiet for a long moment. Then he nodded slowly. "Daenerys is fortunate to have found you."
"We found each other. And I'm the fortunate one—she gave me something to care about beyond my own survival." I turned to head back inside. "The transformations begin tomorrow evening. If you want to observe, you're welcome to attend."
"I would like that. Thank you."
The Transformations
Arya - Third Person
The ritual chamber was larger than Arya had expected—a circular space carved from living stone, with three pools of luminescent liquid arranged in a triangle around a central platform. Runes covered every surface, pulsing with power that made the air feel thick and charged.
Angelus stood at the center in her true dragon form, her massive crimson body dominating the space. Her golden eyes swept over the assembled group: Geralt, Ciri, and Arya standing before the pools; Yennefer and Triss positioned at key points around the chamber's edge; and Brienne and Barristan watching from an observation alcove above.
"The process will take approximately seven days for each of you," Angelus's mental voice resonated through the chamber. "You'll undergo the transformations simultaneously—the pools are designed to work in parallel, and having all three of you going through the process at once actually stabilizes certain magical elements that would be more volatile individually."
"What do we do?" Arya asked, her voice steady despite the nervous energy crackling through her muscles.
"You undress, you enter the pools, and you survive." There was no cruelty in Angelus's tone—just honest acknowledgment of what was to come. "The liquid will trigger the mutagenic process. It will hurt. It will feel like dying. For some of you, it might actually be dying, briefly, before the transformation pulls you back. Your job is to hold on to who you are while your body becomes something new."
Ciri was already removing her armor, her movements methodical and focused. "The Witcher Trials involve dreams, sometimes. Visions. Should we expect that?"
"Almost certainly. The mutations affect your mind as well as your body—they have to, in order to grant you the enhanced senses and reflexes that define a Witcher. The visions are your consciousness trying to integrate the changes. Some candidates find them useful; others find them terrifying. Either way, don't fight them. Let them happen and focus on coming out the other side."
Geralt stripped with casual efficiency. His body was a map of scars—evidence of a century of battles that Arya could only imagine.
"Your enhancement will be different," Angelus continued, addressing him specifically. "The pools are calibrated to modify existing mutations rather than create new ones. You'll feel the changes, but they should be less dramatic than what the girls experience. The wolf integration will happen gradually, over the course of the week."
"And if something goes wrong?"
"Yennefer and Triss are here to stabilize you if the process becomes dangerous. Their connection to me through the Soul Link allows them to channel my power directly—they can intervene in ways that would be impossible for normal mages." Angelus's tail swept across the stone floor. "I'll also be monitoring all three of you constantly. If someone starts to die, I'll know."
Arya finished undressing and stood naked before the pool assigned to her. The liquid inside glowed with a deep amber light, shot through with threads of crimson that pulsed like veins. It looked alive.
"Any last questions?"
"No." Arya's voice was firm. "Let's do this."
She stepped into the pool.
The liquid was warm—warmer than she expected—and it seemed to welcome her, rising to meet her skin as she descended. The sensation was strange: not unpleasant, but definitely alien, like being embraced by something that wasn't quite water and wasn't quite fire.
Then the pain began.
It started in her bones—a deep, grinding ache that spread outward like cracks in ice. Her muscles seized, her skin burned, and something fundamental inside her began to shift. She heard herself scream, distantly, as if the sound was coming from very far away.
Hold on. A voice in her mind—Angelus, she realized, speaking directly into her consciousness. This is the worst part. It gets easier.
It didn't feel like it got easier. It felt like being unmade and remade simultaneously, like her body was being taken apart piece by piece and reassembled into something new. She lost track of time, lost track of space, lost track of everything except the overwhelming sensation of transformation.
And then the visions began.
She was in Winterfell, but it wasn't her Winterfell. The walls were wrong—darker, older, covered in ice that seemed to grow from the stones themselves. She walked through halls that should have been familiar but weren't, passing doors that led to rooms that didn't exist.
Her father was there. He stood in the godswood, beneath the heart tree, his face solemn and sad.
"You've changed," he said.
"I'm changing," she corrected him. "It's not finished yet."
"Does it hurt?"
"Yes."
He nodded slowly. "Good. The things worth having usually do."
She wanted to ask him questions—so many questions—but he was already fading, dissolving into the snow that had begun to fall around them. She reached for him and found only cold.
The scene shifted. She was in a tavern—the one where she had first met Geralt, she realized. But this time the tables were full of faces she recognized: the people on her list, the ones she had sworn to kill. They looked at her with expressions that ranged from contempt to amusement.
"Little wolf thinks she can be something more," one of them said. Meryn Trant, his piggy eyes gleaming with malice.
"Little wolf should have stayed dead," another added. Walder Frey, his ancient face twisted into a sneer.
She felt the rage rising in her—the old, familiar fury that had kept her alive through years of suffering. But something was different now. The anger was still there, but it was sharper, more focused. Less like a wildfire and more like a blade.
"I'm not a wolf anymore," she said, and her voice carried power that made the vision tremble. "I'm something new."
The faces dissolved. The tavern collapsed into darkness.
And then there was fire.
Arya's heart stopped on the third day.
Yennefer sensed it first—the sudden silence in the Soul Link where Arya's consciousness had been. She was moving before she consciously decided to act, her new Draconian powers surging through her as she reached into the pool with magic rather than hands.
"She's dying," she said, her voice tight with controlled panic. "Her heart—"
"I know." Angelus's mental voice was calm, but there was an edge to it that Yennefer had never heard before. "Hold her. Don't let her fade."
Yennefer poured power into the pool, electricity and shadow intertwining as she fought to keep Arya's spirit anchored to her body. Beside her, Triss added her own fire, creating a web of magical energy that surrounded the dying girl like a cocoon.
"She's fighting it," Triss reported. "I can feel her—she's not giving up."
In the pool, Arya's body convulsed. Her back arched, her mouth opened in a silent scream, and for one terrible moment it seemed like the transformation would claim her completely.
Then something changed.
A pulse of power erupted from her body—not the amber light of the transformation pool, but something darker. Something that felt like the focused will of someone who had survived years of abuse, loss, and desperation, and had come out the other side with nothing but determination and rage.
Arya's heart started beating again.
"She's back," Yennefer breathed. "She's actually back."
Angelus said nothing, but her golden eyes remained fixed on the pool where a girl was becoming something new.
The remaining days passed in a haze of pain, visions, and gradual transformation.
Ciri's experience was different from Arya's—her Elder Blood created complications that Angelus had to address in real-time, adjusting the magical flows to account for the way her unique heritage interacted with the draconic elements. At one point, the pool actually began to glow with the distinctive green light of Ciri's dimension-hopping abilities, and everyone present held their breath until the color faded back to amber.
"What was that?" Brienne asked from the observation alcove.
"Her Elder Blood trying to open a portal," Angelus replied. "The transformation is affecting her spatial abilities. I've stabilized it, but we'll need to monitor her carefully once she emerges."
Geralt's enhancement was the smoothest of the three, though "smooth" was relative. His existing mutations provided a foundation that the new elements could build on, and his century of experience gave him mental resilience that the younger candidates couldn't match. He didn't scream, didn't convulse, didn't show any outward sign of distress—but when Yennefer checked on him through the Soul Link, she found a maelstrom of sensation that would have driven most people insane.
"He's holding it together through sheer stubbornness," she reported to Angelus.
"That's how he's survived this long. The man has more willpower than most armies."
On the seventh day, the pools began to drain.
Emergence
Ciri - Third Person
Ciri opened her eyes to a world that had become impossibly vivid.
Colors she had never seen before painted the ritual chamber in shades that had no names. Sounds she had never heard before created a symphony of heartbeats, breathing, and the subtle hum of magic that permeated every surface. And smells—Gods, the smells—she could detect individual people by their scent, could track the lingering presence of everyone who had passed through this space in the past week.
"Easy." Yennefer's voice, familiar and grounding. "The sensory enhancement takes time to adjust to. Focus on one thing at a time."
Ciri blinked, trying to sort through the overwhelming input. She found Yennefer's face and held onto it, using the familiar features as an anchor while her new senses gradually stopped screaming for attention.
"I feel..." She paused, searching for the right word. "Different. Stronger. But also... connected? Like there's something inside me that wasn't there before."
"The draconic blood." Angelus's mental voice was warm, pleased. "It's integrated successfully with your Elder Blood. The interaction is... fascinating. I'll need to study it more closely once you've recovered."
Ciri looked down at her hands. They looked the same as before—no scales, no claws, no obvious signs of transformation. But when she focused, she could feel the changes beneath the surface: enhanced strength waiting to be called upon, reflexes that would make her previous speed seem sluggish, and something else—a connection that reached beyond her own body.
She could feel Angelus.
Not just hear her mental voice, but feel her—a vast presence at the edge of her consciousness, ancient and powerful and unexpectedly tender. The Soul Link that had existed between them before had deepened into something more profound, a bond that went beyond mere telepathy.
"Your Elder Blood," Angelus explained. "It's created a bridge between us that goes beyond the normal pact connection. You can feel me because, on some level, your blood now recognizes mine as... kin."
"Does that mean I'm part dragon?"
"In a sense. The draconic elements have fused with your existing bloodline rather than replacing it. You're still Ciri—still Elder Blood, still capable of everything you could do before. But now you've become more."
Ciri rose from the drained pool, her new strength making the movement feel effortless. She looked to the other pools, where Arya and Geralt were also emerging.
Arya looked... different. Not dramatically—she was still recognizably herself—but there was a sharpness to her features that hadn't been there before, a predatory quality that reminded Ciri of the Witchers she had grown up around. Her eyes had changed: still gray, but with a depth that suggested enhanced vision.
Geralt's transformation was more subtle. His white hair seemed brighter somehow, and his golden eyes had taken on an almost luminous quality. But the biggest change was in how he moved—there was something more fluid about his movements, something that suggested the wolf inside him had finally found full expression.
"How do you feel?" Ciri asked him.
Geralt rolled his shoulders, testing his new capabilities. "Like myself, but more. The wolf instincts are stronger—I can feel them now, not just sense them. And the senses..." He inhaled deeply, his nostrils flaring. "I can smell everything. Individual people, their emotions, what they ate for breakfast. It's going to take some getting used to."
"Can you transform?"
"Not yet. Angelus said that ability will develop over the next few weeks as my body fully integrates the changes. Right now, I'm just... enhanced."
Arya had remained silent during this exchange, her new senses clearly overwhelming her. But when Ciri approached, she looked up with eyes that burned with determination.
"I didn't die," she said. It was a statement of fact, but there was wonder in her voice.
"You came close." Ciri reached out and touched Arya's shoulder. "But you held on. You're one of us now."
"One of what? We're the first. There's no 'us' to be part of yet."
"Then we'll make one." Ciri smiled. "That's the point, isn't it? We're building something new."
Arya was quiet for a moment. Then, slowly, she smiled back.
Ciri found Angelus later that evening, after she had bathed, eaten, and spent several hours testing her new capabilities.
The dragon had returned to her true form, her massive crimson body coiled in the courtyard where they had first met Geralt's party. The setting sun painted her scales in shades of orange and gold, and the light from her chest pulsed with the steady rhythm of a heartbeat.
"You're feeling the connection," Angelus observed as Ciri approached.
"I couldn't ignore it if I tried. It's like... a thread, running from my heart to yours. I can feel your emotions, your thoughts if you let me. It's intimate in ways I didn't expect."
"The Elder Blood creates bonds that go deeper than normal magic. When I gave you my blood, it recognized your blood as something compatible—something that could merge rather than merely coexist." Angelus lowered her massive head, bringing her golden eyes level with Ciri's. "Does it bother you?"
"No." Ciri stepped closer, close enough to touch. "It feels... right. Like something I didn't know I was missing."
She reached up and placed her hand on Angelus's snout, feeling the warmth of scales that should have been cold, sensing the vast consciousness behind those golden eyes. The connection between them hummed with power and affection and something that felt like coming home.
Then Ciri leaned forward and pressed her lips to Angelus's snout in a kiss that carried all the emotion she couldn't put into words.
I love you, she thought through the bond, and felt Angelus's response wash over her like a tide.
I love you too, my little star.
Training and Equipment
The weeks that followed were filled with training.
Ciri, Arya, and Geralt spent their days learning the limits of their new abilities, pushing themselves in ways that would have been impossible before the transformations. The Wyrmborne training grounds became their second home, and the Dragonborn and Draconians who served as sparring partners quickly learned to take them seriously.
Arya discovered that her new speed was genuinely frightening. Her water dancer training had already made her fast; the Dragon Witcher mutations made her a blur. She could cross distances in the time it took most people to blink, strike before opponents could react, and see attacks coming with enough warning to counter them effortlessly.
"She's going to be a nightmare on the battlefield," Commander Vaelos observed, watching Arya dismantle a training drone with surgical precision. "The combination of her previous skills with the new enhancements... I've rarely seen anything like it."
Ciri's abilities were different but equally impressive. Her Elder Blood interacted with the draconic elements in ways that created unexpected synergies—she could now feel the fabric of space in a way she never had before, sensing the potential for portals the way a musician might sense the potential for harmony. Her dimension-hopping abilities hadn't increased in raw power, but they had become more intuitive, more controlled.
And then there was Geralt.
The wolf transformation manifested two weeks after the initial enhancement, and it was everything Angelus had promised. Geralt could now shift into a form that was half-man, half-wolf—massive, powerful, and utterly terrifying. Unlike werewolves, he retained complete control of his faculties, and he could shift back and forth at will.
"This is... strange," he admitted after his first successful transformation. "I've spent my entire life hunting werewolves. Now I am one."
"A controlled one," Angelus corrected. "There's a difference between being consumed by bestial rage and choosing to access bestial power. You've gained a tool, not a curse."
The equipment came next.
Angelus called them to her personal forge—a space filled with tools and materials that would have made any blacksmith weep with envy. The heat was intense, the magic palpable, and the work that had already been completed sat on display racks along the walls.
"Chaos-Forged equipment," Angelus explained, running a clawed hand along one of the finished pieces. "I developed the technique by combining draconic fire with magical resonance to create materials with unique properties. The base metal comes from Valyrian steel—we've been acquiring it through various means, including a significant acquisition from Volantis."
Ciri's eyes widened. "You stole Valyrian steel from Volantis?"
"Acquired, through methods that may or may not have been entirely legal. The important thing is that the steel was being hoarded by people who didn't deserve it, and now it serves a better purpose." Angelus moved to a display that held three sets of equipment. "The Chaos-Forged metal is partially alive, in a sense. It bonds with its wielder, grows stronger through use, and adapts to the magical affinity of the person carrying it. More importantly, it's effective against both mundane and supernatural threats—you won't need separate swords for different enemies anymore."
Geralt approached the display with obvious interest. The armor waiting for him was dark leather layered over fine chainmail, the practical design of a working monster hunter elevated to something more. Heavy white-grey fur draped across the shoulders and collar, providing both warmth and an imposing silhouette. His Witcher medallion would rest prominently against the chest, visible through the layered leather straps that held the armor together. The design was clearly inspired by his traditional Witcher gear, but with superior materials and craftsmanship—more protective, more durable, more suited to the enhanced warrior he had become.
"The fur is from a white wolf I encountered in the northern territories during one of my outings," Angelus explained. "A magnificent creature that had been touched by the Conjunction magic. I didn't kill it—we came to an understanding, and it offered some of its shed fur as a gift. Combined with the Chaos-Forged metal reinforcements woven into the leather, it provides protection against both physical and magical attacks."
The sword was a masterpiece. Single-edged, slightly curved, with a blade that seemed to contain swirling patterns of light and shadow. The hilt was wrapped in leather that matched the armor, and the pommel bore a wolf's head with eyes that seemed to glow faintly.
"No silver sword?" Geralt asked.
"You don't need one anymore. The Chaos-Forged metal is effective against creatures that are vulnerable to silver—the magical properties achieve the same effect without the material weakness. One sword for all enemies."
Geralt lifted the blade, testing its balance with the practiced ease of a master swordsman. "It feels... alive."
"It is, in a sense. It's bonding with you now, learning your fighting style. Give it a few weeks and it will anticipate your movements, enhance your techniques, grow stronger as you grow stronger."
Ciri's equipment was similar in concept but different in execution. Her armor consisted of a fitted black leather corset worn over a white shirt with billowing sleeves, the contrast striking against her ashen hair. A black fur collar provided warmth and framed her face, while numerous leather straps and buckles crisscrossed her torso and arms—practical fastenings that also served as weapon mounts. Black leather pants tucked into knee-high boots completed the ensemble, the entire outfit designed for the fluid, aggressive combat style she preferred. One sword sheath crossed her back, ready for quick draws.
Her sword was longer than Geralt's, a blade designed for the cutting and thrusting techniques she favored. The patterns in the Chaos-Forged metal were structured and elegant, like frozen lightning captured in steel.
"What should I call it?" Ciri asked, examining the blade.
"That's for you to decide. Chaos-Forged weapons are named by their wielders—the bond is part of what makes them special."
Ciri thought for a moment. "Zireael. It's Elder Speech for 'swallow.' It's what people used to call me, back when I was running from the Wild Hunt."
"Then Zireael it is. The blade will remember."
Arya's equipment was the most distinctive of the three. Her armor was practically non-existent compared to the others—just enough leather and metal to protect vital areas, designed to preserve the mobility that her fighting style required. But the weapons more than made up for it.
Needle was there—her beloved sword, the gift from Jon, the blade that had been her constant companion through years of hardship. But it had been transformed. The original steel had been replaced with Chaos-Forged metal, the blade lengthened slightly and given an edge that seemed to shimmer with barely contained energy.
"You kept the design," Arya said, her voice carrying unexpected emotion.
"The sword is part of who you are. I wouldn't change that—I just made it better." Angelus gestured to the other weapons on display. "I also made these, in case you wanted options."
A pair of daggers, perfectly balanced for throwing. A short sword for close-quarters combat. A set of throwing needles that gleamed with subtle enchantment.
"Take what you want. Leave what you don't. The equipment is yours."
Arya lifted the transformed Needle, feeling the familiar weight that was somehow different now—more responsive, more eager, more alive. "I'll call it Needle still. It's always been Needle. It just... grew up."
"Like you."
Arya looked at the dragon—this ancient, powerful creature who had given her a gift beyond price—and nodded slowly. "Like me."
Brienne and Barristan watched the equipment ceremony from nearby, their expressions a mixture of admiration and carefully concealed envy. Neither said anything, but Ciri noticed the way Brienne's hand drifted toward Oathkeeper, and the way Barristan's eyes lingered on the Chaos-Forged blades.
They want it, she thought through the bond with Angelus.
They haven't earned it yet, Angelus replied. But they will. Patience is part of the process.
The First Contract
Geralt - Third Person
The contract came three days after they received their equipment.
A Wyrmborne patrol had reported unusual activity in the forests east of Vaes Drakarys—trees dying in patterns that suggested something more than natural disease, animals fleeing the area in droves, and at least two scouts who had entered the affected zone and never returned.
"A Leshen," Geralt said when he saw the reports. "Has to be. The territorial patterns, the way the forest responds to its presence... it's textbook."
"Leshens don't typically appear in Essos," Commander Vaelos noted. "Our records indicate they're native to the northern forests of the Continent."
"They were. The Conjunction changed a lot of things—creature populations have been migrating, establishing new territories in areas they never would have reached before." Geralt studied the patrol reports with professional interest. "This one's had time to settle in. Established territory, local wildlife under its control. It won't leave voluntarily."
Angelus had been observing the briefing through the Soul Link. Her mental voice carried a note of academic curiosity that Geralt had come to recognize. "The Wyrmborne would like the creature's body for research purposes. We've been cataloging Conjunction species, but we haven't had the opportunity to study a Leshen up close. Can you bring it back intact?"
"Depends on how hard it fights. Leshens are resilient—they can regenerate from almost anything as long as their totem remains intact. If we destroy the totem first, the body should be recoverable."
"Then that's your contract. Hunt the Leshen, retrieve the body, and bring it back for study. Take Ciri and Arya with you—this will be a good test of your new capabilities against a genuinely dangerous opponent."
Geralt nodded slowly. "We'll leave at dawn."
The forest felt wrong from the moment they entered it.
Geralt's enhanced senses—sharper now than they had ever been—detected the Leshen's influence in everything around them. The trees were sick, their bark blackened and oozing sap that smelled of decay. The underbrush had grown thick and tangled, creating natural barriers that funneled movement along specific paths. And the silence was absolute—no birds, no insects, no small animals rustling through the leaves.
"It knows we're here," Arya said quietly. Her new Dragon Witcher senses were picking up the same wrongness that Geralt felt. "The whole forest is watching us."
"That's how Leshens operate. They don't just live in their territory—they are their territory. Every tree, root, and blades of grass is an extension of the creature's will." Geralt moved forward cautiously, his hand resting on the hilt of his new sword. "Stay alert. It'll attack when it thinks it has the advantage."
Ciri's eyes had taken on a distant quality—she was feeling the forest through her enhanced spatial awareness, sensing the way the Leshen's presence distorted the natural flow of magic. "There's something else here. Not just the Leshen. It's... older. Colder."
"Describe it."
"I can't, exactly. It's like a wound in the air—a place where reality got torn and never healed properly." She pointed toward a dense cluster of trees ahead. "That direction. The Leshen's territory overlaps with whatever that is."
They pressed forward, following the trail of corruption deeper into the forest. The trees grew closer together, their branches interweaving to block out the sunlight, and the air took on a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature.
The Leshen attacked without warning.
One moment the forest was still; the next, roots exploded from the ground in a wave of writhing tendrils. Geralt's new reflexes saved him—he leaped back before the roots could entangle his legs, his sword clearing its sheath in a single fluid motion.
CRACK!
The Chaos-Forged blade sheared through the roots like they were paper. The severed ends thrashed briefly, then went still.
"It's testing us," Geralt called out. "Probing our defenses. The real attack is—"
A shape materialized from the shadows between the trees. The Leshen was enormous—nearly three meters tall, its body a twisted mass of wood and antlers and glowing eyes. Crows circled around it in a screaming cloud, and the forest itself seemed to lean toward it, as if drawn by gravity.
It raised one clawed hand, and the forest moved.
Trees bent and swayed, their branches reaching for the three hunters like grasping fingers. The ground buckled as more roots erupted from beneath the surface. The crows dove in a coordinated assault, their beaks and claws seeking eyes and exposed flesh.
Arya became a blur of motion. Her new speed was staggering—she moved through the attacking crows like they were standing still, Needle flashing in patterns that left birds falling dead in her wake. The Chaos-Forged blade seemed to anticipate her movements, striking exactly where she wanted it before she consciously directed it.
Ciri's response was different but equally effective. She drew Zireael and stepped sideways, using her spatial awareness to find the gaps in the forest's assault. Where Arya moved through the attacks, Ciri simply wasn't where the attacks were aimed.
Geralt charged the Leshen directly.
His new strength was immediately apparent. Where before he would have needed to dodge the creature's sweeping claws, now he could meet them head-on—his sword clashing against the wooden limbs with enough force to send splinters flying. The Leshen shrieked, a sound like wind through dead branches, and pressed its attack.
"The totem!" Geralt shouted, blocking another strike. "Find the totem!"
Ciri understood immediately. She extended her spatial senses, searching for the focal point of the Leshen's power—the object that anchored it to this territory and allowed it to regenerate. The forest was dense with the creature's influence, making the search difficult, but her new abilities cut through the interference like a blade through fog.
"There!" She pointed to a twisted stump at the edge of the clearing. "Something's buried beneath it!"
Arya moved before Ciri finished speaking. She crossed the distance to the stump in three heartbeats, dropped to her knees, and began digging with her bare hands. The Leshen sensed the threat to its anchor and screamed again, abandoning Geralt to charge toward Arya.
Geralt intercepted it.
He threw himself into the Leshen's path, his sword carving a deep wound across its torso that would have killed any natural creature. The Leshen staggered but didn't fall—it grabbed Geralt with both hands and hurled him into a tree with bone-crushing force.
Pain exploded through his body, but his enhanced durability absorbed the impact that would have shattered a normal human's spine. He was back on his feet in seconds, blood streaming from a cut on his forehead.
"Almost there!" Arya called. Her hands had found something solid—a carved piece of wood wrapped in rotting cloth. The totem.
The Leshen lunged toward her, moving with desperate speed. Ciri stepped into its path and struck—a single, perfect cut that severed one of its legs at the knee. The creature collapsed, its regeneration struggling to keep up with the damage being inflicted by the Chaos-Forged blade.
Arya pulled the totem free and drove Needle through its center.
The effect was immediate. The Leshen's body convulsed, its form losing cohesion as the magic that sustained it drained away. The trees stopped moving, the crows scattered, and the oppressive presence that had saturated the forest began to fade.
Geralt approached the dying creature, his sword raised for the killing blow.
"Wait." Ciri's voice was sharp with warning. "There's something—"
The temperature dropped twenty degrees in an instant.
A shape rose from the ground near the twisted stump—a translucent figure wreathed in hatred and cold. A wraith, drawn by the violence and death, emerging from whatever wound in reality Ciri had sensed earlier.
It attacked Arya before anyone could react.
The wraith's claws passed through her guard like her sword wasn't there—which, in a sense, it wasn't. Wraiths existed partially outside normal reality, making them immune to conventional weapons.
But Chaos-Forged weapons weren't conventional.
Arya's instincts took over. She spun away from the wraith's attack and struck back, Needle trailing fire as it cut through the creature's incorporeal form. The wraith screamed—a sound that bypassed ears entirely and went straight to the soul—as the blade's magic forced it fully into the material plane.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!
Geralt finished it with a single thrust through the center of its spectral form. The wraith dissipated in a burst of cold light, leaving nothing behind but a fading echo of malevolence.
"Wraiths don't leave bodies," Arya observed, breathing hard. "That was... unexpected."
"The Leshen's territory overlapped with an unstable area from the Conjunction," Geralt replied, examining the spot where the wraith had emerged. "The dimensional damage created a natural anchor for spirits. When we killed the Leshen and disrupted its hold on the area, the wraith was drawn to the released energy."
Ciri sheathed Zireael and moved to examine the Leshen's corpse. "The body's mostly intact. Some damage from the fight, but the important parts are still there."
"Good." Geralt wiped the blood from his forehead. "Let's get it back before anything else decides to investigate the commotion."
The return to Vaes Drakarys was uneventful. They rigged a sledge from fallen branches and dragged the Leshen's corpse through the forest, arriving at the city gates just as the sun began to set.
The Wyrmborne researchers who received the body were practically giddy with excitement. Leshens were rare, poorly understood, and their magical properties were the subject of intense speculation. Having an intact specimen to study was a significant scientific windfall.
"The totem's destruction disrupted its regeneration permanently," one of the researchers explained, examining the corpse with instruments Geralt didn't recognize. "But the underlying magical structures are still partially intact. We should be able to analyze how it controls plant matter, how it establishes territory, how it creates the symbiotic link with local wildlife..."
"Glad you're happy," Geralt said, accepting a cloth to clean the blood from his hands. "What about the wraith?"
"Nothing to recover there, unfortunately. Wraiths are creatures of pure spiritual energy—when they're destroyed, there's nothing left to study." The researcher looked up from the corpse. "But the information about the dimensional instability is valuable. We'll send teams to survey the area, see if there are other weak points that might spawn additional creatures."
Ciri, Arya, and Geralt left the researchers to their work and found a quiet spot near the training grounds to decompress.
"That was a good hunt," Arya said, sprawling on a bench. "The new abilities work. The equipment works. We work."
"We were sloppy," Geralt corrected. "The wraith caught us off guard because we were focused on the Leshen. In a real fight, that kind of tunnel vision gets people killed."
"We adapted," Ciri pointed out. "The wraith appeared and we dealt with it. Nobody died, the contract's complete, and we learned something about how our abilities perform under pressure."
"That's not—" Geralt started, then stopped. A slight smile crossed his weathered features. "You're right. Sorry. Old habits. Witchers are trained to analyze every fight for mistakes, even the successful ones."
"Maybe Dragon Witchers will be trained differently." Arya sat up, her gray eyes gleaming with fierce intelligence. "Maybe we'll focus on adaptation and improvisation instead of rigid protocols."
"Maybe." Geralt leaned back, watching the last light fade from the sky. "We'll figure it out. That's the whole point of building something new, isn't it? Making our own rules."
"You're learning." Ciri grinned at him. "There's hope for you yet, old wolf."
"Less of the 'old,' if you don't mind."
The banter continued as darkness fell—three hunters, one transformed and two transformed again, finding their place in a world that was constantly changing around them.
Portals and Passion
Yennefer - Third Person
Yennefer had been practicing her new abilities for weeks, and she was finally ready to share what she'd learned.
The transformation into an Abyssal Storms Draconian had changed everything about how she interacted with magic. Before, her power had been drawn from Chaos—the raw, formless energy that sorceresses learned to shape through years of study and practice. Now, that power was filtered through something else: the electrical storms that crackled beneath her midnight scales, the connection to Angelus that ran through her like a second heartbeat.
The biggest change was portals.
Portal magic had always been difficult for Yennefer. Not impossible—she could create them when necessary—but the process required significant concentration and energy, and the results were sometimes unpredictable. Other sorceresses, Triss included, had always been better at spatial manipulation.
But her Draconian nature changed the equation.
The electricity that now suffused her being was more than just power—it was information. Lightning moved through the world in patterns that traced the underlying structure of reality, following paths of least resistance that corresponded to the same dimensional framework that portals exploited. By learning to read those patterns, Yennefer had discovered a shortcut: a way to create portals that felt as natural as breathing.
She found Angelus in the courtyard, the dragon's massive form basking in the afternoon sun.
"I have something to show you," Yennefer said without preamble.
Angelus opened one golden eye. "Oh?"
Rather than explain, Yennefer demonstrated. She raised her hand, felt the electrical patterns in the air around her, and pushed—not with raw power, but with understanding. The air split open, revealing a swirling vortex of light and shadow that led to a point she could see clearly in her mind's eye.
"A portal," Angelus observed, her tone carrying genuine interest. "More stable than anything I've seen you create before."
"It's how I'm creating it that matters." Yennefer stepped through, vanished, and reappeared on Angelus's other side a moment later. "The Draconian transformation didn't just give me new powers—it gave me new ways of perceiving reality. The electricity shows me the structure of space in a way that Chaos magic never could."
Angelus rose to her feet, her massive head lowering to examine Yennefer more closely. "Show me."
For the next hour, Yennefer explained her discovery in detail. She described how the electrical patterns traced dimensional boundaries, how learning to read those patterns revealed the weak points where portals could be opened most easily, and how the process had become so intuitive that she no longer needed to consciously calculate the magical formulas that had once been essential.
Angelus listened with focused attention. She asked questions—probing, intelligent questions that pushed Yennefer to articulate aspects of her understanding that she hadn't fully examined herself. And gradually, through the conversation, something shifted in the dragon's expression.
"I can do this," Angelus said finally. "The technique you're describing—it's compatible with my own magical structure. The draconic fire that defines my nature operates on similar principles to your lightning, following paths through reality rather than forcing its way across them."
"I thought it might be. That's why I wanted to show you."
Angelus closed her eyes and went still. The air around her began to shimmer, heat distortion mixing with something else—a sense of potential, of space being examined and found flexible.
Then she opened a portal.
It was different from Yennefer's—wreathed in fire rather than lightning, the edges burning with contained power—but it was unmistakably a portal. A window through space that opened onto another location entirely.
"That's... faster than I expected," Yennefer admitted.
"I've been studying dimensional magic for a much longer time than you did Yennefer. The technique was new, but the underlying principles were familiar." Angelus examined her creation with evident satisfaction. "This will be useful. Very useful."
To test the portal's functionality, Angelus picked up a small stone and tossed it through the opening. A moment later, the stone appeared in the air twenty meters away and fell to the ground with a soft thud.
"Functional range will need testing," Angelus mused. "As will the energy requirements for larger distances. But the basic principle is sound."
She closed the portal with a gesture and turned her attention fully to Yennefer. Something had changed in her expression—the academic interest had been replaced by something warmer, more personal.
"You've given me a gift," Angelus said. "Knowledge that I didn't have before, presented in a way that allowed me to integrate it immediately. That's valuable. And rare."
Before Yennefer could respond, Angelus shifted into her Dragonborn form, her tail curled elegantly behind her, and her clawed hands reached for Yennefer with surprising gentleness.
Then she swept Yennefer into her arms and kissed her.
The kiss was possessive, demanding, claiming. Angelus's tongue slid past Yennefer's lips and her clawed hands pulled the sorceress close with strength that brooked no resistance. Yennefer felt herself responding instinctively, her body pressing against the dragon's scaled form, her own lightning crackling along her skin in response to the heat radiating from Angelus.
When they finally broke apart, Yennefer was breathing hard.
"That was..."
"I'm not finished."
Angelus's clawed hand moved to the side of Yennefer's neck, tilting her head to expose the sensitive flesh in between her breasts, her chest specifically. Then she leaned in and bit—not hard enough to draw blood, but firm enough to leave a mark. Heat bloomed from the contact, spreading through Yennefer's body like wildfire.
"I'm marking you," Angelus murmured against her skin. "The way I marked Ciri. So that anyone with the senses to perceive it will know that you belong to me."
The sensation spread through Yennefer's body like warm honey, settling into her bones and her blood and the newly draconic parts of her being. She understood, suddenly, why Ciri had seemed so content after receiving her mark—it wasn't just a claim of ownership. It was a promise of protection, of belonging, of being chosen by something ancient and powerful and genuinely caring.
"I understand now," Yennefer breathed. "Why Ciri looked so..."
"Happy?" Angelus smiled, showing teeth that were sharp but somehow not threatening. "The mark creates a deeper connection within the Soul Link. You can feel me more clearly now, and I can feel you. It's intimate in ways that words can't capture."
She resumed kissing Yennefer, gentler this time, and her hands found the sorceress's newly pointed ears—the elvish features that her Draconian transformation had enhanced. The touch sent shivers down Yennefer's spine; she hadn't realized how sensitive those ears had become.
"You react beautifully," Angelus murmured against her lips. "I'm going to enjoy discovering all the ways your new body responds."
Yennefer felt heat rising to her cheeks—actual blushing, something she hadn't done in decades. "I... we should schedule a proper date. I want to do this right."
"Agreed." Angelus pulled back slightly, though her hands remained on Yennefer's waist. "I have something specific in mind. Are you free tomorrow evening?"
"For you? Always."
Flight to Vaes Zaldri
The date began with a flight.
Yennefer had ridden dragons before—brief trips during emergencies, transportation when other options weren't available—but she had never experienced anything like this. Riding on Angelus's back while the dragon flew at a leisurely pace across the Dothraki Sea was transformative in ways she hadn't anticipated.
The wind rushed past her, carrying scents of grass and distance and possibility. The ground far below was a patchwork of colors—the gold of dried grass, the green of scattered oases, the brown of animal herds migrating across the plains. And beneath her, Angelus's body moved with a grace that belied its size, every wing-stroke powerful but controlled.
"You're enjoying this," Angelus observed through their mental link.
"How could I not? This is... beautiful. I've done and experienced many amazing things. But I've never felt free like this."
"That's why I wanted to show you. The ground-bound perspective misses so much. From up here, you can see how everything connects—the patterns of migration, the flow of water, the way civilizations cluster around resources. It's like reading a book written in geography."
They flew for nearly an hour before Vaes Zaldri came into view.
The Wyrmborne capital was impressive from any angle, but from the air it was breathtaking. The city sprawled across the landscape in concentric rings, each layer serving a different function—residential, commercial, industrial, military. At the center, the palace complex gleamed with materials that caught the sunlight and scattered it in rainbow patterns.
Angelus landed in a courtyard clearly designed for exactly this purpose. Guards snapped to attention as she touched down, and servants appeared seemingly from nowhere to attend to any needs.
"Welcome to my seat of power," Angelus said, shifting into her Dragonborn form as Yennefer dismounted. "Different from Vaes Drakarys, isn't it?"
"More... established. Vaes Drakarys feels like it's still growing into itself. This feels permanent."
"It is. Vaes Zaldri was the first city we built from scratch, designed from the ground up to serve our purposes. Everything you see was planned, considered, optimized." Angelus gestured toward the palace. "Come. There's someone I want you to meet."
They found Mikhail in the palace gardens—a space filled with plants from across multiple continents, carefully cultivated to create an environment that was simultaneously exotic and harmonious.
The white wyvern was beautiful in a way that transcended simple aesthetics. Her mother-of-pearl scales shifted colors in the light, her golden horns curved elegantly from her skull, and her movements carried a grace that seemed almost impossible for a creature of her size.
"Angelus." Mikhail's mental voice was warm with affection. "You brought your new mate. I've been wanting to meet her properly."
Yennefer stepped forward, acutely aware that she was being assessed by something ancient and intelligent. "We've spoken before, through the mindscape during my conversion. But seeing you in person is... different."
"The mindscape shows only what we choose to present. Physical form reveals more." Mikhail's golden eyes studied Yennefer with obvious curiosity. "You're strong. The storm in you is genuine, not borrowed. Angelus chose well."
"High praise from you," Angelus said, moving to stand beside her first companion. "Mikhail's standards are... particular."
"I want the best for my mother," Mikhail replied simply. "She deserves partners who can match her fire with their own."
The reunion between Angelus and Mikhail was both tender and fierce. They pressed their forms together—Angelus in her Dragonborn shape, Mikhail lowering her massive head to nuzzle against the smaller form—and the affection between them was palpable.
Then Angelus kissed Mikhail, and Yennefer understood something about their relationship that words couldn't have conveyed. There was possession, claiming, protection and dominance in that kiss. But most important of all, a partnership.
When Angelus bit Mikhail's neck—gently, but with enough pressure to leave a mark—the wyvern made a sound that was half growl, half purr.
"Mine," Angelus said simply.
"Always," Mikhail agreed.
The rest of the date was spent exploring Vaes Zaldri. Angelus showed Yennefer the places that mattered to her—the research facilities where magical theory was being advanced, the training grounds where Wyrmborne forces honed their skills, the quiet spaces where she went to think when the burden of leadership grew heavy.
They ate dinner in a restaurant that overlooked the city, watching the sun set while they talked about everything and nothing. Yennefer found herself relaxing in a way she rarely did, her usual guard lowering in the face of Angelus's genuine interest and warmth.
"I had a wonderful time," she said as they prepared to depart. "Truly. This was... I don't have the words."
"Then don't use words." Angelus pulled her close and kissed her again—longer this time, deeper, full of promises for the future. "We'll do this again soon. I have more to show you, and I find that I very much enjoy your company."
"One more date," Yennefer said when they finally separated. "One more, and then..."
"And then we see where this leads." Angelus smiled. "I'm patient when it matters."
The flight back to Vaes Drakarys was quiet, peaceful, and full of a contentment that Yennefer hadn't felt in a very long time.
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End of Chapter Twenty-Seven (Part 1)