"Elder… Blood…" Vilgefortz choked out his final words, coughing up the last of his blood.
The rest of it had already been feasted upon by Regis.
Coën wiped down his longsword with a cold expression, when sudden cries of shock rang out across the battlefield.
He looked up — and saw the sky in the direction the Wild Hunt had fled. All the clouds, the moonlight, and even that portion of the night sky had been slashed apart by an enormous sword mark.
Screams, calls for help, words of comfort — all were sucked away from Thanedd Isle in that moment.
And in the midst of that absolute silence, a glimmer of emerald green light flashed — and Lann appeared at the devastated scene.
His gaze swept across the wreckage, quickly locking onto his next target.
…
Tissaia had lost count of how many times the situation had turned tonight. But this one — she knew — might be the most consequential.
"First, allow me to offer my deepest apologies, Lady Tissaia," Lann said, ever so polite. "So much has happened tonight, and we've all lost more than we can measure — especially the Brotherhood."
Tissaia trembled violently. She still hadn't fully processed what had become of Thanedd Isle. But now she understood — there would be no more Thanedd Isle.
"Thank you… for your condolences, Duke Lannister," she said quietly. "Had it not been for your intervention, no one can say how this night might have ended."
Lowering her voice, the headmistress added, "But as you can see… we're in dire need of assistance. Your generosity is known throughout the North. Might we ask the Brotherhood be granted some—"
"Let's speak of that later," Lann said gently. "What matters now is accounting for the damage and helping the wounded. I'll provide the sorcerers with everything they need."
Tissaia fell silent.
She realized then that the Brotherhood, as an institution, might not survive this.
"…Thank you," she said at last. But as her eyes wandered across the crystalline ice and the still-parted clouds above, it was all she could offer.
Her hand touched the pendant at her neck. Then, suddenly, she asked, "Is Francesca dead?"
Lann nodded. "The elves will need a new speaker."
"And the Wild Hunt? That was the Wild Hunt, wasn't it?"
Lann gave a faint laugh but didn't answer.
Instead, his gaze swept the circle of sorcerers around them, and then he asked, almost absently: "Seems like… a few people are missing, no?"
An owl flapped frantically in midair.
A bolt of lightning shot across the sky — the owl twisted mid-flight, spiraling in panic before transforming into human form and crashing to the ground.
"Artaud! What the hell are you doing?!"
The short, stout member of the Chapter of Sorcerers emerged from invisibility, his gaze cold and fixed on the disheveled Philippa.
"I need Redanian soldiers to escort me. I'm leaving this island!"
"There are no Redanian soldiers left here! And you — you dare ask me for protection? A traitor to the North dares stand and speak to me without running?"
"If there are no soldiers, then tell me the location of a hidden portal — one of those only you know, something that can bypass the magical lockdown on this island!" Artaud gritted his teeth. "Spare me the sanctimonious speeches. Loyalty to the North? You only ever wanted to usurp Tissaia's position and seize more power for yourself!"
"And you're running too, aren't you? I'm sure your lunatic plans have earned you more than a few enemies — you're just as desperate to escape. Take me with you. I swear I'll— Wait, someone's—!"
Artaud suddenly cast a bolt of lightning.
But it collided midair with a small bomb. A burst of deep green dimeritium powder exploded across the path.
Artaud actually let out a breath of relief. "Just a witcher."
House appeared in their line of sight.
In his left hand, he held another cluster of dimeritium bombs. In his right, he drew a lion-headed longsword. He didn't even glance at Artaud— his eyes were locked on Philippa.
"Philippa Eilhart. On December 4th, 1264, you attempted to poison Duke Lannister during his visit to Oxenfurt — a transgression both vile and intolerable."
"Furthermore, in collusion with sorcerers Vilgefortz and Rience, you orchestrated a trap. You used magic to seize control of the duke's guard and attempted to coerce him into participating in your so-called 'plan.' That was blackmail — plain and disgraceful."
"Therefore, you are charged with attempted murder, poisoning, and assaulting a noble guest. Do you acknowledge these crimes?"
Philippa stared at him in stunned disbelief. "You? Lannister's bodyguard? You would judge me? Even if I had done all of that, who gave you the right to judge me? Not even Lannister—!"
"Excellent. You admit your guilt." House's tone was icy. "Then — in the name of Lann Lannister, Duke of Cintra, heir to the Elder Blood, the Lion of Cintra…"
"I, House Reinveitch, sentence you… to death."
"Do you have any final words?"
"Oh come now, this is absurd," Artaud said, his hands pulsing with arcane energy. "Kill him already — he's just a witcher. Let's move on…"
A voice cold enough to pierce bone echoed behind him.
"You'd best not interfere."
Artaud froze in place.
Jerome stood just behind him, gazing thoughtfully at the sky, where clouds were slowly gathering on the horizon. The lingering chill from the layers of frost around them seeped into the air.
At Jerome's side stood Keldar.
"He's Lann's retainer. He's fulfilling his duty — and Lann… is my student. A witcher of the Griffin School."
"Lann is remarkable, isn't he?" Keldar said quietly. "He's truly carried the banner of the Griffin School — no, of the entire witcher order itself."
"I never imagined such a day would come. Especially after… after you conspired with the sorcerers to destroy Kaer Seren."
"You're Artaud Terranova, aren't you?" The witcher of the Griffin School stirred a wave of power in his hand — one that made the sorcerer's blood run cold. "There's still something unfinished between us. And you know exactly what it is."
...
An icy-blue portal appeared midair, and Eredin was violently flung out of it by a blast of frigid wind.
He had lost his mount, his skull-shaped helmet had vanished to some unknown place, and the armor on his body was cracked open, with shards of ice sealing his wounds.
His black armor was caked in blood—some of it his own, some of it Francesca's.
Eredin flailed helplessly in midair for a moment before gravity took over and slammed him hard toward the ground. Fortunately, he landed on the embankment beside a lakeshore.
A massive splash erupted. He felt a flood of lake-mud rush into his armor, while his internal organs churned, each one scrambling to be the first to crawl up his throat.
Eredin shuddered violently—not knowing whether it was from the freezing lake water, the pain wracking his body, or those golden, lion-like eyes burned into his memory that he couldn't shake no matter how hard he tried.
It was a disgraceful state—but he was alive.
Yet the relief of survival vanished the next moment, wiped away as he spotted two horses at the edge of the lake, pure white from mane to tail, calmly drinking water.
Their front hooves were dipped in the shallows, and now—startled by Eredin's sudden splash—they lifted their heads. Droplets trickled from the corners of their mouths.
What chilled Eredin to the bone was this: atop each of their heads was a spiral horn, as long as a man's forearm.
"Damn it. Unicorns!"
The King of the Wild Hunt instinctively reached for his back and yanked out his greatsword—only to find, with a start, that what he held was only the hilt.
Of course. That blow from the Elder Blood Child had broken his sword in half.
Luckily, the unicorns didn't charge the moment they saw Eredin in his miserable state. Instead, after letting out a shrill neigh, they turned and galloped away.
They had been startled—but not by Eredin.
Hoofbeats thundered from behind him, and soon after came the unmistakable sound of singing.
Eredin exhaled in relief and turned his head to see a cavalry unit approaching.
They did not wear the fearsome bone armor of the Wild Hunt. Instead, they were clad in mail composed of interlinked steel rings so small they defied belief—armor that hugged the body like woven wool. Beneath it, they wore red jackets and plumed helmets, and from their backs fluttered cloaks in brilliant hues—scarlet, ochre, and wine-purple, like the sky at dusk.
Most of the riders had black hair, save for the leader, whose hair was a shade of golden ash. He was no knight either. He wore a long robe, a thumb-sized emerald medallion on a gold chain resting on his chest, and a staff strapped to the side of his horse.
Their gazes met, and silence fell between them.
It lingered—for a while.
Eventually, Eredin broke it.
He pointed toward the retreating unicorns. "Avallac'h. What's with them?"
"The Auberon King's body encountered a slight issue, so we had no choice but to draw some blood from the unicorn chieftain. That's why they've been more irritable lately."
"I'd wager you didn't just take its blood—you killed the damn thing too," Eredin spat viciously. "You should've hunted more. Unicorns are far more useful than just their blood. They can help us open portals more efficiently, and right now we need—"
"This isn't the time when we first arrived here, Eredin."
Avallac'h shook his head. "What happened to you? I expected you to stay on the other side a bit longer—and to come back with more people."
"If I hadn't sensed your portal opening where it shouldn't have, I might not have brought the squad right away—and you'd be in real danger."
The elven sage asked softly, "What happened?"
Eredin trembled violently again, which shocked Avallac'h to the core. He couldn't imagine what could have terrified the King of the Wild Hunt like this.
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