When Fringilla left the palace, it felt as if she had been reborn.
Just five years ago, she had stood entirely apart from the Empire's military machine. She clung to her noble lineage, her talents, and her beauty to maintain an air of pride, believing in the absolute supremacy of magic.
Now, five years later, she found herself struggling to breathe in front of someone who wasn't even old enough to be her son.
"He doesn't even possess a shred of magic…"
A storm of thoughts churned in Fringilla's mind—and with them came another figure, one that left her dizzy just thinking about him. Toward that man, her fear was laced with far more tangled emotions.
"His magic… there's hardly a match for it in all of history or verse."
Fringilla inhaled deeply and returned to her quarters.
Piled high on her desk were stacks upon stacks of documents. No one could explain why a sorceress once so indifferent to politics in Nilfgaard would suddenly, after a single battle in Cintra, devote herself entirely to the Empire's magical reforms.
But the results of her work over the years were undeniable.
Just as she bent once more over the mountainous paperwork, several shadows flickered across her balcony.
Crack!—searing lightning leapt to the window in the blink of an eye. Ever since pledging herself to Lann, Fringilla had kept her nerves drawn taut like a bowstring.
Yet the shadowy figures outside hovered unnaturally in midair—then, with a casual wave of a hand, one of them cleaved the bolt of lightning in two.
The sheer absurdity of the sight brought Fringilla a strange sense of relief.
Three vampires strolled lazily into her room.
The sorceress had just furrowed her brow, ready to scold them for their intrusion, when her eyes widened in sudden horror.
Thick, mud-like blood clung to the vampires' bodies, leaving stark crimson footprints with every step they took. In his hand, Philippe held the twitching upper half of a corpse, his face buried with relish in the crook of its neck.
"These were assassins sent by Emhyr. Looks like you've really pissed him off this time," Philippe shrugged after taking a deep drink. "Look—dimeritium-tipped arrows and blades. Anti-magic metal."
Fringilla's heart started to race.
Two breaths later, she rubbed her fingers together, igniting a spark that spread flame across her desk.
"Thank the gods… thank the gods…"
"Are you insane? Even if they didn't kill you, you're as good as dead in Nilfgaard now," Philippe sneered. "You're useless to them when it comes to the Elder Blood."
Fringilla shook her head. "What I meant was… thank the gods I didn't have enough space here, so I carved the teleportation array in your manor's main hall instead."
Ophelie van Moorlehem, standing beside Philippe, scowled.
"Because of you, I haven't hosted a single banquet in days."
Fringilla visibly recoiled, but seeing as they had just saved her life, she forced her expression to smooth out.
"Take me to your estate. Today, tomorrow, or the day after—I'm activating that array. Now that I'm free from the palace, I have all the time I need to be on standby."
Philippe recalled the enormous array etched across his manor's halls. From the outside, it was invisible, but anyone inside could see the intricate arcane symbols that filled every corner—some of which were so esoteric even the seasoned vampires found them baffling.
"Speaking of which… is there any way to sedate that unicorn?" Philippe touched his throat. "I've had my eye on it for ages… just a taste. One sip."
This time, Fringilla didn't bother hiding her expression.
"Keep your fangs to yourself, Philippe! This is all for Lannister's plan!"
Temeria, summit of Bald Mountain.
Ciri stood with her arms crossed, a longsword engraved with the head of a swallow strapped to her back. Her gaze swept across the four children standing before her.
Seated at the very front was a boy who looked no older than three or four. He wore a sky-blue tunic fastened with a small fleur-de-lis brooch on his left chest and a deerskin belt at his waist.
His hair gleamed like golden sunlight at dawn, and his eyes sparkled a bright emerald green.
The other three were girls, appearing slightly older than the boy. Their skin had a pale green hue—exotic and foreign—and they wore linen dresses that Lann had clearly forced upon them. Their eyes were clear and innocent, with a quiet calm that seemed to come from deep within the forest.
'Deep breath, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon.' Ciri pressed a hand to her chest, speaking to herself inwardly.
Deep breath. At least Lann had only brought the children. Their mothers clearly hadn't had the nerve to show their faces.
That was what Ciri told herself, but her clenched teeth only tightened.
A flicker of bright emerald light flashed, then faded. As Lann's boots touched the earth, he immediately felt an intense pressure bearing down on him.
The four children ran toward him with cheerful shouts, each calling him something different as they clung to his legs. Their births may have come with their own complications, but Lann's sense of affection for his blood was undeniable.
And yet suddenly, he found himself unable to move.
Ciri stared at him for a long moment before letting out a cold snort.
"How's the fighting at the front?" she asked.
Lann exhaled a long breath. "We've broken through the main line. As long as we hold steady, we should be fine. I've summoned Geralt back temporarily—he's preparing to launch a surprise strike into the interior with Yennefer and the Griffin Cavalry."
Ciri frowned. "I thought the plan was to go by sea?"
Lann nodded. "This time, Uncle Eist and Crach are leading the team personally. They raided the Golden Tower City in their youth—they know the route like the back of their hands."
Approaching by sea to reduce the straight-line distance to the mainland, and then waiting for the perfect moment to launch an air assault.
Ciri's brow eased slightly. "Of course. Grandfather would never miss the best chance to strike back at Nilfgaard."
Seeing her expression soften, Lann finally relaxed a little.
But after a moment's thought, he hesitated again. "Have you decided… how to deal with him?"
He didn't name the person. But both he and Ciri knew exactly who he meant.
Ciri's fingers curled slightly. "If your plan goes smoothly, he might die today. I won't even have to see him—that would be the best outcome."
"But if he survives… truthfully, Lann, I still don't know."
Watching Ciri bite her lip until it turned pale, Lann let out a quiet sigh and gently took her hand in his. Her skin was smooth and warm.
The three girls and one boy all glanced toward them with wide, curious eyes. The boy even looked at the girl beside him, mimicking her expression with eager interest.
Ciri's expression immediately hardened. She pulled her hand back at once. "Dealing with Emhyr is something for after we win. Right now, our task is to win."
"Of course, of course—Your Majesty, my Queen."
"We'll be ready, waiting for you to return. Then everything will proceed exactly as planned."
Ciri took a deep breath. "You must come back."
Lann's expression turned solemn, and he nodded firmly.
With a twist of his left hand, he pulled out a long spiral horn. At that moment, the [Dimensional Travel] skill in the system began to glow, and a path spanning two worlds quietly formed in the void.
Then, a flash of bright emerald light burst forth like a miniature sun—only to extinguish just as suddenly.
Ciri gazed at the fading light with deep emotion.
Then she turned around. By this point, the children had finally lowered the arms they'd raised to shield their eyes.
Their father was gone. The only one left before them now… was this woman.
What should we call her?
Looking into four pairs of clear, searching eyes, Ciri let out a long sigh and sat down cross-legged.
"All right… let's start with your names. How old are each of you? What have you been learning lately?"
...
Crunch. A steel greave crushed a skull beneath its weight.
Lann looked down. As expected, it was the exact same spot where he had landed during his last transfer to this sub-plane. What had then been a fresh corpse had now grown so brittle with time that it crumbled like dust.
Lann frowned. Three years had passed. There were no longer any unicorns to threaten them—yet the Aen Elle elves still hadn't retrieved the bodies of their fallen?
If it had only been a short time after the battle, it might've made sense—they were, after all, the defeated side. But after all these years? Letting their comrades rot in the open like this was simply inexcusable.
Still, Lann soon eased his brow. Elves like this were a good sign—for him, at least.
He steadied himself. In the perception field of his consciousness, a constellation of glowing points began to appear—each one a beacon left by his [Teleport] skill.
Over a dozen of them clustered together—those would be the unicorns. Lann had dispatched them as part of his plan, and of course, he'd placed safeguards on every one. Over the past few years, even while dealing with the war, he'd kept traveling between the two worlds periodically, checking on their safety via the follower interface.
He had always feared that the elves might lose control and try to vivisect the unicorns.
Thankfully, everything had gone smoothly. Not a single unicorn had come to harm.
Lann focused. One of the isolated markers began drifting toward the cluster. Then it started trembling—it seemed the person marked by that beacon was experiencing a surge of emotion.
Suddenly, that point bolted in a straight line, running fast—then came to a stop.
It didn't move again.
"Perfect," Lann murmured, a satisfied smile curling his lips.
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