Book 1: Crossing the Mists
The young elf, who introduced herself as Lyra, guided me through a maze of forest trails that snaked between trees with silvery bark and luminescent ferns. Roach followed dutifully, her step calmed by my presence. Every breath reminded me of the dull ache in my ribs, but the Swallow was doing its work, mending the damage.
Lyra kept shooting me furtive glances, a mix of residual fear and fascination. My hybrid nature seemed to trouble her as much as my profession.
"The men… those from earlier…," she began, hesitant. "They're bounty hunters. They track down those who possess shards of Mist-light." She clutched the small pouch around her neck tighter.
"Mist-light?" I asked, my voice neutral.
"Dust from the ancient moons, shattered during the Great Fracture," she explained as if it were common knowledge. "They have… magical properties. Highly sought after. And very dangerous."
I nodded, absorbing the information. A new world, new resources, new covetousness. Some things were universal.
The path suddenly opened onto a wider clearing, and the village of Whisperleaf sprawled before us.
It was not a fortified town like Novigrad or Oxenfurt. Here, the architecture embraced nature. Houses were built directly into the immense trunks of trees, their organic shapes blending with the branches. Rope and wood bridges connected the dwellings, suspended several meters above the ground. Magical fireflies, captured in small glass lanterns, began to light up as the light of the twin suns waned, tinting the village in a gold and blue glow. It was both fragile and beautiful.
And upon our arrival, everything stopped.
Conversations halted mid-sentence. The blacksmith hammering metal paused with his tool in the air. Children who had been running around froze, their wide eyes fixed on the stranger in studded armor, with scars and feline eyes, leading a horse laden with weapons.
The weight of their gaze was almost physical. Mistrust. Fear. Raw curiosity. I knew this dance. I had lived it in a hundred different villages on my world. The only difference here was the proportion of elves among the inhabitants. They were the majority, their graceful figures going about daily tasks. But their silent hostility was no less palpable.
Lyra, embarrassed, almost clung to me. "Pay them no mind, Lord Gwyn. Strangers are rare. And a… a warrior like you…"
"A witcher," I corrected softly. "The term is witcher."
We advanced down a central alley under the heavy silence of the populace. I kept my head high, my expression as neutral as possible. Showing annoyance or insecurity would only have made things worse.
Our destination seemed to be a central square where a large fountain of smooth stone stood, flowing with crystal-clear water that shimmered under the fireflies' light. Seated on its edge, an elderly elf woman watched us approach. Her hair was snow-white, intricately braided, and her eyes, a deep green, shone with sharp intelligence. She wore a simple robe of elegant cut, and a carved wooden staff rested beside her.
Lyra gave a slight bow. "Elder Elara."
The woman, Elara, gave her a small, reassuring nod before turning her attention to me. Her gaze was neither fearful nor hostile, but analytical. She examined me from head to toe, lingering on my swords, my scars, my ears.
"Lyra has told us of your courageous intervention," Elara said in a clear, melodious voice that carried without needing to force it. "The village is in your debt."
"There is no debt," I replied, stopping at a respectful distance. "No one deserves to be preyed upon by brutes."
A murmur ran through the crowd beginning to gather at a distance. My accent must have sounded as strange to them as everything else.
"You are not from Arran," Elara observed. It wasn't a question.
"I come from very far away. My ship was wrecked in a storm… an unconventional one. I woke up on your beach."
She narrowed her eyes, intrigued. "A storm with violet lightning? One that seemed to tear the sky rather than pass through it?"
My heart skipped a beat. "You know of this phenomenon?"
"We call it a Tear. It is a rare and poorly understood event. That you survived it is… remarkable." She paused. "You say you are a witcher. What is your art?"
It was a direct question. I chose frankness.
"I am a monster slayer. Trained, mutated, and equipped for it. I track and eliminate creatures that threaten people, for a fee." I let the words hang in the ensuing silence.
Muffled sneers, worried whispers. "A monster hunter?" a voice called from the crowd. "We don't need anyone for that here!"
Elara raised a hand, and silence fell again, a testament to her authority.
"These are uncertain times, Kael," she said without turning around. Then she looked back at me. "Your arrival may be a blessing from the ancient spirits, Witcher Gwyn. The woods are not as safe as they once were. Beasts we have not seen for generations are prowling again. More aggressive. Different."
I felt a familiar, almost comforting shiver run down my spine. It was a tune I knew. Fear. Need. Opportunity.
"Tell me," I said simply.
Elara was about to speak when a man, a human this time, shoved a few spectators aside to step forward. He was tall, broad-shouldered, built like a lumberjack with a shaggy beard.
"Scary stories for children!" he boomed. "We don't need a stranger, least of all a mutant, to solve our problems! Who knows where he's really from? That storm might have been his doing!"
I stared at him without flinching, keeping my calm. Anger was counterproductive. "If I had the power to summon such a storm, do you believe I would have washed up half-dead on your shore?"
The man, Kael, opened his mouth to retort, but Elara intervened.
"Enough, Kael. Hospitality is an ancient law. He protected one of our own. He deserves lodging and food, at least for the night." Her tone brooked no argument. She turned to me. "The inn has a stable for your mount and a simple room. We will speak more tomorrow morning. The shadows of night are not the time to discuss such things."
I nodded, grateful. "Thank you, Elder."
As Lyra guided me towards a large house built around the central trunk of a giant tree, I felt dozens of pairs of eyes following me. Gazes laden with fear, suspicion, but also, for a few, a timid hope.
I placed a hand on the pommel of my sword, feeling the familiar leather under my fingers. The village of Whisperleaf was beautiful, peaceful on the surface.
But beneath it, fear was creeping. And where there was fear, there was work for a witcher.
I had found my anchor in this new world. For better or for worse.