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Snow fell softly on the battlements of the Witcher School.
For nearly three centuries it had stood, older than the memories of any living soul, and still it endured.
In the great central hall, firelight flickered against ancient stone walls. Students sat cross-legged on thick furs, their breath misting in the cold air.
Some were barely thirteen, others nearly grown—but all fell silent as the old Master entered the room.
He wore a cloak of midnight blue, the edges frayed, the clasp a silver wolf's head dulled by time.
His beard was white as the snow outside, his eyes sharp as steel.
"Tonight," he rasped, with a crooked smile, "we speak of the Founder."
A murmur rippled through the hall. Everyone knew the name.
"Ethan of Toussaint," one of the youngest piped up, wide-eyed.
The Master inclined his head. "Indeed. Witcher. Slayer of the Dark Lord. Champion of Death. And the one who foresaw the Convergence before it ever came."
He walked slowly before the fire, his cane tapping against the stone.
"He was not born of this world—but he bled for it. Fought for it. Loved it. He saw what lay ahead when even the wisest of wizards were blind."
The walls around them seemed to hum, as if the very stones remembered the tale.
"He founded the Witcher school not just to train fighters—but to raise those who would protect without recognition. Not all who come here wield swords or cast spells. Some learn potions that tame ancient beasts. Others walk the threads of reality, studying the rifts left behind by the Convergence. A few, even now, bear gifts we still don't fully understand."
A girl with braided hair raised her hand. "Master, Is it true he came from another world?"
The Master's eyes twinkled. "So the legends say. That he came from beyond, long before the first collition, and when the Convergence struck, others like him slipped through. Some names have survived—Geralt, Yennefer, Ciri—but they were passing winds."
He paused a moment, looking up at the rafters above, where old banners hung faded but proud.
"His decision wasn't easy. He left behind his world. His people. But he found something here—purpose, and someone to share it with."
He stopped beside the great tapestry that hung behind the fire.
It showed a lone figure on a cliff, beside a woman with wild violet hair, looking out over the valley where the first stones had been laid.
"He did not live to see the world become what it is now," the Master continued.
"But everything we have—our wards, our wisdom, even our bloodlines—flows from his legacy. Some of you carry it directly, though your names have changed. And all of you are here because he chose to fight when no one else believed the threat was real."
Outside, the snow thickened, and a low howl echoed from the dark woods below the cliffs.
A direwolf—not a beast of this world, but one left behind by the shattering of barriers during the Convergence—answered the call.
The Master's voice softened.
"In his final years, they say he stood again on these cliffs, watching the sky, wondering if those he left behind might one day cross back through the veil. If fate would allow even a fleeting moment to see them once more."
He smiled faintly. "We do not know if that moment ever came. But we do know he never stopped hoping."
"Always remember," the Master said, voice low, "we are not the heroes. We are the ones who stand in the dark so the light can go on shining. Just as he once did."
He turned, facing the silent crowd of students.
"This is Kaer Mohen. This is the house of the Silver Wolf. You carry his fire now. Make it burn bright."
And in the flames behind him, for just a moment, it almost seemed like the shadows shifted.
As though someone stood watching.
A man with a sword on his back and a scar on his brow.