Arwyn sat at a vanity table in a room more beautiful than anything she had ever seen, her reflection staring back at her from a mirror so clear it was almost unsettling. The manor Niketas had brought her to was unlike anything in her past—not even Bebbanburg, with its sturdy stone and polished wood, could compare to this place. The walls were adorned with intricate mosaics, tiny tiles forming scenes of warriors and gods, their colors vivid under the soft glow of oil lamps. The ceiling arched high, painted with deep blues and golds, stars and swirling patterns that seemed to shimmer. The floor was a polished marble, cool under her bare feet, veined with white and green. Heavy silk curtains framed tall windows, their rich red fabric catching the light in soft folds. The furniture was carved from dark wood, inlaid with ivory and pearls, every surface gleaming with care. The air smelled faintly of incense, a sweet, unfamiliar scent that lingered in her senses.
She leaned closer to the mirror, her fingers brushing the smooth glass. The reflection was sharp, almost too real, showing every detail of her face in a way no murky pond or polished bronze ever had. She had grown in these past three years, her body no longer that of the girl who had left Northumbria. Her face had lost its softness, her cheekbones sharper, her jaw more defined. The fine clothing Niketas' servants had given her clung to her, a deep green silk dress with long sleeves and a fitted bodice that pushed her breasts up, the neckline low enough to hint at her curves. Her blonde hair, once left loose or in simple braids, was now swept up, twisted into intricate patterns and pinned with gold clasps. The servants had dusted her face with powder, lined her eyes with kohl, and painted her lips a soft red, transforming her into someone she barely recognized. She tilted her head, watching the way the makeup caught the light, making her eyes seem larger, her lips fuller. She didn't know she could look like this. It felt good, in a way, to see herself so polished, so unlike the warrior who had trudged through deserts and mountains m.
Her thoughts drifted to Thorfinn, and she wondered what he would think if he saw her now. Would he stare, his usual scowl softening? Would he say something, or would he just look at her with that unreadable expression he always wore? Her stomach twisted, and she scowled at her reflection, shaking her head to banish the thought. He was a fool. A damned fool. If he couldn't see that Niketas was trying to help them find Geralt, then he could wander the filthy streets of this city alone, chasing shadows. Let him waste his time. She felt a sharp, perverse joy at the idea of finding Geralt first, of shoving it in Thorfinn's face, proving she didn't need him. The thought made her lips curl, but the satisfaction was fleeting, replaced by a restless irritation she couldn't name.
She sighed, her gaze dropping to the vanity table. The surface was cluttered with items—glass vials of perfume, a silver comb with delicate engravings, a small pot of rouge, a pearl-handled brush, a necklace of amber beads. She picked up the comb, turning it over in her hands, feeling the weight of it. Each item was exquisite, worth more than her father could have earned in a year of toil on their farm. Yet here they were, casually laid out for a guest, as if they were nothing. "This really is a strange place," she muttered to herself, her voice soft in the quiet room.
Her fingers moved to the perfume vial, lifting it to her nose, inhaling the sharp, floral scent. She set it down and picked up the necklace, letting the amber beads slip through her fingers, their smooth surfaces catching the light. She played with them for a moment, her thoughts drifting, until that same irritation surged again, hot and sudden. She shoved the items away, the comb clattering against the table. "Why does he have to be such an arrogant ass?" she shouted, her voice echoing in the room. She stood, pacing, her hands clenched into fists. Thorfinn's face flashed in her mind—his cold stare, his sharp words, the way he had struck her in the square. She cursed under her breath, her steps quickening. She hated how he got under her skin, how he could make her so angry with a single look, a single word. She didn't want to think about him, didn't want to care, but the frustration burned hotter, twisting into something she refused to examine.
She stormed to the balcony, pushing through the heavy curtains and stepping outside. The night air was cool against her skin, carrying the faint salt of the sea. She leaned on the stone railing, her hands gripping the edge as she looked out over Constantinople. The city stretched before her, a sea of lights flickering under the stars. Domes and spires rose against the skyline, their curves illuminated by torches and lanterns. The streets below hummed with life, even at this hour, voices and music drifting up in a constant murmur. It was beautiful, overwhelming, nothing like the muddy fields and simple wooden halls of her childhood farm in Northumbria. She rested her head in her hands, her fingers pressing against her temples.
Everything was so different here. The farm had been small, the air always thick with the smell of earth and livestock. She and Eowyn had run through those fields, laughing, chasing each other until they collapsed in the grass. Would Eowyn believe the things she'd seen since they parted? The deserts, the ancient ruins, the metal creatures that moved like men, this city with its endless wealth and strange customs? Arwyn's chest tightened, a familiar ache blooming as she thought of her sister. Eowyn's smile, her voice, the way she'd always known how to make Arwyn laugh—it was all gone, ripped away. The pain was sharp, cutting deeper than she expected, and she pressed her palms harder against her face, trying to push it down.
Her ears caught a sound—soft footsteps approaching her door from the hallway. She straightened, and walked back inside just as a knock sounded. "Enter," she called, smoothing her dress.
The door opened, and a servant stepped in, a young woman with dark hair pinned neatly under a cap. She spoke in Latin, her words clear but accented. "Mistress Arwyn, Master Niketas requests your presence downstairs."
Arwyn nodded, understanding enough to follow. "Lead the way."
The servant bowed slightly and turned, guiding Arwyn through the manor. The halls were wide, their walls covered in vibrant frescoes—scenes of feasts, hunts, and mythical creatures painted in reds, blues, and golds. Marble columns flanked the doorways, their surfaces carved with vines and flowers. The floors were tiled in intricate patterns, gleaming under the light of bronze lamps hanging from the ceiling. Arwyn passed tapestries woven with threads that shimmered like liquid silver, and shelves displaying delicate glassware and golden statues. It was all so foreign, so far beyond the simple life she'd had. Servants moved through the halls, carrying trays or cleaning, and each one paused to curtsy as she passed.
They descended a grand staircase, the banister carved with twisting serpents, and entered the dining room. The space was vast, its ceiling high and painted with a scene of a starry sky. The walls were draped with silk, and a long table of polished wood dominated the center, its surface set with silver plates and crystal goblets. Bronze candelabras held flickering candles, casting a warm glow over the room. The floor was a mosaic of colored tiles, forming a pattern of waves and fish.
Niketas stood as she entered, his dark hair neat, his robes a deep purple with gold trim. "Arwyn, thank you for joining me," he said, his smile warm. He pulled out a chair for her, the wood carved with delicate flowers. "Please, sit."
"Thank you," she said, settling into the seat, the cushion soft beneath her.
Niketas signaled, and servants entered, carrying trays laden with food. There were plates of roasted quail, spiced lamb, flatbreads studded with herbs, bowls of lentils simmered with strange spices, and fruits she didn't recognize, their colors vibrant. "These are dishes from across Asia," Niketas said, gesturing to the spread. "I doubt someone from as far north as you has tasted such flavors."
Arwyn inhaled, the aromas rich and unfamiliar. "They smell good," she said, her stomach stirring.
Niketas smiled, pointing to a dish of lamb. "This one, with the saffron, is my favorite. And the lentils—try them with the bread." A servant poured wine into her goblet, the liquid a deep red. "Have you ever tasted Falernian wine?" Niketas asked. "This one is fifty years old."
She shook her head, lifting the goblet to her lips. The wine was rich, its flavors deep and complex, unlike the sharp, sour wines she'd had before. "It's different," she said. "Much better than what I've tasted."
Niketas laughed. "I have the best collection in the city. Perhaps not as fine as the Empress's, but close."
As the servants served the food, Niketas leaned back. "Is your room suitable?"
Arwyn nodded, swallowing a bite of lamb, the meat tender and bursting with flavor. "It's more luxurious than anything I've ever seen."
He chuckled as she took another large bite, her enthusiasm evident. "You enjoy the food."
She nodded, her mouth full, and he laughed again. "Will anyone else be joining us?" she asked, wiping her lips. "Do you have family?"
Niketas shook his head, his smile fading slightly. "I'm afraid it's only me."
She didn't press, sensing the topic was closed. Instead, she ate more, savoring the unfamiliar spices, the richness of the dishes. Niketas spoke as they ate, his voice steady, recounting his family's history. "My lineage stretches back to the days when this city was the heart of an empire that spanned seas and mountains. My ancestors were senators, generals, men who shaped the world. When the empire split, they stayed here, building wealth, influence. My father expanded our lands, my brother serves in the Emperor's court. Our name carries weight."
Arwyn listened, intrigued by the depth of his family's past, so different from her own. "That's a long history," she said.
He nodded, then turned the question to her. "And your family?"
She paused, her fork stilling. "I'm the only one left."
He didn't push, but his expression softened. "Then we are not so different, you and I. Sole survivors, carrying the weight of our names alone."
She shifted uncomfortably, not wanting his pity. "Have you made any progress finding my friend?" she asked, changing the subject.
Niketas sighed, leaning back. "It's a vast city, Arwyn. Finding one man takes time. My men are searching, but it may be a while."
She nodded, hiding her disappointment. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "I hope you'll join me next week. I have friends I'd like to introduce you to. They're influential, and they'd be delighted to meet you."
Arwyn hesitated, her instinct to decline warring with the fact that Niketas had already done so much for her. "Alright," she agreed, her voice reluctant but polite.
"Wonderful," Niketas said, his smile returning. He clapped his hands. "Thea!"
A woman entered, and Arwyn's breath caught. She was stunning, her beauty almost unnatural. Her skin was flawless, a warm olive tone that glowed under the candlelight. Her dark hair fell in loose waves, framing a face with high cheekbones, full lips, and eyes so deep they seemed to hold secrets. Her body was graceful, her curves accentuated by a flowing dress of pale blue silk that clung to her hips and breasts.
"You called, master?" Thea said, her voice soft.
Niketas nodded. "Yes. Arwyn, this is Thea, your personal maidservant. She'll attend to your needs and teach you Greek to make your time here easier."
Arwyn managed a smile, still struck by Thea's beauty. "Thank you. It's nice to meet you, Thea."
Thea returned the smile, her eyes warm. "I hope we can be friends, Arwyn."
Niketas stood. "I'll leave you two to get acquainted. I'm retiring for the night." He bowed slightly and left the room, his robes swishing as he went.
Arwyn looked at Thea, who gestured for her to follow. "Shall we return to your room, mistress?"
Arwyn nodded, pushing her chair back and standing, though her eyes lingered on the untouched dishes of spiced lamb and herb-studded flatbreads still on the table. The aromas were too tempting, and she hesitated, her stomach stirring. Thea noticed, her lips curving into a gentle smile. "If you're hungry, mistress, food can always be brought to your room."
Arwyn's cheeks flushed, a touch of embarrassment creeping in. "Thank you," she said, her voice soft as she met Thea's gaze. She straightened, smoothing her dress, and followed Thea out of the dining room.
They walked through the manor's grand halls, the polished marble floors gleaming under the light of bronze lamps. The walls were covered in vibrant frescoes—scenes of feasts and mythical creatures painted in rich reds and golds. Arwyn's footsteps echoed faintly, her fine silk dress swishing with each step. Thea moved gracefully beside her, her pale blue dress clinging to her curves, her dark hair catching the light. As they ascended the carved staircase, Arwyn glanced at her. "How do you speak my language so well?"
Thea's smile was calm. "Many travelers come from your lands. King Ecbert of Wessex sends men here to purchase scrolls and writings from the old empire. Master Niketas wished for servants who could speak your tongue, to be seen as a better host."
Arwyn's brow furrowed. "It's strange, going through so much just to be a gracious host."
Thea's expression softened, but her voice carried a hint of instruction. "In this city, how people see you is everything. A man will not do business with someone who cannot show generosity to his guests. Reputation shapes your standing—your alliances, your wealth, your power. A single misstep, a guest slighted, and doors close. But a warm welcome, a display of wealth and grace, can open paths to great opportunities. A merchant might secure a contract, a noble might gain the Emperor's ear, all because he is seen as honorable, as worthy."
Arwyn's lips pressed together, her mind struggling to grasp the concept. Where she came from, strength and survival mattered more than appearances. "I don't really understand," she admitted.
Thea's smile widened, warm but knowing. "There is much for you to learn, mistress. And much I would like to learn from you."
They reached Arwyn's room, the heavy wooden door carved with floral patterns. Inside, a large copper tub stood in the center, filled with steaming water, rose petals floating on the surface. Arwyn paused, her eyes narrowing. "What's this for?"
Thea gestured to the tub. "In high society here, people bathe daily. It's expected, a mark of refinement."
Arwyn's nose wrinkled. "That's strange." She hesitated, then nodded. "But fine."
Thea stepped closer, her hands moving to the ties of Arwyn's dress. Arwyn stiffened, stepping back. "I can undress myself."
"It's one of my duties as your maidservant," Thea said, her tone gentle but firm. "Please, allow me."
Arwyn's jaw tightened, but she relented, standing still as Thea's deft fingers worked the ties. The silk dress slipped from her shoulders, pooling at her feet, followed by her undergarments. Her body was bare now, her skin pale and smooth, marked by faint scars from battles. Her breasts were full, her nipples hardening in the cool air. Her waist was slender, her hips curved, leading to strong, toned legs. Her blonde pubic hair was thick.
Thea guided her to the tub, and Arwyn stepped in, the warm water enveloping her, soothing her aching muscles. Thea knelt beside her, taking a soft cloth and dipping it into the water. She began washing Arwyn's body, her touch careful but thorough, gliding over her arms, her shoulders, her back. The cloth moved to her chest, brushing against her breasts, then down her stomach, the sensation intimate but professional. Arwyn relaxed slightly, the warmth easing her tension.
Thea set the cloth aside and picked up a sharp razor, its blade gleaming. Arwyn's hand shot out, grabbing Thea's wrist. "What are you doing?"
Thea met her gaze, unflinching. "Here, women are expected to be smooth. Men prefer it."
Arwyn's eyes narrowed. "I don't care about the men here."
Thea's voice softened, but there was a weight to her words. "You are beautiful, mistress. Beauty is a woman's weapon in a man's world. If you are to find your friend in this city, you must use every advantage you have."
Arwyn's grip tightened, her voice firm. "I need no such weapon. I'm a warrior."
Thea's expression didn't waver. "Swords and shields have no place in the game you now play. This city is not won with steel, but with influence, with perception."
Arwyn's jaw clenched, her instinct to resist warring with Thea's logic. She didn't want to play this game, didn't want to bend to these strange customs. But she thought of Geralt, of her need to find him, and her resolve wavered. "Fine," she said, releasing Thea's wrist.
Thea nodded, her movements precise as she began shaving. She started with Arwyn's legs, the razor gliding smoothly, removing the fine hairs with care. She worked up to her thighs, then moved to her underarms, the blade scraping gently, leaving her skin bare. Thea's fingers brushed Arwyn's skin as she worked, her touch light but deliberate. "You have such pale, beautiful skin," she said, her voice almost reverent.
Arwyn shrugged, her tone casual. "Everyone has it where I'm from. My sister was even paler."
Thea hummed a soft, haunting melody as she continued, the notes low and flowing. She moved to Arwyn's pubic area, the razor carefully trimming away the thick blonde curls, leaving her skin smooth. Arwyn watched, her breath catching slightly at the unfamiliar sensation. The melody was beautiful, unfamiliar, and Arwyn tilted her head. "That song—it's lovely. Where's it from?"
"My homeland," Thea said, her hands steady.
"You're not from here?" Arwyn asked.
Thea shook her head, her eyes distant for a moment. "I come from Alexandria, not far away, across the sea."
"What's it like there?" Arwyn asked, curiosity piqued.
Thea's lips curved, her voice soft with memory. "It was beautiful. A city of white stone, where the sea met the sky. The library was vast, filled with scrolls from every corner of the world. The streets were alive with traders and scholars, with statues that stood like kings watching over us. The sunsets were red, painting the water with fire." she spoke as if she could still see it.
Arwyn frowned slightly. "Why did you leave?"
Thea's hands paused, just for a moment. "Because I was forced," she said, her voice quiet. She resumed shaving, finishing the last of Arwyn's pubic hair. "We're done now."
Arwyn stood, water dripping from her body as she stepped out of the tub. She looked down, her eyes lingering on her now-bare vagina, the skin smooth and exposed. "It's strange," she said, her voice low. "I can see it so clearly."
Thea smiled, handing her a towel. "Women in my land did this as well. It's a mark of care, of pride."
Arwyn dried herself, her thoughts drifting to Thorfinn. Would he like this, her body so bare, so different? The thought irritated her, and she shook it away, her jaw tightening. She didn't care what he thought. Thea draped a silk robe over her shoulders, the fabric cool and smooth against her skin. "Our lessons begin tomorrow," Thea said. "You're free to rest for the evening. Is there anything else you need?"
Arwyn shook her head. "No, thank you."
"Goodnight, mistress," Thea said, bowing slightly before leaving the room.
"Goodnight," Arwyn replied, closing the door behind her. She walked to the bed, the silk robe slipping open as she lay down, her bare body exposed to the soft sheets. The sensation of the fabric against her freshly shaved skin was new, almost sensual, the smoothness of her legs, her underarms, her vagina heightened by the lack of hair. She ran her fingers over her thigh, then higher, her touch lingering on her smooth mound. Her breath quickened as she explored, her fingers slipping between her folds, finding the sensitive spot that made her gasp. She moved slowly at first, then faster, her body responding, heat building until she arched against the bed, a soft moan escaping her lips as her orgasm washed over her. Her breathing slowed, her body relaxing into the sheets, and she drifted into sleep, the city's distant hum fading into silence.
....
The next morning, Arwyn woke to the soft light filtering through the silk curtains, the room bathed in a warm glow. She stretched, the silk robe still open, her body feeling strangely light without its usual hair. She sat up, running her fingers over her smooth skin, still adjusting to the change. The memory of Thea's words lingered—beauty as a weapon, a game of influence rather than steel. She didn't like it, but she couldn't deny the logic. Finding Geralt in this city would take more than brute force.
She rose, tying the robe closed, and moved to the vanity, her reflection catching her eye again. The woman in the mirror was still a stranger, but she was growing familiar. She brushed her fingers over the amber necklace from the night before, then set it down, her thoughts drifting to the day ahead. Thea would teach her Greek, and she'd meet Niketas' friends soon. It was a world she didn't understand, but she'd learn. She had to.
A knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts. "Enter," she called, expecting Thea.
The door opened, and Thea stepped inside, her beauty as striking as the night before. Her olive skin glowed in the morning light, her dark hair cascading in waves, her pale blue dress hugging her curves. "Good morning, mistress," she said, her voice warm. "Are you ready to begin?"
Arwyn nodded, her resolve hardening. "Let's get started."
___________________________
Thorfinn woke with a start, his body jolting as if yanked from a dream. The air was cool, heavy with the scent of old stone and dust. He lay on a narrow cot, the thin mattress barely softening the wooden frame beneath. His eyes scanned the room—a cramped, circular chamber high in what looked like an abandoned bell tower. The walls were rough, weathered stone, cracked in places, with patches of moss clinging to the crevices. A rusted iron bracket, once meant for a bell, jutted from the ceiling, its edges flaking. The floor was littered with debris—broken tiles, splinters of wood, and the faint outline of bird droppings. A single open window let in a sliver of dawn light, the city's distant hum filtering through.
He touched his ribs, wincing as a dull pain throbbed through his side. "Ugh," he groaned, pushing himself up slowly, his muscles protesting. He shuffled to the window, his boots scraping against the gritty floor, and leaned against the sill, looking out over Constantinople. The city sprawled beneath him, a chaotic maze of domes, spires, and rooftops glinting in the early light. Ships crowded the harbor, their sails bright against the water, while the streets buzzed with life even at this hour. "Where the hel am I?" he muttered, his voice rough from sleep.
"You're at our headquarters," a familiar voice said from behind.
Thorfinn turned, his hand instinctively twitching toward where his sword should have been. Geralt was climbing the narrow spiral stairs, a wooden tray in his hands, laden with bread, cheese, and a clay mug of something steaming. His white hair caught the light. Thorfinn's face broke into a rare smile. "I thought it was a dream," he said, crossing the room in two strides. He clasped Geralt's arm.
"You must've had quite the journey here," Geralt said, returning a small smile as he set the tray on a rickety table.
Thorfinn stepped back, noticing how Geralt's gaze lingered, assessing him. "You've gotten bigger," Geralt said, his voice carrying a hint of approval. "You look strong."
"It has been a long journey for us," Thorfinn replied.
"And I want to hear of it," Geralt said, gesturing to the cot. "But first, you should rest. The healer said your ribs aren't broken, but you need to take it easy."
Thorfinn nodded, easing himself onto the cot, the wood creaking under his weight. He pulled the tray closer, tearing off a piece of bread and chewing slowly, the coarse texture grounding him. The cheese was sharp, the drink a bitter herbal brew that warmed his throat.
Geralt leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. "What do you think of the city so far?"
Thorfinn swallowed, glancing toward the window. "It's like nothing I've ever imagined. Bigger than any place I've seen, louder, stranger. I want to explore it, learn everything it has to offer."
Geralt's brow furrowed, a shadow crossing his face, but he said nothing. Thorfinn noticed, his own expression hardening. "What happened last night? My memory's fuzzy after Niketas threw me into that wall. And who were those hooded people?"
Geralt's posture shifted, his arms tightening across his chest. "They're allies. They call themselves the Assassins Brotherhood."
Thorfinn made a noise of disdain, his lip curling. Vikings saw assassins as cowards, skulking in shadows, striking without honor. "I didn't expect Witchers to keep company with such people."
Geralt's eyes narrowed, and he pushed off the wall, his voice low but firm. "Witchers are a dying breed, Thorfinn. Fewer of us every year, more monsters emerging. The Brotherhood fights the same darkness we do, though their monsters are often a different kind."
Thorfinn's jaw clenched. "Assassins are dishonorable."
Geralt stepped closer, his tone sharpening. "There's nothing honorable about fighting monsters. I thought you learned that after Dahlia destroyed your home and took your child."
Thorfinn's blood surged, rage flaring hot and sudden. He hurled the tray to the floor, the clay mug shattering, food scattering across the stone. He lunged, shoving Geralt back against the wall, his forearm pressing into the Witcher's chest. "Don't talk about my family!" he roared, his voice raw.
Geralt's hand shot up, wrenching Thorfinn's arm away. "Fighting monsters is bloody," he growled. "We're always at a disadvantage. You think a witch or a troll cares if you fight honorably? I told you to stop thinking like a Viking."
Thorfinn tutted, his chest heaving as he stepped back, turning to the cot. Geralt's voice followed, gruff and unapologetic. "You came with me to learn, boy. In this tower are some of the most skilled masters you'll find. Dishonorable or not, this is what you need to face Dahlia."
Thorfinn sat heavily, his hands clenching into fists. He hated it, hated the idea of aligning with assassins, of abandoning the code he'd been raised on. But Geralt's words cut deep, and the memory of Dahlia's destruction burned brighter than his pride. "Fine," he muttered, the word bitter.
Geralt nodded, moving to the stairs. "You'll learn everything—swordsmanship, stealth, strategy. Constantinople is a wondrous place, Thorfinn, but it's on the brink of destruction. We need everyone to fight the oncoming darkness."
Thorfinn's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"
Geralt paused, his hand on the railing. "Rest first. I'll tell you more tomorrow."
Thorfinn exhaled, nodding reluctantly. Geralt descended the stairs, his footsteps fading. Thorfinn lay back on the cot, staring at the cracked ceiling. His thoughts swirled, Constantinople's vastness, the thrill of finding Geralt. But Arwyn crept into his mind. He scowled, then laughed, a low, bitter sound. He'd shove it in her face—how easily she'd been tricked by Niketas, how he'd found Geralt first. A flicker of concern stirred, but he pushed it down. She was strong. She'd be fine until he reached her.
He closed his eyes, exhaustion pulling him under, and slept.
---
Morning light streamed through the window when Thorfinn woke, his body stiff but less painful. A pile of clothes sat on the table—simple, dark garments similar to those of the hooded figures, but plainer, without the ornate embroidery. His sword rested beside them, the blade still stained with Hakon's dark blood, unyielding to any attempt at cleaning. He dressed quickly, the tunic fitting snugly across his broad shoulders, the trousers sturdy but flexible. He buckled his sword belt, and headed downstairs.
The bell tower's interior was a maze of narrow corridors and open chambers, the stone walls scarred from years of neglect. Broken beams jutted from corners, and faded tapestries hung in tatters. Assassins moved through the space, their hooded figures blending into the shadows. Some carried blades, others scrolls or tools. As Thorfinn passed, they nodded or murmured greetings in Arabic or Greek, their eyes assessing but not hostile. "Where's Geralt?" he asked one, a lean man sharpening a dagger.
"The White Wolf is in the main hall," the man replied, pointing to a staircase descending deeper into the tower.
Thorfinn nodded, continuing down. The air grew cooler, the light dimmer, the hum of the city fading. He passed more assassins—men and women, young and old, their faces a mix of focus and wariness. The main hall was a wide, circular chamber, its floor tiled in a faded mosaic of a winged figure. Torches burned along the walls, casting flickering light over crates of supplies, racks of weapons, and a large table covered in maps and parchments.
Geralt stood by the table with three men, their voices low, their postures tense as they leaned over a map marked with red ink. As Thorfinn approached, their words drifted to him, sharp and troubling.
"The Fleders in the sewers are growing in number," one man said. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a shaved head and a neatly trimmed beard framing a strong jaw. His dark robes were adorned with silver embroidery, the fabric worn but meticulously maintained. His hands, scarred and calloused, rested on the table, one finger tracing a line on the map. "It's not just their numbers. They're bolder, attacking closer to the surface, near the merchant districts. Last week, a dockworker vanished near the western drains. His body was found drained."
Another man, lean and wiry with sharp, angular features and a jagged scar running across his left cheek, nodded grimly. His hair was dark, cropped close, and his eyes darted like a hawk's, always scanning. He wore lighter robes, gray and unadorned, designed for movement, with a belt bristling with small blades. "The Templars are preparing something big," he said. "Their patrols have doubled in the eastern districts, and they're moving supplies—weapons, coin, even alchemical reagents. I trailed one of their caravans two nights ago. They're stockpiling in the old basilica. It's only a matter of time before they strike."
The third man, older, with gray hair tied back in a tight braid and a weathered face etched with lines. His robes were simpler, a deep green with no ornamentation, but his posture—straight-backed, hands clasped behind him. His eyes, a piercing blue. "We need to act before they make their move," he said, his voice steady. "The city's fragile. A coordinated attack could break it. We're spread thin as it is."
"Geralt," Thorfinn said, stepping into the torchlight, his boots loud on the tiles.
Geralt turned, his white hair catching the flickering light, his golden eyes meeting Thorfinn's. "You're up," he said, his voice gruff but warm. He gestured to the table. "Come, meet the others. You'll be working with them closely."
Thorfinn crossed the room, his sword belt creaking, the weight of his blade a familiar comfort at his hip. The men straightened, their eyes assessing him—his broad frame, his scarred hands, the way he carried himself like a warrior. Geralt stood beside the table, pointing to each man in turn. "This is Malik, our sword master. Cassian, our stealth master. And Idris, the Grandmaster of the Brotherhood."
Thorfinn nodded, his gaze lingering on each. Malik, the tall one with the shaved head, stepped forward, his face breaking into a broad, familiar grin that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Good to see you on your feet, Thorfinn. You took quite a beating last night."
Thorfinn clasped his arm, the grip firm, recognizing Malik as one of the hooded figures who had pulled him from the alley. The man's strength was evident in his handshake, his forearms corded with muscle. "Thank you for stepping in when you did," Thorfinn said, his voice earnest.
Malik shrugged, his grin widening. "A friend of Geralt's is an ally of ours."
"Speaking of allies," Idris said, his voice cutting through the moment like a blade, "when will the other Witchers arrive, Geralt? It's been a year since we sent word, and we've heard nothing."
Geralt grunted, leaning against the table, his arms crossing over his chest. "Witchers are a solitary bunch. They move on their own time, take contracts as they go. But they know how critical this is. Vesemir and the others will be here soon, within Months if the roads are clear."
Idris's eyes narrowed, his fingers tapping the table. "Good. We need their blades. When our forces are united, we can strike and root out the darkness that's choking this city."
Thorfinn stepped closer, his brow furrowing. "What's going on here? What are you all talking about?"
The men turned to him, their expressions guarded. Geralt straightened, his voice steady. "Do you remember why we're here, Thorfinn?"
"To continue my training," Thorfinn said, his tone clipped, sensing there was more.
Geralt nodded, his eyes locking onto Thorfinn's. "That's true, but it's not the whole truth."
Thorfinn's jaw tightened, his patience fraying like a worn rope. "I don't like being lied to, Geralt. You've been dodging my questions since I woke up."
"There's much I haven't told you," Geralt admitted, his voice low, almost reluctant. "About why we're here, about yourself, about what's at stake. It will be revealed, but not yet. There's too much you need to understand first."
Thorfinn's hands clenched into fists, frustration boiling over. "Speak plainly, Geralt. I'm not a child. Stop hiding things from me."
Before Geralt could respond, the heavy oak door to the hall swung open. "He speaks of me!" a voice called, bright and brimming with confidence, echoing off the stone walls.
Thorfinn turned, his eyes narrowing as he recognized the man striding in. It was the beggar who had warned him not to ask about Witchers in the city, his ragged cloak and dirt-streaked face now gone. He was transformed, dressed in a fine tunic of deep blue, trimmed with gold thread that shimmered in the torchlight. His dark hair was swept back, clean and gleaming, and his muscled frame was evident beneath the tailored fabric, broad shoulders tapering to a lean waist. His handsome face—sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw, and piercing green eyes—lit up with a grin.
"You," Thorfinn said, his voice flat but tinged with surprise. "I remember you."
"Who could forget me?" the man said, winking as he spread his arms wide, as if presenting himself to an adoring crowd. He sauntered forward, his boots clicking on the tiles, exuding a flamboyance that seemed to fill the room.
Geralt stepped forward, his expression a mix of exasperation and amusement. "Thorfinn, this is Constantine VI, the rightful emperor of the Byzantine Empire."
The man waved a hand dismissively, his grin never faltering. "Call me Leo. My full name stirs up trouble at the moment, and I'd rather not have guards chasing me through the streets again."
Thorfinn crossed his arms, his stance rigid. "I'm sure there are people who dispute his claim, if he's hiding in a tower with assassins."
Malik let out a deep chuckle, and Cassian's lips twitched into a smirk. Idris's eyes gleamed with faint amusement, but his voice remained steady. "Constantine was deposed by his mother, Irene, four years ago. She seized the throne and declared herself Empress."
"The harlot tried to blind me," Leo cut in, his tone light but laced with venom, his grin sharpening into something dangerous. He slung an arm around Cassian's shoulders, who stiffened, his scar twitching. "Luckily, I had some very sneaky friends who spirited me out of the palace before she could finish the job."
Cassian shrugged him off, rolling his eyes. "I regret that day more with every passing year," he said, his tone dry but playful, earning a laugh from Malik.
Thorfinn pinched the bridge of his nose, his patience thinning further. He turned to Geralt, his voice hard. "This is why we're here? To help this man reclaim his throne? Why should I care about putting someone I've never met on a throne I know nothing about? I agreed to fight monsters, not play politics for a deposed emperor."
"You'll find the goals are entwined," Idris said. He stepped closer, his blue eyes locking onto Thorfinn's. "What we face is no mere power struggle. It's a threat to the city, to the world beyond."
"Speak plainly, old man," Thorfinn snapped.
Malik and Cassian bristled, their hands drifting to their own weapons, their faces hardening at the disrespect. Thorfinn's stance shifted, his fingers brushing the hilt of his blade, the air tensing like a drawn bowstring. "Enough!" Idris and Geralt shouted in unison, their voices cutting through the standoff.
Geralt grabbed Thorfinn's arm, his grip like iron, pulling him back. "Don't draw your blade on allies, Thorfinn. You know better than this."
Thorfinn shook him off, his voice low and furious. "These are not my allies. I don't know these people, and I don't care for their plight. I came to train, to fight Dahlia, not to meddle in some emperor's squabble."
Idris stepped forward, his presence silencing the room. "Thorfinn, I understand your frustration. Being kept in the dark is no small thing. But this fight involves all of us." He gestured to the table, where Leo stepped up, his playful demeanor giving way to a sharper, more focused intensity.
"The old man's right," Leo said, earning an annoyed glance from Cassian, who muttered under his breath. Leo ignored him, leaning over the map. "Four years ago, my mother made a pact with a vampire. In exchange for power and the throne, she surrendered control. She's a puppet now, dancing on strings held by a creature that feeds on this city's soul."
Idris pointed to the map, its parchment marked with the city's districts in bold lines. "The Templar Order serves the vampire, handling its affairs during the day while it hides from the sun. They've infiltrated the palace—ministers, generals, advisors. Nearly all have been replaced with their agents or turned into ghouls."
Leo's voice dropped, his eyes darkening. "The only one they haven't touched is Nikephoros, the finance minister. He's too entrenched, too connected to the nobility and the merchants' guild to remove without causing an uproar. His influence keeps the city's economy stable."
"Why not kill him?" Thorfinn asked, his voice blunt.
"It would spark chaos," Idris said. "His family, the Doukas clan, would retaliate. The merchants would pull their coin, and the city would fracture into riots and power grabs."
"Can't they control him?" Thorfinn pressed, his mind racing.
Leo smirked, leaning back. "Nikephoros is sharp as a blade. He and his family wear pouches containing the finger bones of St. Peter, a holy relic. Vampires won't go near them—burns their flesh like fire."
Thorfinn's eyes narrowed. "If he knows the city's state, is he an ally?"
Geralt grunted, his expression darkening. "No."
Leo elaborated, his tone dry. "Nikephoros isn't an enemy, but he's no friend. He serves himself, always has. He keeps the vampire's agents at bay to protect his own power, not out of loyalty to anyone. He has no allies, only people under his thumb."
They continued discussing Nikephoros, outlining his territory in the western districts, where his fortified estate stood like a fortress, guarded by hired swords and intricate locks. His influence stretched to the ports, where his ships controlled half the city's trade, and to the merchant guilds, whose loyalty he bought with coin and favors. "He's untouchable for now," Cassian said, his scar twitching as he spoke. "But he's a problem we'll need to address eventually."
Thorfinn's mind churned, the pieces falling into place. "Why not kill the vampire? That would cut the head off the snake."
The men laughed, the sound grating on Thorfinn's nerves. Malik shook his head, his grin fading. "It's not that simple, boy."
"I've done it before," Thorfinn said, his voice sharp. "I killed a one on the ship here. With all of you, surely we can take them."
Geralt cut in, his tone firm. "You didn't kill a vampire, Thorfinn. You killed a Bruxa, a powerful one, I'll grant you, but still a lesser vampire."
"They're in the book," Thorfinn countered, his memory flashing to the leather-bound tome he'd studied on the ship to Constantinople.
"They are," Geralt said. "But what we're dealing with is a True Vampire, not some feral beast."
Thorfinn's eyes narrowed, the weight of the words sinking in. "So the one controlling the Empress is a True Vampire?"
"Yes," Geralt replied, his voice heavy.
Thorfinn leaned forward, his voice steady. "How powerful are they compared to Dahlia?"
Geralt paused, his golden eyes distant as he considered. "From what we know, this vampire is a 6th generation. In a direct fight, it would be close, but Dahlia would likely win. True Witches are formidable, their magic raw and chaotic. In almost any other case, the vampire would come out on top."
"Then let's kill it," Thorfinn said, his voice resolute. If he could bring down a True Vampire, it would be a step toward facing Dahlia, a test of his strength.
Idris nodded, his expression approving but cautious. "Good. But it requires meticulous planning. A 6th generation vampire is a terrifying enemy. Their ghouls are already spread across the city, doing their bidding." He turned to Thorfinn, his blue eyes piercing his. "You met one last night."
Thorfinn frowned, then his eyes widened as realization hit. "Niketas, that nobleman."
Idris nodded. "He's one of the vampire's top servants. A few years ago, he was human, a minor lord with ambition but no spine."
Leo spat on the floor, his face twisting with disgust. "He traded his soul for power, for influence. Now he's a ghoul, bound to the vampire's will, strutting around like he owns the city."
Thorfinn turned abruptly, striding toward the door, his boots pounding the tiles. Geralt grabbed his arm, his grip unyielding. "Where are you going?"
"Arwyn is with him," Thorfinn said, shaking off Geralt's hand, his voice low and urgent. "I'm getting her out."
"No," Geralt said, his tone hard.
Thorfinn's eyes blazed, his anger flaring. "What do you mean, no? You just said Niketas works for the vampire. I'm not leaving her there with that thing."
He moved to leave again, but Cassian stepped in front of him, his lean frame blocking the door. His scar gleamed in the torchlight, his eyes calm but firm. "Move," Thorfinn growled, his hand twitching toward his sword.
"Listen to us, Thorfinn," Cassian said, his voice steady, his hands raised to show he meant no threat. "We'll get her out, but charging in now will get you both killed."
Thorfinn shoved past, his shoulder brushing Cassian's, but the assassin moved swiftly, locking Thorfinn's arm in a strange, twisting hold, pinning it behind his back. Thorfinn grunted, struggling against the grip, his muscles straining. "Calm down," Geralt said, stepping closer, his voice urgent.
Thorfinn's anger surged, raw and uncontainable, and he drew on the Leviathan's power. A low thrum filled the air, the ground trembling beneath their feet, the torches flickering wildly. His arm glowed with a faint, eerie light, the energy pulsing through his veins, amplifying his strength.
"Thorfinn, stop!" Geralt shouted, his voice cutting through the haze.
Thorfinn roared, lifting Cassian off the ground despite the lock, his power surging. He slammed his arm down, aiming for the floor, but Cassian twisted free at the last moment, pushing off Thorfinn's body and landing lightly on his feet. The impact shook the hall, the mosaic cracking under the force, a small crater forming in the tiles, dust and debris scattering across the floor.
"Thorfinn!" Geralt growled, grabbing his shoulder and shoving him against the wall, his strength pinning Thorfinn in place. "What's wrong with you? You've been short-tempered and volatile since you got here."
"I'm not abandoning her," Thorfinn said, his voice low, his chest heaving, his eyes burning with defiance.
"No one's saying you should," Geralt said, his grip tightening, his golden eyes boring into Thorfinn's. "They won't harm her yet. They need her. They know I'm connected to her, and they'll try to use that to draw me out. We'll get her out, I promise, but not until we're ready."
Thorfinn's mind flashed to Eowyn, the way he'd failed to save her. The pain was a knife in his chest and the thought of losing Arwyn the same way made his stomach churn. It felt like history repeating, like he was standing on the edge of another failure. His shoulders sagged, but his voice was firm, unyielding. "I'll be there when we get her. I'm not staying behind."
Geralt nodded, his grip loosening but not releasing. "You will. You have my word."
Thorfinn pushed past him, his steps heavy, his heart pounding as he left the hall. The assassins watched him go, their expressions a mix of wariness, respect, and faint concern. Malik shook his head, muttering something to Cassian, who rubbed his wrist but smirked. The Grandmaster, turned to Geralt, his piercing blue eyes narrowing. "Has he been told of his origins yet?" he asked, his voice low, almost a whisper, as if the walls themselves might betray the secret.
Geralt shook his head, his white hair shifting slightly. "Not yet. He's too volatile right now. I'll tell him tomorrow, when he's had time to cool off."
Idris nodded, his weathered face unreadable, but his gaze lingered on Thorfinn's retreating form as he stormed up the stairs.
---
Thorfinn reached his chamber, the small, circular room high in the abandoned bell tower. The stone walls were cracked, moss creeping into the crevices, and the rusted iron bracket overhead creaked faintly in the draft. His cot sagged under him as he sat, his fists clenched, his chest tight with anger. He wanted to fight, to break something, to feel the release of blood and steel. The world felt like it was closing in—Geralt's secrecy, the assassins' cryptic plans, Arwyn trapped with Niketas. It was too much, and he needed an outlet.
His mind flashed to the conversation in the hall, the mention of Fleders infesting the sewers. Lesser vampires, vile creatures that skulked in the dark, feeding on the unwary. Killing them would clear his head, give him purpose, even if just for a moment. He stood, his ribs aching but ignored, and crossed to the open window. The city sprawled below, a sprawl of domes and spires under the midday sun, the Bosphorus glinting like a blade. The tower's exterior was jagged, its stones weathered and uneven.
He swung a leg over the sill, gripping the rough stone, and began to descend. His movements were clumsy, his fingers slipping on crumbling holds, his boots scraping loudly. Halfway down, his foot missed a ledge, and he fell, landing hard on his backside on a lower outcropping, pain shooting through his tailbone. "Odin's beard," he muttered, rubbing the spot.
A laugh, light and teasing, cut through the air. "Is that how they climb in the North? Like a drunk ox?"
Thorfinn's head snapped up, his eyes narrowing. A woman stood on a higher ledge, her hooded figure silhouetted against the sky. Her dark robes were fitted, designed for agility, with a short cape fluttering in the breeze. Her face was partially obscured, but her eyes glinted with amusement, and her voice carried a playful edge that grated on his nerves. He ignored her, standing and brushing dirt from his trousers, his jaw tight. She laughed again, then moved, her body flowing like water as she jumped down the tower's face. Her hands found holds easily, her feet pushing off ledges with near impossible grace, as if the wind itself guided her. She landed lightly beside him, barely stirring the dust, and offered a gloved hand. "Need help?"
Thorfinn brushed her hand away, standing on his own, his expression dark. "Leave me alone. I'm in a bad mood."
She laughed, undeterred, her voice warm despite his hostility. "My mother always said a friend when you're upset is better than anything else. I'm Sophia, by the way."
Thorfinn didn't respond, turning to scale the rest of the tower. His movements were heavy, each grip tested before he trusted his weight. Sophia followed, her descent a stark contrast—fluid, effortless, her body twisting and leaping as if gravity were a meree suggestion. She talked as she moved. "The White Wolf said a lot about you, you know. Said you're stubborn as a mule but fierce, that you've faced things most men would run from. Said you've got a fire in you, but you need to learn to control it. He thinks you'll be one of the best, if you don't get yourself killed first."
Thorfinn reached the ground, his boots hitting the cobblestones with a thud. He rounded on her, his patience snapping. "What do you know about me?" he growled.
Sophia paused, tapping her chin, her hood still concealing most of her face. Her eyes, a striking hazel, gleamed with mischief. "I was told you're like me."
Thorfinn frowned, his anger faltering. "Like you? What do you mean?"
"You know," she said, leaning closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Like me. A demi-god."
The words hit Thorfinn like a hammer, his breath catching, the world tilting. He stopped listening as her voice blurred, a dull roar filling his ears. He sank to the ground, his back against the tower's base, his mind reeling. Sophia kept talking, oblivious, her words a distant hum. "—and Geralt said you've got power in you, something ancient, something—"
Thorfinn grabbed her arm, his grip tight, his voice hoarse. "Who told you I had Aesir blood?"
"Let go of me," she said, her tone sharp, her body tensing.
"Who told you!" he demanded, his eyes burning.
"The White Wolf," she said, pulling her arm free. "He said you're a demi-god. Now let go."
Thorfinn released her, his hand falling limp. He sat back, his head against the stone, his thoughts a storm. Memories flooded him—strange moments he'd never fully understood. In Northumbria, when Arwyn, trapped as a full werewolf, had bitten him and tasted his blood, she'd transformed back to human form, her curse broken in an instant. In Bebbanburg, the Revenant had craved his blood, its hunger unnatural, obsessive. When he'd fought the Leviathan, Freyr himself had appeared, aiding him, gifting him a divine artifact—his very own ship. Why would a god do that for a mortal? In Atlantis, facing Harkon, he'd unleashed a blinding light that burned the monster.
He cursed himself, feeling like a fool. The signs had been there, staring him in the face, and he'd been too blind to see. He had Aesir blood. He was a demi-god. His gaze drifted to his sword, its blade still stained with Harkon's bloo. His mother had said it was blessed by Baldr, the God of Light and Wisdom. Light. The power he'd wielded, the glow in his hands, the burning radiance—it was Baldr's gift.
"Light," Thorfinn whispered, opening his palm. He drew on the essence within, a warmth spreading through him. A faint glow flickered, illuminating his hand.
Sophia, about to ask if he was listening, froze, her eyes widening. "Is that what you can do?" she asked, her voice tinged with awe. "Can you do anything else? I can move with the wind, push off surfaces, leap higher than any mortal. It's how I climb so well. What else can you—"
Thorfinn stood abruptly, cutting her off, and started walking, his mind too full to process her words. Sophia followed, her steps light, her voice concerned. "Are you okay? You look sick."
"I'm fine," Thorfinn said, his voice flat, though his thoughts churned. "I just... I wasn't told I was a demi-god."
Sophia's eyes widened, her hood slipping slightly to reveal a glimpse of dark, wavy hair. "Oh, I'm sorry! I thought the masters told you when you arrived. It was a shock for me too, finding out. I didn't believe it at first, thought it was a mistake, but—"
Thorfinn stopped, turning to her. 'If she's a demi-god, she's the spawn of a rival god,' he thought. 'The Aesir would be furious if I allied with her. Better to cut this off now.' "I'm leaving," he said, his voice cold. "Don't follow me."
Sophia blinked, taken aback by his bluntness. 'He's shutting me out,' she thought, a pang of disappointment hitting her. She'd always felt different, set apart by her divine blood, and had hoped Thorfinn might understand that isolation. She sighed, her shoulders slumping, but then her jaw tightened. 'Mother didn't raise a quitter.' She scaled a nearby building, the wind seeming to lift her as she followed him from above, keeping to the rooftops.
Thorfinn moved through the streets, his hood up, sticking to the shadows to avoid guards. He'd memorized the map in the hall, its red-marked sewer entrances burned into his mind. He found a narrow alley, the air thick with the stench of refuse and salt, and descended stone steps to a rusted iron gate. He picked up a stick, wrapping a rag around it, then channeled the Leviathan's power into his hand. The air thrummed, a faint vibration pulsing as he gripped the lock. It shook violently, then shattered into pieces, metal fragments clattering to the ground. He pushed the gate open and stepped into the sewer, the darkness swallowing him. "Igni," he muttered, using the Witcher sign, and the rag burst into flame, casting a flickering glow.
The sewer was damp, the air heavy with rot and mildew. Water dripped from the ceiling, echoing in the narrow tunnel, and the stone walls were slick with algae. Thorfinn's boots splashed through shallow puddles, his torch held high. His mind was a tempest, questions piling atop one another. 'How did Geralt know I was a demi-god? Did anyone else?' He thought of the gods, of their aid against the Leviathan. 'Thor's enemy,' he reasoned. 'It served them to help me kill it.' But his thoughts darkened. 'They did nothing when Hild was killed, when Morgyn was taken. They blessed our marriage, yet let her die. Why?'
"Why!" he shouted, his voice echoing off the walls, raw with betrayal. If he was Baldr's son, he carried the blood of the Allfather. Morgyn did too, yet the gods had abandoned them. The revelation of his divine blood was a weight, raising questions he couldn't answer. 'Does it change anything?' he thought. 'No. But it's another weapon against Dahlia.' Geralt was right—honor meant nothing if it didn't bring Morgyn back. He'd use every tool, every power, to destroy Dahlia.
A skittering sound broke his thoughts, faint but distinct, like claws on stone. He raised the torch, the light revealing nothing but wet walls and shadows. The air grew colder, the hairs on his neck rising. Whispers echoed, soft and unintelligible, as if the tunnel itself were speaking. Shadows moved at the edge of his vision, darting just beyond the torch's reach. He spun, heart pounding, drawing his sword with a rasp of iron. The blade gleamed, Harkon's blood still staining it, and he braced for an attack.
"Thorfinn!" a voice called.
He whirled, sword raised, only to see Sophia standing behind him, her hood pushed back, revealing a striking face—high cheekbones, full lips, and hazel eyes wide with alarm. Her dark hair was tied back, strands escaping to frame her face. Thorfinn lowered his blade, his breath ragged. "Why are you here?" he snapped.
"Why am I here?" she shot back, hands on her hips. "Why are you here? Do you know what's in these tunnels? They're not safe. We need to go, now."
"I know what's here," Thorfinn said, turning and striding deeper into the tunnel. "That's why I came."
Sophia followed, her steps light. "This is foolish, Thorfinn. You can't just charge in here alone." She grabbed his arm, trying to pull him back, but he was immovable, shrugging her off. "Stop being an idiot!"
They emerged into a wide, cavernous chamber, the ceiling lost in darkness, the floor littered with debris—broken crates, rusted chains, and bones. The air was thick with the stench of decay, and the walls glistened with moisture. Thorfinn turned to her, his voice low. "Go back, Sophia. This isn't your fight."
"My fight?" she said, incredulous. "You're the one who doesn't belong here. You don't even know what you're walking into."
"I know enough," he said, his grip tightening on his sword. "Leave."
Before she could argue, a low growl echoed, followed by the skitter of claws. Sophia's eyes widened, her hand going to the short sword at her hip. "We need to leave now," she whispered.
Too late. Shadows moved, eyes glinting red in the dark. Fleders—gaunt, bat-like creatures with elongated limbs and fanged maws—swarmed from the tunnels, their screeches piercing. Thorfinn roared, bloodlust surging, and charged. His sword slashed, cleaving through a Fleder's chest, black blood spraying. He spun, decapitating another, its head rolling across the floor. He channeled the Leviathan's power, the air thrumming as he punched the ground. A shockwave rippled out, cracking the stone, sending Fleders tumbling, their bodies smashing against the walls.
Sophia fought beside him, her short sword flashing, slicing through a Fleder's throat. She threw knives each finding a creature's eye or heart. A gust of wind swirled around her, unnatural, pushing her higher as she leaped, her hidden blade extending to stab a Fleder mid-air. She landed lightly, the wind cushioning her, and sent a blast of air at another, knocking it into a pillar with a sickening crunch.
"There's too many!" Sophia shouted, dodging a claw. "We need to retreat!"
Thorfinn growled, his blade dripping, but the swarm was endless, more Fleders pouring from the dark. "Fine," he snarled, cutting down another.
They backed toward the tunnel, but the creatures circled, cutting them off. Sophia cursed, her voice trembling. "We're surrounded!"
Thorfinn's mind raced, then clarity struck. He drew on his essence, the warmth of Baldr's light surging within. He thrust his palm forward, and pure light erupted, a blinding radiance that filled the chamber. The Fleders shrieked, their flesh sizzling, and fled into the shadows. The light revealed the chamber's horror—piles of corpses, half-eaten, stacked against the walls, and a nest of writhing Fleders, hundreds strong, their eyes burning with hunger.
"By the gods," Sophia whispered, her face pale.
"Let's go," Thorfinn said, grabbing her arm and dragging her toward the tunnel. They ran, the light fading behind them, the Fleders' screeches echoing. They burst from the sewer, emerging into the alley, panting, their clothes splattered with blood.
Thorfinn leaned against the wall, catching his breath. "What was that? I thought there'd be a dozen, maybe. Not hundreds."
Sophia shuddered, wiping her blade. "I need to tell Idris. There's far more than we thought." She turned, scaling a nearby wall with effortless grace, the wind lifting her as she parkoured across rooftops, vanishing into the city.
Thorfinn stood alone in the shadowed alley, the sewer's stench clinging to his blood-spattered clothes. His anger had dulled, but a deeper pain surged in its place—a raw, gnawing wound fueled by betrayal. The gods, whom he had served with blood and sacrifice, had abandoned him. He tried to reason that perhaps they were testing him, forging him through suffering, but the thought rang hollow. If this was his test, why did Hild and Morgyn have to suffer? Why did his family pay the price for his weakness? He had killed in their name, offered his strength, his honor, yet when he needed their protection, they turned away.
His mind drifted to a moment in the desert, a lifetime ago, when he had been faced with the ghost of Eowyn. "I don't need to justify myself to you," he had snarled. "I took you because you were mine to take. I killed your family because they stood against me." Strength and honor—that was his creed. Eowyn and Arwyn's parents had been too weak to stop him, so they deserved their fate. Or did they? Did Hild deserve to die, her blood soaking the earth? Did Morgyn deserve to be torn from him, her fate unknown? The questions pounded in his skull, relentless, like rain on an endless sea.
'Is that why the gods forsook me?' he thought. 'Because I was weak?' After all he had given—his loyalty, his blade, his very soul—a single moment of failure had cast him aside. He was no longer their favored son, just a broken tool discarded to the wolves, left to be picked clean. His breath quickened, his hands trembling as anger surged, hot and consuming. He grabbed the necklace around his neck, a silver pendant etched with Freyja's rune, worn to honor the goddess of love and war. He clutched it, his knuckles white, and glared at the sky. "Do you have anything to say?" he shouted, his voice raw, echoing in the empty alley. "Anything at all?"
Silence answered, cold and indifferent. The gods were mute, their absence a blade in his chest. His rage boiled over, and with a snarl, he ripped the necklace free, the chain snapping. He hurled it to the ground, the pendant clattering against the cobblestones, glinting mockingly in the dim light. His chest heaved, his vision blurring with fury and grief. He turned, stalking into the city, his boots heavy on the uneven streets. The towering domes and spires of Constantinople loomed around him, their grandeur a stark contrast to the darkness in his heart. He moved slowly, his thoughts a storm of betrayal, loss, and unanswered questions, each step pulling him deeper into despair.
...
Sophia raced across the rooftops, as she made her way back to the brotherhood hideout. Her dark robes fluttered as she sprinted, her boots barely touching the tiles before she leaped, soaring over a narrow alley. The air seemed to lift her, a gentle gust pushing her higher. She landed lightly, sliding down a sloped roof, her gloved hands gripping the edge as she swung onto a lower ledge. Wall-running along a crumbling facade, she pushed off, the wind surging to propel her across a wider gap. She grabbed a protruding beam, flipping onto another roof.
The bell tower loomed ahead. As she neared, two assassins—Hassan and Bilal—spotted her from a lower platform, their hooded figures pausing in their sparring. "Sophia!" Hassan called, waving. "Back already? Where's the new blood?"
"No time!" she shouted, vaulting over a chimney. "I need the Grandmaster, now!"
Bilal grinned, sheathing his dagger. "Trouble follows you like a shadow, eh?"
She didn't reply, dropping to the tower's upper ledge and slipping through a narrow window. The main hall was as she'd left it, the faded mosaic of a winged figure underfoot, torches casting flickering light over crates and weapon racks. Idris, Malik, Cassian, Leo, and Geralt stood around the map-strewn table. Leo spotted her first, his handsome face lighting up with a theatrical grin. "Sophia, the star of Constantinople!" he boomed, striding toward her, arms outstretched. "Have you come to grace us with your beauty?"
He reached for her shoulder, but Sophia flicked her wrist, a burst of wind slamming him against the wall with a thud. "Not now, Leo," she said, her tone sharp but amused.
Malik roared with laughter, slapping the table, while Cassian's scar twitched as he smirked. "You never learn, do you?" Cassian said, shaking his head.
Idris raised a hand, silencing the room, his blue eyes fixed on Sophia. "You're back sooner than expected. Is Thorfinn with you?"
"No, Master," Sophia said, stepping forward, her hood slipping back to reveal her striking features—high cheekbones, full lips, and hazel eyes still bright with adrenaline.
Cassian's brow furrowed, his lean frame tensing. "You were assigned to watch him. We can't have him causing a ruckus in the district. It'll draw too much attention to the tower."
"It's an emergency," Sophia said, her voice urgent. "... I followed Thorfinn into the sewers."
The room stilled, the masters exchanging alarmed glances. "The sewers?" Malik said. "They're crawling with Fleders. You know how dangerous that is."
"I know," Sophia said, her jaw tightening. "I tried to stop him, but he wouldn't listen. He went in looking for a fight, and... the number of Fleders down there is far worse than we thought."
Idris's eyes narrowed. "How many?"
"Hundreds," Sophia said, the word heavy. "Maybe more. There's a nest, a massive one, with bodies piled like firewood."
The masters erupted into discussion, their voices overlapping. "Hundreds?" Cassian said, his scar twitching. "We estimated a few dozen at most. This changes things."
"We can't let them spread," Malik said, his hand resting on his sword hilt.
"We don't have the men for a full sweep," Idris said, his tone grim. "Not with the Templars tightening their grip."
Sophia cut in, her voice sharp. "There's more. Thorfinn... he produced a light, a pure, blinding light. It burned the Fleders, scorched their flesh, and drove them back. They fled from it."
The room fell silent, the weight of her words sinking in. Geralt's golden eyes gleamed, his expression thoughtful. "It's his divine parentage," he said, his voice low. "If I remember correctly... it was Baldr who was the God of Light, he must be his divine parent. "
Idris nodded, a spark of hope in his weathered face. "That's good news. If Thorfinn can harness this gift, it could be a powerful weapon against the vampire and its minions."
He turned to Geralt, who nodded. "I'll train him to control it," Geralt said. "He's raw, but he's got potential."
"Good," Idris said, then looked at Sophia. "You'll help him too, Sophia. Your own divine nature may offer insight he needs."
Sophia hesitated, her mind flashing to Thorfinn's cold dismissal. She wasn't sure she wanted to deal with his temper, but duty outweighed reluctance. "Yes, Master," she said, her voice steady.
"Our priority is Thorfinn's training," Idris said, his tone resolute. "With his abilities, he could be our greatest asset against the darkness."
Cassian leaned back, crossing his arms. "Who trains him first?"
"Sophia," Idris said. "Hassan and Bilal said he moves like a drunken blacksmith on the rooftops, when they witnessed him chasing one of the young thieves. He needs to master movement before he learns our subtler arts."
Sophia frowned. "Will he need to learn our language?"
Geralt cut in, his voice dry. "That won't be a problem. He picks up languages faster than anyone I've seen. He'll have Greek and the signs down by week's end."
Idris nodded, turning to the others. "After Sophia, Cassian will train him in stealth, then Malik in swordsmanship."
Malik grinned, cracking his knuckles. "I'll enjoy putting him through his paces."
Cassian's scar twitched with a smirk. "He's stubborn. I'll need to break that first."
Geralt's eyes narrowed. "Be rough on him. Strength is all he responds to. Push him hard, or he'll push back."
"That won't be a problem," Malik said, his voice laced with anticipation.
Sophia shifted, her mind still on the sewers. "What about the Fleders?"
Idris sighed, rubbing his temple. "We'll increase night patrols and set more traps at the entrances, but we can't spare the men for a full clearing. Not yet."
Malik chuckled, leaning back. "Send the boy down there. It's what he wanted, isn't it?"
Sophia glared at him. "That's not funny, Malik. He nearly got us both killed."
Geralt tilted his head, his expression unreadable. "He's got a point. Once Thorfinn controls his abilities, he and I could start clearing the sewers. His light could turn the tide."
Idris considered, his fingers tapping the table. "It's risky, but viable. We'll revisit it once he's trained."
He straightened, his voice firm. "We have much work to do. This meeting is over."
The masters dispersed, their footsteps echoing as they left the hall. Sophia lingered, her mind racing with the day's events.
....
Thorfinn climbed through the window of his chamber, the bell tower's cramped room lit by a single flickering torch. The stone walls were cold, the air heavy with dust and betrayal. His boots scraped the floor as he crossed to his cot, his body weary but his mind a furnace of pain and anger. Geralt was there, leaning against the wall, his golden eyes fixed on Thorfinn with a mix of concern and frustration.
"Where have you been?" Geralt asked, his voice low but insistent. "You can't just run off like that, Thorfinn. Your temper's going to get you killed."
Thorfinn sat heavily on the cot, his face dour, his shoulders slumped. "I'm not in the mood to talk, Geralt. Leave me alone."
Geralt didn't move, his arms crossing. "That's not how this works. You stormed out, went to the sewers, nearly got yourself and Sophia killed. We need to talk about what's going on with you."
Thorfinn's head snapped up, his eyes blazing. "I said leave!" His voice cracked, raw with emotion, and he surged to his feet. "Forbearnan!" he shouted, his eyes flashing gold, a pulse of power ripping through the air. The magic inside him thrummed, and Geralt was lifted off the ground, his body suspended as if caught in a barrier.
"Thorfinn, stop!" Geralt growled, his voice strained but commanding.
Thorfinn's rage was a wildfire, untamed and consuming. With a snarl, he thrust his hand forward, and Geralt was hurled backward, tumbling down the spiral stairs with a crash of metal and wood. Thorfinn stood panting, his chest heaving, the glow in his eyes fading. He collapsed onto the cot, his body shaking, and closed his eyes, the weight of his pain and betrayal pulling him into a restless darkness.
(This is another 30K chapter so I'm breaking it up again into 10k segments. Just best for the flow tbh. Anyway I hope you enjoy it)
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