The night was as black as ink.
Judging by the position of the moon, it was already midnight—a time when both cities and villages should be deep in sleep. But outside the wooden window, a figure holding a lantern was approaching from afar.
Lysa wasn't here for anything official—Allen realized that almost immediately.
Her footsteps were soft, as if afraid of waking the ever-alert witcher, and her pace was slow, hesitant, with a faint trace of uncertainty.
"What's wrong?"
The sorceress beside him furrowed her brows and followed Allen's gaze out the window, but due to the angle, all she could see were the swaying shadows of trees.
Lysa was still far off, and Philippa Eilhart's perception wasn't as sharp as Allen's.
After a moment of silence, Allen turned to Philippa. "It seems I have a new guest. So, Lady Eilhart, would you…"
"A new guest? At this hour?"
Philippa's curiosity was piqued. Gracefully, she walked toward the window and peeked out, but all she could make out in the darkness was the faint, flickering glow of firelight.
Surprised, she turned to look at Allen.
He noticed someone that far away?
She was clearly impressed.
"I'll stay," Philippa said after a moment's thought. "If an uninvited guest really is coming, I can lend a hand. You might be good at reading people, but I've been professionally trained by the Sorcerers' Brotherhood to detect disguises."
"Uh… thank you," Allen replied with a helpless smile. "But I know the person coming. She's not a Drakenborg assassin or anything like that. Nothing so troublesome."
"You can go back and get some proper rest, Lady Eilhart. We'll need to leave early tomorrow for Kaer Morhen."
"But I never planned to go back tonight," Philippa said with a blink. "I had the steward tidy up the guestroom in the castle's inner court before I came."
"What's wrong? Is your guest so special that I need to leave?"
At that, Allen stared silently at the sorceress for a long while.
Philippa's lips curled into a subtle smile, her expression unreadable. Whether she was joking or telling the truth, it was impossible to tell.
"I only have one bed here. It might not be very convenient…"
Buzz—
The wolf medallion gave a faint hum.
A flash of violet magical light, and Philippa's clothes vanished as she transformed once more into that gray-brown owl.
Flap, flap~
The owl flapped its wings and flew to perch on the oak table.
Her intentions were crystal clear—there was no longer a need for words.
"Still want me to leave?"
Her voice echoed in Allen's mind as the owl lifted its head and stared directly at him.
Allen thought for a moment, then took a deep breath. "No need. Just stay hidden and don't let yourself be seen."
After all, if he tried to drive her away, she would probably still lurk somewhere nearby and spy from the shadows.
Given Philippa Eilhart's current behavior, there was no doubt she'd end up doing this anyway—better to just be upfront. After all, there was nothing to hide.
The owl's eyes gleamed with satisfaction.
"Don't worry! I'll protect you!"
Her voice echoed in Allen's mind as she flapped her wings and flew up to the beam.
Clutching the beam tightly with her small talons, the owl even winked at him, her bright amber eyes glowing in the dark.
Allen shook his head speechlessly.
Philippa Eilhart's "protection" was clearly just a joke.
Forget Lysa's footsteps—he knew them better than anyone. There was no way someone could imitate them.
Even if a sorcerer risked being exposed by the temple and, in such a short time, figured out that Lysa was the one closest to him in the temple, then perfectly mimicked her gait and movements—it still wouldn't matter. No one could threaten a master witcher like him in close quarters.
Besides, the odds of any of that happening were so absurdly low they weren't worth considering.
The one approaching was Lysa. Without a doubt.
"But what's she doing here… at this hour?"
Allen pondered as he placed a hand on the windowsill, preparing to leap over it.
Just then—
Lysa's footsteps abruptly stopped. She paused just outside the small courtyard in front of the cabin.
In the dim light of her lantern, Allen finally saw her clearly—and his hand froze on the windowsill, slowly retracting.
Lysa was wearing a sheer black silk shirt, clinging delicately to her slender yet shapely figure—completely visible in the flickering firelight.
Her deep crimson skirt was tied with a bow, and on her exposed, slender legs shimmered the faint outline of black silk stockings—an invention by sorceresses that had recently become wildly popular among noblewomen across the Northern Continent.
Her face in the glow was carefully made up.
Vibrant red lips. Skin so pale and flushed it looked almost unnatural.
From a distance, she didn't resemble a humble priestess of the Melitele Temple at all—more like a noble lady dressed for a lavish ball. Of course, as a count's legitimate daughter, Lysa technically was a noble lady.
But this wasn't a ball.
This was the temple's guest wing, long after midnight, with everyone fast asleep. And with such an elaborate appearance, it clearly wasn't a casual visit or a simple farewell.
Allen was momentarily stunned.
He had never seen this side of Lysa before. In his mind, she had only ever taken two forms—
One was the vengeful girl from the abandoned mine of Viscount Hudson—gritting her teeth, eyes brimming with hatred. The other was the kind, gentle, and attentive temple acolyte of Melitele, always clad in simple grey priest robes.
After May Festival, Allen still clearly remembered the image of her face covered in dust and blood, tending to the wounded with exhaustion in her eyes.
That humble little priestess had never looked this dazzlingly beautiful.
"Where did a Melitele priestess even get clothes this extravagant?" Allen couldn't understand.
Tap~ tap~ tap~
Lysa stood still for a while, as if making up her mind. Then, with a determined stomp, she walked directly toward his window.
"What now?" Allen suddenly felt a bit flustered.
Instinctively, he glanced upward—meeting the yellow-brown gaze of the owl perched in the rafters.
The owl blinked at him as if silently asking if it was time for her to intervene.
"Shh—"
Allen quickly shook his head, placing a finger to his lips to signal silence and concealment.
He then glanced around the room, gritted his teeth, stripped off his coat and boots, pulled the blanket back, and lay down on the bed.
To make it more convincing, he even faked the rhythmic snoring of a sleeping young witcher.
In the blink of an eye, he seemed completely lost in dreams.
The owl tilted her head in confusion at the sight.
This clearly wasn't a disguised sorcerer trying to sneak in—Allen had tossed his swordbelt and armor halfway across the room. Still, since he had asked her to stay hidden, she remained silent, listening as the footsteps drew closer and leaning over the beam to peek outside.
Philippa Eilhart had a feeling—what happened next might be truly spectacular.
-----------------------------------
Lysa stopped at the windowsill, lantern in hand.
Its dim firelight couldn't penetrate the darkness inside, but she knew this was the place.
In truth, she didn't need a lantern to find her way.
For countless days and nights—whether in waking life or dreams—she had seen this window again and again. She could recognize it with her eyes closed.
Only in the past, every time she reached this point, the dream would end. But tonight, in reality, she was about to do something she hadn't even dared to dream of.
"Should I go in?"
"Will I be turned away? Or… welcomed?"
"Once I cross this line, there's no going back. Do I really want this?"
"But he's leaving tomorrow… who knows when he'll return again…"
"Kaer Morhen already has Margarita. And soon there'll be Philippa Eilhart…"
"If I miss this chance, will there ever be another?"
The night was silent as still water, but a storm of chaos and thunder crashed through Lysa's mind.
She had confidence in her looks—and in her current attire. Cirilla, Gisela, and Sherina had all said witchers were hopeless flirts. No witcher ever rejected a woman who came willingly.
Allen was a witcher—surely, he wouldn't reject her.
The logic was clear and undeniable.
And yet—Lysa also knew Allen wasn't like most witchers.
He wasn't like any man in the Northern Continent.
A faint snore drifted from the window—so familiar that it made Lysa clench the hem of her skirt, her hands sweating with nerves.
[Lysa, who comes first doesn't matter. What matters is who stays until the end!]
[If you already have rivals, that's even more reason to take the initiative!]
[Do you want to be replaced?]
Lady Gisela's voice echoed once again in Lysa's mind. She bit the tip of her tongue.
The sharp pain cleared her head—and reaffirmed her resolve.
She gently placed the lantern on the edge of the windowsill.
"Tap~"
The soft clink rang out with unusual clarity in the silence.
Even the rhythm of the snoring inside paused for a moment. Lysa instinctively held her breath—only relaxing once the snoring resumed. She lifted her skirt and quietly leapt into the room.
Whether it was her imagination or not, the moment she stepped inside, the snoring seemed noticeably louder.
That alone should've raised suspicion.
After all, no witcher—even asleep—would remain unaware of someone approaching this closely.
But something else caught her attention, causing her to frown slightly.
She caught the scent of a floral fragrance, different from the layered natural aromas of the daytime—something like roses, or perhaps garden roses.
Yet by the faint light of the lantern, she could see no blooming flowers around. Not even the ones from earlier in the day remained.
If not for Allen's unmistakable snoring, she might've wondered if she had walked into the wrong room.
"I told him before, he could've kept them here…" she murmured softly.
Back at dusk, she'd already planned how to tend to those plants once he left.
But then again, with Allen's relationship with the Temple of Melitele, he was no ordinary witcher.
"But then… how could someone like him be ordinary at all?" Lysa sighed inwardly.
She gently set the lantern on the oak table and turned toward the source of the snoring.
Allen lay on his side, back facing her.
"Still not awake?"
Something didn't feel right.
She stepped closer. The snoring remained perfectly steady and unchanged.
At this point, even the most oblivious person would realize the witcher on the bed had long since woken up—let alone someone like Lysa, who in just a few months had advanced from novice to full priestess.
Upon realizing this, she gripped the hem of her skirt nervously—but said nothing.
She wasn't the only one tense.
Up on the rafter, the owl's large amber eyes peered eagerly from the shadows, talons digging into the wood in excitement.
Allen was fully focused, doing his best to suppress the pounding of his heart so it wouldn't disturb the rhythm of his breathing—or his fake snores.
Truthfully, he could calmly gaze upon Philippa Eilhart's bare form and coolly remark "Beautiful." Even if she asked him to elaborate, he could go from head to toe without flinching.
But when it came to Lysa—who simply wore something a bit more refined and striking than usual—Allen found himself nervous and at a complete loss.
He knew Lysa had likely realized he was pretending to sleep. He wished she would call out to him, or simply leave.
If she did the former, he could naturally explain, then gently send her on her way.
If she did the latter—even better. They could pretend none of this ever happened. But that girl—the one he had rescued from the depths—seemed unwilling to choose either path.
She stood there quietly for a while, seemingly pondering something...
Then she took a step forward. Another. And another… until she reached the bedside.
Allen could hear her quickened, nervous breathing as clearly as if it were his own. It made him tense up—his mind went completely blank.
"What… what is she trying to do?"
And then…
He heard the girl take a deep breath.
"Rustle~"
A faint sound broke the stillness—something soft slipped off and fell to the ground.
And then…
One item… then another… and another…
Allen, who had picked up on every sound, was stunned. Completely blanked out.
He didn't know why, but his mind suddenly recalled that moment earlier tonight—when Lysa had left the guest hall. Her uncharacteristic calmness, her bold decisiveness—as though she had finally figured something out, and made a firm decision.
But he never expected it to be this kind of decision!
Just now, his instinctive retreat had only been because he assumed Lysa wanted to confess her feelings. Such a sudden advance—he still hadn't figured out how to respond.
Of course, he liked Lysa. He also liked Mary.
But now there was Ben Ard… the Rissberg Civil Cooperative… the Wild Hunt and the White Frost. This was still a long way off from the time for love and romance!
If something were to happen to him, locking in a relationship now would only bring deeper pain.
It wasn't even a matter of timing. He was only fourteen—Lysa and Mary weren't much older.
They had plenty of time to build a relationship slowly, to see if they truly fit together.
Not to mention…
They hadn't even spent a full month together yet…
Lysa, she—
Wait!
A sudden jolt shot through Allen. He suddenly remembered something vital—
Philippa Eilhart was still on the rafters!
Just as he was about to break the act, sit up, and say something—
A cold yet burning flame wrapped around him from behind.
.....
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