A cold yet burning flame enveloped Allen from behind.
His body froze instantly, not daring to move.
His eyes darted upward, glaring at the owl peeking mischievously from the rafters.
The owl shrank its head, then hesitantly peeked out again. Its amber eyes glowed almost crimson in the dark, full of eager curiosity.
Allen glared again, but this time the owl dodged his gaze completely.
'I'll deal with you later, Philippa Eilhart... 'Allen gritted his teeth.
If he'd known things would escalate to this point, he wouldn't have shown any mercy—he should've kicked her out right away...
Suddenly, Allen's expression changed as he grabbed the girl's hand—fumbling blindly over his back.
Her hands were soft and icy, like the first snow of Kaer Morhen's early winter. Like the slender branches of a maple bowed under fresh snow. At his touch, they trembled uncontrollably.
She was scared.
If you're this scared, why still go through with this...?
Allen almost wanted to laugh, but couldn't. Still, this side of Lysa made him breathe easier.
"Lysa," he said gently, trying to keep his tone calm as he felt her trembling against his back, "if you're afraid, why did you come?"
"I… I'm not afraid!" she snapped, trying to prove her courage by clumsily pressing herself closer, hands still trying to move again.
Allen held her hands still with one hand. "You're shaking…"
She paused in silence before asking, her voice trembling, "Why won't you accept me?"
"The elder priestesses at the temple all said witchers from the School of the Wolf never turn away a woman who comes to their bed. Do I really mean nothing to you?"
"Of course not," Allen replied. "You're beautiful, Lysa. Strong-willed, kind, and caring. How could you not be attractive?"
"In all of Ellander, with its tens of thousands of people, who doesn't like you?"
The girl whispered near his ear, a sigh escaping her lips. "But if I don't think too hard about it… you're more composed than all those overdone noblemen at their debut balls. So—"
She hesitated, then seemed to draw some unknown courage from within.
Her delicate arms wrapped around him, tightening gently. Her cheek, cool and soft, pressed right above his heartbeat, as if trying to hear what lay in his heart.
"Why, Allen?" she whispered like a prayer. "Why do you keep brushing me off with excuses? Why won't you accept me? Do you hate me?"
The scent of daisies washed over him like waves crashing on stone.
Allen's heart skipped a beat.
"You do like me," the little priestess said confidently. "I heard it… You do like me."
His breath caught. He almost gave in then and there—but the sharp gaze from above, impossible to ignore, poured cold water over him.
Taking a deep breath, Allen answered softly, "No one could hate a girl like you. But I'm sorry, Lysa. Right now, I don't have the space for romance."
"Why not?" she asked, voice strained.
Allen paused for a long time before replying, "Because I'm a witcher."
"A witcher might die any day, in some desolate wild, a forgotten ruin, or a forest no one will ever visit…"
"You're not just any witcher!" she cut him off.
"But my enemies aren't just any, either," Allen said, his voice calm but firm. "Ban Ard, the Rissberg Civil Cooperative, the Wild Hunt, dark gods…"
"Lysa, I'm not a good choice. No witcher is."
"As you said, we're fickle. Emotionally distant. We live dangerous lives. Death's scythe hovers over every witcher's throat, ready to fall at any moment."
If you looked at Geralt of Rivia's life—his lovers like Yennefer, Triss, Melitele priestess Iola, the bard Essi Daven, or Shani from Oxenfurt—did any of them ever find happiness?
"You could stay," she said, gripping his hand tightly. "Become Melitele's chosen. Then you'd never have to risk your life again. And the temple—Arch-Priestess Ianna, Nenneke, everyone—they all adore you."
"I'm a witcher," Allen sighed. "A witcher of the School of the Wolf. Even as Melitele's chosen, that wouldn't change."
If his only enemies were Ben Ard, the Rissberg group, and even the Wild Hunt—maybe he could've said yes.
But the White Frost…
The apocalyptic White Frost was a judgment the entire Northern Continent couldn't escape.
Even the Elder Blood child, Ciri, had vanished. She might return—or she might not. And in this uncertain present, Allen might be the only solution.
How could he sit idle, waiting to die?
How could he just let the White Frost come and bury everything he held dear in ice?
"You've already escaped one hell," he said gently. "You have a stable life now—people who care about you, a noble purpose…"
His voice grew steadier.
"I can see it—you love being a priestess. You love saving people. Healing the wounded. It gives you joy and meaning. So don't jump into another fire."
The girl behind him fell silent—so long that Allen felt time itself had frozen.
"So…"
She finally asked, carefully, "It really isn't because you hate me? Not because of Francesca, Margarita, or Philippa Eilhart? It's just because we're 'too young'? And because of the Wild Hunt and the sorcerers?"
Allen: What?
That entire explanation got interpreted like that?!
You really want to jump into this fire no matter what, huh?
Also—
He glanced at the owl poking its head down from the rafters.
Okay, Francesca made sense. So did Margarita, especially after what happened in the abandoned mine under Viscount Hudson's estate. From Lysa's point of view, he and those two probably looked… suspicious.
But Philippa Eilhart?!
"Why is Philippa Eilhart on that list?" he couldn't help but ask. "I only met her today. We didn't exchange more than ten sentences in the guest hall…"
"What kind of man do you think I am?"
Even the owl tilted its head in curiosity.
Lysa hummed beside his ear. "You're like a monk sworn to chastity—but all the women around you just happen to not be nuns."
"Especially sorceresses. I've heard there's… a certain kind of thrill, when witchers and sorceresses touch."
"Francesca and Margarita are sorceresses. Who's to say Philippa Eilhart won't be next?"
What am I, some kind of magical aphrodisiac?
Allen sighed silently.
Philippa's type certainly wasn't him.
"You're overthinking it." Allen shook his head, silently contemplating what to do next—how to bring this situation to an end as quickly and gently as possible, so that the owl on the rafter, already stuffed full of gossip, wouldn't burst from overindulgence.
Lysa, however, made no comment—neither agreeing nor disagreeing.
Maybe for other witchers, it would have been overthinking. But Allen was different. No one understood Allen's uniqueness better than she did.
Back before the descent of the dark god, back when she was still at Melitele's Temple, Lysa had already seen two sorceresses—Francesca and Margarita Laux-Antille—both of whom had displayed special affection toward Allen.
And Francesca… wasn't just any sorceress. She was an elven princess.
Allen was like the red blossoms often used in the Temple of Melitele—bright and healing, but if you weren't careful after being cured, you could get addicted.
And sorceresses… were exactly the type to get addicted. The more they came into contact with Allen, the harder it became to resist.
Could Philippa Eilhart really be an exception?
Besides, even if it wasn't a sorceress—what difference would that make?
Lysa sighed inwardly, breathing in deeply the faint trace of blood and safety that clung to Allen, holding tightly to the man in her arms, whose body was as unyielding as stone.
"Lysa…"
"Don't speak, Allen. Don't say anything." Her face pressed tightly against his back.
Warm drops seeped through the fabric at the place where her cheek lay over his heart, cutting past his spine and soaking deep into his chest.
One drop.
Two drops.
Three…
His shirt soon felt like it was under a rainstorm.
"I'll leave, Allen. But before I go… just give me a little more time."
Allen stared at the blank wall in front of him and took a long, deep breath.
They stayed like that quietly—no one knew for how long.
The storm of tears became a drizzle, the drizzle faded into cloudy silence… but the sky never quite cleared.
"I'll wait for you, Allen."
With the creak of the wooden bed, Lysa finally withdrew her arms.
Allen heard her slowly rise and the faint rustling as she dressed.
Just as a strange sense of loss welled up in him, the scent of daisies surged over him once more.
His cheek was gently kissed—light as a flower petal lifted by the wind. And then, leaving only that one final whisper, Lysa walked away, empty yet fulfilled.
"You're not a pit of fire... you're the Promised Land the Goddess Melitele bestowed upon me."
—
The room fell into a long silence.
The Promised Land wasn't just the divine realm described in the teachings of Melitele—it existed in almost every religion across the Northern Continent, a sacred place where devout believers would go after death.
But if one looked deeper into doctrine, the Promised Land meant even more. It came from the time before the "First Landing" of the Northern peoples. It was an ideal nation, a place of spiritual redemption, the final destination of the soul.
"Tut tut, 'You're the Promised Land the Goddess Melitele bestowed upon me.'"
"Ah, young love. So beautiful!"
With a flap of her wings, Philippa Eilhart descended from the rafters, transforming midair into her bewitching sorceress form. Once she landed, she conjured clothes with a gesture and began dressing slowly in front of Allen.
"The show's over. You can go now," Allen said from the edge of the bed, not even sparing a glance at her provocative display. His tone was flat, uninterested.
He had no patience left to play word games with Philippa Eilhart.
The soft scent of daisies lingered in the air—even though the source had already left, the trace remained, stubbornly refusing to fade.
It should've been the best outcome. Lysa had left, and nothing had been ruined between them.
But Allen felt as if all the oxygen in the room had suddenly vanished. As if, when he tried to breathe, it wasn't air that entered his lungs but molten lead, thick sap, or burning iron.
"You think I'm joking?" Philippa Eilhart said casually, unfazed by Allen's cold demeanor. She bent down to slide on her stockings. "I'm staying here tonight. Tomorrow, I'll go with you to Kaer Morhen."
"Do as you like..." Allen replied listlessly, waving his hand as he stood up and pushed the window further open.
Night blanketed the world in ink-black silence.
The forest around the temple stood tall and oppressive, thick as storm clouds looming over the earth.
"Relax," Philippa's voice sounded softly behind him. "As long as we can rescue Hen Gedymdeith, Ban Ard, the Rissberg Civil Consortium, and even the Wild Hunt won't be a problem."
"When that day comes, not just Melitele's Temple, but Aretuza and the entire Brotherhood of Sorcerers will help clear every obstacle in your path—and in the Wolf School's path."
"Then, you'll have all the time you need—to travel, to relax with your priestesses and sorceresses, and enjoy life."
Allen turned back to glance at her. He truly wanted to ask—did she really understand what kind of obstacles stood between him and the future?
Forget the White Frost—even the Wild Hunt alone wasn't something the Brotherhood could stand against.
But he could sense the hidden concern beneath her arrogant words. So he simply nodded and replied, "Let's hope so." Then he gave up the bed and sat cross-legged on the floor, closing his eyes to meditate.
When he opened them again, it was morning.
Philippa Eilhart had left at some point during the night.
Allen packed his things and went outside to meet Vesemir, Danthe, Fred, Erni, and the rest of the young witchers.
They talked for a while about what awaited them back home—what their leaders and the School of the Wolf might say—until Philippa Eilhart reappeared, right on time, through a portal.
And then the goodbyes began. Ianna and Nenneke led a group of temple priestesses to see them off.
Lysa came too. She stood behind Ianna and Nenneke, just like always, at Nenneke's side. She met Allen's gaze openly, calmly—as if nothing had happened the night before.
Then came Arthur and Sara, sent in Duke Mason's place. They delivered the bounty for the ghoul hunt—a sum much greater than originally agreed upon.
Not long after, a deep, powerful screech pierced the sky.
"Screeee!"
A royal griffin took off from the ground and soared into the sky.
"We're going home," Vesemir murmured, though there was little lightness or joy in his voice.
Kaer Morhen still held many troubles waiting for them.
Allen looked down at the temple, which grew smaller and smaller behind them—eventually no more than a distant square on the horizon. In his mind, the little priestess's voice echoed once more: "You're not a pit of fire…"
"You are the Promised Land the Goddess Melitele bestowed upon me."
.....
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