Late at night.
The wind blew in from the sea toward the land. Clusters of clouds drifted across the moon, lingering above the islands suspended along the edge of the continent.
Shadows swallowed the entire island, making the sound of waves crashing against the reefs all the clearer.
Vera withdrew her gaze from the night outside the window.
The flickering candlelight let white wax tears drip down a verdigris candlestick, while the faint trace of incense subtly stirred one's thoughts.
She wearily pinched the bridge of her nose.
"Tired?"
Tissaia de Vries' voice came from behind another candlestick.
"I'm no longer young, Tissaia," Vera said without looking up, waving her hand slightly. A roll of parchment floated up from the desk and settled itself neatly into a wooden frame at the edge of the table. "We're no longer little girls from a hundred years ago who could stay up from dusk till dawn chasing an illusory legend."
"That's still impressive," Tissaia de Vries chuckled softly. "None of the Vigo family's children can endure like the two of us old relics."
Vera lifted her eyes and glanced across the table.
Fringilla Vigo was sprawled over a pile of parchments. Accompanied by the sound of the sea, she slept soundly—letting out a faint, soft snore.
"She's still a child, and she's responsible for the most tedious proofreading work. You can't demand too much," Vera said. With a tap of her finger, Fringilla Vigo's head floated up slightly, allowing the parchments beneath to slip free so they wouldn't be soaked by the girl's drool.
"That doesn't sound like something the Crimson Fox would say," Tissaia de Vries teased, her quill moving lightly as she sorted another batch of parchments into a wooden frame.
Vera brushed her dark red bangs behind her ear and rolled her eyes with practiced charm. "Fringilla Vigo isn't my apprentice, nor is she a student of Aretuza. She's only here to help."
"And besides," she continued, "Hen Gedymdeith may still be unconscious, and Ortolan is trapped in Dol Dhu Lokke—but surely the Brotherhood of Sorcerers doesn't consist of only you?"
"I recall the Supreme Council has five seats…"
Tissaia de Vries carefully examined the categorized supplies, casually striking through several expensive yet low-utility magical materials requested by Pale Hand and Poisoned Eye.
"Naciss de la Roche has returned to Novigrad. He has to deal with the other builder families—his burden is no lighter than mine."
"As for Borhn Drummond…" She paused briefly. "I've long grown used to the idea that anything involving the Brotherhood no longer includes him."
That didn't surprise Vera.
Under the influence of Chaos, sorceresses often became extreme and narrow-minded. Male mages were hardly any better—eccentricities of every imaginable sort abounded.
Among strange male mages, Borhn Drummond was one of the strangest.
Most male mages, while climbing the hierarchy of the Brotherhood, cultivated factions at every stage to strengthen their grip on secular power.
Borhn Drummond was different.
From the moment he entered the Lower Council of the Brotherhood, he had always acted alone—never cultivating influence, barely attending meetings.
He lived far from population centers, secluded deep in the mountains and forests, almost like a druid.
Yet he openly scorned druids and, due to certain extremely cruel experiments conducted on beasts, had earned the enmity of nearly every druid circle.
His seclusion in the Dragon Mountains was not for communion with nature, but to search for dragons—creatures that had all but vanished from the Northern Continent.
Eccentric, reclusive, cruel, and fanatically obsessed with legendary dragons—he fit perfectly the most bizarre wizard stereotypes of peasant rumor.
Because Borhn Drummond lived in isolation in the Dragon Mountains, being out of contact with other sorcerers was the norm.
Earlier this year, there were even rumors that he had died there, and that Chapter of the Gift and the Art was accepting new members.
The high-ranking sorcerers of the Supreme Council schemed and fought viciously over the vacant seat—only to discover that Borhn Drummond wasn't dead at all. Instead, for reasons known only to himself, he had dressed a corpse to resemble himself and ventured deep into the Dragon Mountains in search of dragons.
Had Borhn Drummond not been a member of Chapter of the Gift and the Art—and had his power not been formidable—the Supreme Council's elite would have long since found ways to deal with him in the shadows after being toyed with for nearly two months.
Vera asked, "Still no word from Borhn Drummond?"
Tissaia de Vries shook her head.
"Then why isn't he interested in Dol Dhu Lokke?" Vera asked, puzzled.
"Because there are no dragons there," Tissaia de Vries replied calmly. "Of course he wouldn't care. Dol Dhu Lokke only has Alzur's Viys, necrophages, and all manner of bizarre magical creatures spawned by the Conjunction of the Spheres and reckless magical experiments."
"But speaking of Dol Dhu Lokke…"
She paused, stopped sorting, and stood up. After rummaging through an unchecked pile of parchments, she pulled out several sheets and handed them to Vera.
Vera accepted them in confusion and looked them over.
The first parchment read: "Spatial data from Dol Dhu Lokke shows abnormal fluctuations and data overflow. High concentration of water elements. Monsters unusually active. Numerous strange new plants have appeared…"
Below were rough sketches of monsters and magical materials.
Aside from rare reagents, the drawings included many common Northern Continent monsters—Drowners, Ghouls, Endrega workers…
Nearly the entire parchment was crammed with these odd illustrations.
"What does this mean?" Vera frowned.
"These are intelligence reports from Aretuza's reconnaissance teams over the past few days," Tissaia de Vries said softly.
"Why give them to me?" Vera asked, her brow knitting as she looked up.
"I know witchers of the Wolf School have the habit of investigating contract information in advance," Tissaia de Vries replied quietly. "The appearance of Belendil Rogrides was beyond my expectations—most likely trouble stirred up by those within the Brotherhood who discriminate against witchers and non-humans."
"João Courtney is said to owe the Redanian royal family a great favor. Carrying out private executions of Redanian nobles at the Temple of Melitele was bound to provoke Radovid IV—that impulsive bald madman."
"When I asked Allen to take on the commission to rescue Hen Gedymdeith, it was agreed that the Brotherhood's troubles would be handled by me."
"Though the expedition to Dol Dhu Lokke was unexpected, I ultimately failed to keep my promise."
"This is a small advance compensation."
"When the expedition begins, I'll be there as well. I'll do my best to protect—"
"Allen will not take part in this expedition."
Vera suddenly interrupted, clutching the parchments.
Tissaia de Vries fell silent.
The evening tide battered the reefs of Thanedd Island, driving salty, damp sea wind into the tower.
Candlelight flickered; shadows trembled along the cold stone walls.
Fringilla Vigo, still lying across the desk, seemed to feel the chill. She frowned slightly, smacked her lips, and shifted.
After a long silence, Tissaia de Vries glanced at Fringilla Vigo, set her quill into the inkwell, rose, and walked to the window, closing the shutters.
Clack.
The deep night and damp sea wind were sealed outside.
Fringilla Vigo smacked her lips again in comfort, turned her head, and sank into another sleeping position. Her bare face was traced with crisscrossing pink marks of drool.
Tissaia de Vries shot Vera a glance and walked toward the door.
Vera rose in tacit understanding and followed.
Creak.
The wooden door groaned shut behind them.
They ascended the spiral stone staircase in silence.
The high tower of Thanedd Island was no different from Kaer Morhen—empty, cold, and austere.
Perhaps the only difference was the moisture seeping from the pale stone walls, and the slick steps made treacherous by the sea air.
Of course, neither Tissaia nor Vera needed to tread carefully—though both had slipped and fallen countless times in this tower long ago.
Tap, tap, tap.
Crisp footsteps echoed through the corridor. Neither woman spoke as they climbed.
Tissaia de Vries did not explain their destination. Vera did not ask. A strange yet familiar tacit understanding bound them.
"Vera, how long has it been since you last returned?"
At a turn in the staircase, Tissaia de Vries took out a copper key etched with intricate patterns.
"This Tower of the Gull or Aretuza?" Vera looked down at the cracks in the stone steps, answering herself. "If we're talking about Aretuza, then perhaps a few months. Earlier this year, I came here because of Borhn Drummond's fake death."
"But if you mean this Tower of the Gull…"
She paused thoughtfully. "One hundred fifty-three years? Or one hundred fifty-four. Since our mentor died, you've stayed in Garstang Palace. When I came, I only went there. If not for the Supreme Council occupying both Garstang and Loxia Palace this time, it might have been even longer."
"One hundred fifty years…" Tissaia de Vries slowed, gazing at the pale stone walls crowded with candlelit shadows. Her voice carried quiet emotion. "Time truly passes in a blink. I still remember after our mentor brought you back, we often sneaked into this tower together…"
"Tor Lara… The Tower of the Gull…"
"After the mentor's death, I rarely came here again…"
Vera said nothing, following one step behind.
For a moment, it felt as though she had returned to a hundred and fifty years ago.
After Sol Henrietta was "tricked away" by witchers of the Witcher Order, it wasn't long before she awakened her magical talent. By chance, her mentor—who happened to be visiting Toussaint to see an old friend—took notice of her and accepted her as an apprentice.
At that time, the supernatural world was not yet as "orderly" as it is today. Male mages went to Ban Ard to study, while the sacred ground of sorceresses lay in a bay northwest of Gors Velen, on Thanedd Island, which had been created by the elves through magic.
No—rather, it should be said that Ban Ard, having been founded earlier, truly was the holy land of male mages.
Aretuza, however, due to the disadvantage sorceresses faced in both gender and numbers, as well as the influence of the Black Sun Curse— (which foretold that in the near future, a solar eclipse would herald the resurrection of the demoness Lilith and bring about the end of the world, and that her resurrection would be achieved through "sixty maidens wearing golden crowns filling the valleys with blood," causing all girls and sorceresses born during eclipses to suffer discrimination and persecution)— never gained much renown on the Northern Continent.
Among sorceresses, the transmission of knowledge leaned even more heavily toward the most traditional model: mentor and apprentice.
Thus, she was not a sorceress trained at Aretuza. However, her mentor had close ties with Aretuza, and only a few years after taking her in, succeeded the previous—and first—rector of Aretuza.
Tissaia de Vries shared the same mentor as her, though Tissaia had already completed her training and become independent before she entered apprenticeship, officially joining Aretuza.
Because they studied under the same mentor, the two had once been very close—especially after their mentor became rector, when it was almost always Tissaia de Vries who taught her.
Of course, that was only in the past…
Click.
A faint sound broke Vera's wandering thoughts.
At some unknown point, Tissaia de Vries had already stopped before a massive brass-forged door, now unlocking it with a brass key.
Delicate elven patterns were etched into the bronze surface of the door—a seagull soaring above the sea.
This was Tor Lara, The Tower of the Gull—its name's origin—and one of the few remaining elven relics on Thanedd Island.
Yet The Tower of the Gull had always been the subject of a rumor.
It was said that this tower did not merely originate from the era of the Elder Elves, the Hill Folk who once ruled the entire world.
Ithlinne Aegli aep Aevenien, the legendary elven prophetess, was rumored to have hidden riddles here. Whoever solved them could activate an ancient portal atop The Tower of the Gull known as Benavente.
Beyond the portal lay the prophetess's treasure—or so the legends claimed. Others said that what lay beyond was hope itself: the hope to prevent the apocalypse, the hope to stop the coming of the White Frost.
Of course, nearly every Elder Elven ruin on the Northern Continent had some tale of hidden elven treasure maps. Even Beauclair in Toussaint—the former capital of the last elven king—was said to still conceal the dead king's restoration treasury somewhere within the city.
But how could that be possible?
The last elven king, Divethaf, had died a gruesome death. On the orders of Toussaint's first human king, Ludovic, forbidden necromancy had been used to interrogate his soul—it was impossible that any wealth for restoring the elven kingdom could still exist.
Still, when they were children, Vera and Tissaia de Vries had firmly believed the legend—and searched for it for many years.
Naturally, they found nothing.
Not until their mentor's sudden death—when Tissaia de Vries took over as rector of Aretuza, and Vera unexpectedly received news of Sol Henrietta and left Aretuza.
"Why bring me here?" Vera asked after coming back to herself, half-joking. "Don't tell me you've finally found Ithlinne's treasure?"
.............
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