Chapter 25: THE WITCHER'S CONTRACT — Part 2
The castle had been beautiful once.
I crouched in the ruins of what might have been a gatehouse, watching Geralt's silhouette disappear into the central keep. Moonlight turned the crumbling stone silver, and somewhere deep in the structure, something stirred.
He told me to stay in town. He was explicit about it.
I checked my lute, made sure my knife was accessible, and settled in to wait.
Hours passed. The moon tracked across the sky, shadows shifting as it moved. My legs cramped from holding still. My back ached against the cold stone. Twice I heard sounds from inside—crashes, scraping, what might have been Geralt's voice raised in combat—but nothing emerged.
This is worse than fighting. This is just waiting to learn if he's dead.
I thought about the drowners at the Temple of Melitele, how my Terror Ballad had barely touched their alien minds. The Striga would be worse—stronger, faster, more resistant to influence. But the principle was the same. Fear was primal. Even cursed princesses had to feel it.
A window exploded.
Geralt came through it in a shower of glass and stone, hitting the courtyard hard. He rolled, tried to rise, but something was wrong with his left arm—it hung at an angle that made my stomach turn.
The Striga followed.
I'd seen monsters before. Drowners, the glimpse of Torque in moonlight, creatures from the edges of roads. None of them prepared me for this.
She was human-shaped but wrong—elongated limbs, too-wide mouth filled with needle teeth, eyes that gleamed with hunger rather than consciousness. Her movements were liquid, predatory, tracking Geralt with the focused attention of something that had been hunting for years.
Geralt raised his silver sword with his good arm. The Striga circled, looking for an opening.
If I don't do something, he's going to die.
My hands found my lute. The first chord rang out across the courtyard, and both combatants froze.
I played.
The Terror Ballad poured out of me—not the careful, restrained version I'd used on drowners, but everything I had. Every ounce of Stage 2 power, every technique I'd developed through three years of practice and desperation. I reached for the Striga's mind and pushed.
Resistance hit me like a wall. The creature's curse-born consciousness was alien, warped, nothing like human psychology. But beneath the monster, somewhere deep in the twisted flesh, was still Adda. Still a princess. Still capable of fear.
The Striga screamed.
It was a sound that made my bones vibrate, pitched beyond human hearing but somehow still felt. She staggered, shaking her head, claws raking at empty air as if fighting invisible attackers.
"NOW!" I shouted.
Geralt didn't hesitate. He drove forward, silver sword catching moonlight, and slammed the Striga back toward the crypt entrance. The creature fought him, but its movements were uncertain now, disrupted by fear it couldn't understand.
My voice cracked. The power flickered.
The Striga's head snapped toward me.
Oh no.
She abandoned Geralt and charged.
Evasion Instinct seized control of my body, throwing me sideways. I hit the ground, rolled, kept moving—but the Striga was faster than anything I'd faced. Her claw caught my back as I dove for cover, and fire erupted along my spine.
I screamed. Couldn't help it.
Stone exploded above my head as I crawled through a gap too narrow for the Striga to follow. Blood was everywhere—my blood, soaking through my shirt, pooling on ancient flagstones. My lute was somehow still in my hands, but I couldn't have played a note if my life depended on it.
Which it might.
The Striga shrieked with frustration, trying to reach me through the gap. Behind her, Geralt tackled the creature with his full weight, driving her back toward the crypt. They vanished into the darkness of the keep, and I heard more fighting—crashes, inhuman screaming, the ring of silver against supernatural flesh.
I lay in my hiding spot and tried not to die.
The pain was incredible. I'd been hurt before—bruised ribs in the training yard, cuts and scrapes from the road—but nothing like this. The claw wounds felt deep, burning with every breath.
At least the song about this will be incredible.
The thought made me laugh, which made me cough, which made everything hurt worse. Hysterical. I was going into shock, probably. Blood loss, trauma, the usual.
Time became uncertain. I heard the cock crow once, then again. Dawn light crept across the courtyard, turning the stones from silver to gold.
Silence from the keep.
Either he won or he's dead. Either way, I should probably stop bleeding.
I tried to reach for a healing melody, but my voice wouldn't cooperate. The best I managed was a weak hum that might have slowed the blood flow slightly. Or might have done nothing at all.
Footsteps. Heavy. Approaching.
I turned my head—even that hurt—and saw Geralt emerging from the crypt. He was covered in blood, some of it his, arm still hanging wrong. But behind him...
A girl. Naked, confused, blinking in the dawn light.
Princess Adda. Human again.
He did it. The bastard actually did it.
Geralt's eyes found me in my hiding spot. His expression was unreadable—anger, concern, exhaustion all mixing into something I couldn't interpret.
He walked toward me.
This is where he leaves me, I thought. I disobeyed him. Got in the way. Got hurt. He'll collect his payment and—
Geralt crouched beside my hiding spot, reached in with his good arm, and carefully pulled me out.
"Idiot," he said.
"Alive idiot," I managed.
"Barely." He examined my back with clinical efficiency. "Deep. Need a healer."
"There's one in town. Probably still asleep."
"She'll wake up." He lifted me, and the world went gray around the edges. "Don't die. I haven't yelled at you properly yet."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
I passed out before we reached the town gates.
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