Victor's mount was a dark bay gelding with a black mane and black hooves—gentle, a bit slow, and perfect for a beginner like him. Based on its temperament, Victor named the horse Faithful. According to Vesemir, when they brought it back from a farmer outside the mountains who'd been keeping it, the horse had been plowing fields and had taken to the work just fine.
With the bear—now neatly dressed down—strapped across its back, Faithful was led into the keep by Victor, through the inner courtyard and straight into the kitchen.
Victor unloaded the bearskin, spread it out to dry, then used brine to cure most of the meat, planning to air-dry it in a couple of days. Finally, he tossed Faithful a handful of oats as a reward—the weight and smell of a carnivore on its back had clearly made the poor horse miserable.
Footsteps.
That rhythm wasn't Vesemir's—was it?
"Hey. You must be Victor," Eskel said.
Victor turned.
The face was ruined by several long saber scars—something that, if you saw it suddenly at night, or if you were a little less steady, could make you scream in pure fright. But it didn't scare Victor.
He just smiled. "Yep, I'm Victor. You're either Eskel or Lambert. Definitely not Geralt—you don't have white hair." After rinsing his hands clean, he stepped closer.
Eskel smiled too—though with his scars, it didn't come out very pretty. "Right, I'm not Geralt. I'm just a regular witcher. I don't hunt dragons, I don't call kings my brothers, and I don't sleep with sorceresses… I'm Eskel."
Victor offered his right hand—the same hand that, since the moment the conversation started, had been hovering lightly near the sword hilt. "Victor. You can call me Vic."
Eskel took it, friendly. "Lambert came back with me. He's inside bragging to Vesemir. You don't mind having two more people share your haul—and your cooking, do you?"
"It'd be my honor."
…
That night, the roasted bear smelled incredible, and the mood at the meal was genuinely good. Lambert hesitated—just for a moment—because he knew what he was about to do would sour it all. But after thinking it over, he decided to drop the bad news anyway, even if it turned the whole night flat.
"About Geralt and Ciri… I've got news. Bad news…"
That opening line pulled everyone's attention. The two names he'd said were people they all cared about.
"In early April, Geralt and Yennefer finally found Ciri. Which lines up with the window you mentioned, Vesemir, about when Ciri came back to Kaer Morhen. Looks like she jumped back and found them almost right away.
"Then the three of them started a months-long revenge run—Ciri's escape must've been brutal.
"After that, they split up briefly for reasons.
"On September 24th, Geralt and Dandelion arrived in the city of Rivia. He'd arranged to meet Ciri and Yennefer at The Rooster and Mother Hen inn.
"Unfortunately, the next day, Rivia erupted in a riot targeting non-humans. During the chaos, Geralt was stabbed with a pitchfork and died at the hands of the mob. Yennefer arrived after and, while trying to treat him, collapsed and died from sheer exhaustion.
"Ciri, Triss Merigold, and Dandelion witnessed their deaths.
"Afterward, Ciri loaded both bodies onto a small boat, and—following a unicorn that appeared out of nowhere—vanished into the mist on Loch Eskalott."
Lambert finished with a serious face. The great hall fell silent—
Then Eskel was the first to burst out laughing, and the room filled with bright, reckless mirth.
"Hahahaha—no, that story's not believable enough!" Eskel wiped at his face, still laughing. "Yennefer dies from exhaustion? I don't understand sorceresses, sure, but let's set that aside. Geralt's swordsmanship, and he gets killed by a pitchfork from a mob? That's hilarious. I'll bet fifty crowns that before he got skewered, Geralt at least managed to open someone's throat twice—one cut left, one cut right."
"Hey! I didn't make it up," Lambert snapped. "And I don't want to believe something like that could happen either."
"Especially the ending," Victor added coolly, piling on without mercy. "A unicorn and a little boat on a lake? That's got third-rate bard melodrama written all over it."
"Damn it," Lambert muttered, and drained his beer. "Next time I see Dandelion, I'm telling him that exact review."
…
The cheerful air froze.
Eskel lowered the mug that had already been at his lips.
"So… this is something Dandelion experienced himself, and then told you?" Vesemir asked.
Lambert tilted his head back and took another long swallow, then thumped the cup down on the table. "Yeah. When I ran into him in Vengerberg, he said he never wanted to step foot in Rivia again, because the mob there made his friend bleed."
All that remained in the air was the crackle of wood burning in the hearth.
After a moment, Eskel let out a breath. "...That's… hard to believe."
"Would any kind soul like to tell me who this Dandelion is?" Victor asked, perfectly straight-faced.
Vesemir's voice sank low. "Geralt's best friend. A famous bard—composer, singer, and writer. He's written countless songs about the White Wolf. Outside, in taverns, you can hardly go a night without hearing one of them. If he said it… then it's probably true."
He seemed to think of something else. "About Ciri…"
Victor cut in softly. "It's fine, Vesemir. I'm fine. I believe Ciri will come back soon."
Lambert jumped up onto the table, raised his cup, and shouted, "Not many witchers die peacefully in bed. It's a damn shame the legendary White Wolf wasn't the exception. Let's drink to him—may he rest in peace!"
Everyone raised their cups together. "May he rest in peace!"
…
Late at night…
With his door shut, Victor sat cross-legged by the hearth, lost in thought. His right hand stirred a large cauldron on pure habit—tomorrow morning's stamina tonic simmered inside.
As for Lambert's news, Victor had his own interpretation. Ciri had won the decisive fight at Stygga Castle; disappearing again likely meant she'd jumped through time and space once more. And Geralt and Yennefer weren't truly dead—at least, not completely. You didn't sink hundreds of hours into The Witcher 3 for nothing. The game even mentioned that "death" from the side.
If only he'd read the novels back then. Or played The Witcher 1 and 2. Right now, he felt like someone peeking at a leopard through a bamboo tube—he knew scattered fragments of what was coming, but the why behind it all was still blurred and distant. Trying to use foreknowledge for an advantage… he didn't even know where to start.
Either way, sooner or later—he didn't know how soon—he would have to stand against the Aen Elle, the ones the books called the Wild Hunt. They weren't just the enemy hunting Ciri; they were also the malignant cause behind his own arrival in this world—his obstacle to sleeping peacefully.
A rainbow flash flickered and vanished.
Victor lifted a ladle and poured the blue liquid into vials, one scoop at a time. The stamina tonic no longer needed special concealment. With an improved process, Victor could produce an end result through traditional alchemy that looked extremely close to the "miraculous" version—and in the "miraculous" method, he deliberately left behind harmless impurities. That made the two tonics look nearly identical. The real difference only revealed itself after you drank them.
His thoughts shifted again, back to when he'd gone to retrieve the bear traps he hadn't used. He'd seen a single line of shallow footprints there—meaning that while he'd been wrestling a bear like some brave idiot, there had been eyes nearby, silently watching over him, staying until the outcome was decided… then leaving without a sound.
It made him feel good.
And it made him feel awful.
Being watched over wasn't the problem. The problem was that he hadn't sensed the watcher at all. If it hadn't been a friend but an enemy, that would've meant an easy ambush—and a quick death. He needed a countermeasure, something to compensate for his lack of heightened senses.
Target: next spring.
Leave Kaer Morhen.