The principle behind making "Moondust" was simple enough: take a Grapeshot bomb and add silver wire. For an ordinary witcher of the School of the Wolf, the hard part was that silver wire was expensive. For Victor, the hard part was that he wanted to process the silver wire down to microscopic scales—silver filings, and even silver dust.
In theory it was possible. The only question was whether the mental drain would be more than he could bear. But either way, once Moondust became a standard weapon in his kit, the vast majority of monsters that relied on shapeshifting would become his prey—wraith-types included, the kind he wouldn't have dared to dream of hunting before. Noonwraiths, Nightwraiths… all of them would cower and tremble before Moondust's power.
Besides that, for the School of the Wolf, one of the key ingredients in the Decoction of the Grasses—the potion used in the first stage of the Trial of the Grasses—was an albino bruxa's tongue. And bruxae could turn invisible. Victor already had a feeling that sooner or later, he'd be using Moondust to catch one off guard.
…
Waking slowly from sleep—counting both work time and the extra hours he'd needed to crash—Victor had spent an entire day inside the alchemy room.
The good news was that his first attempt at producing silver dust had succeeded. The bad news was that the mental strain in the final stage made him lose focus several times. He'd been forced to drink the "Mind-Enhancing Potion" Kalkstein had given him just to keep going.
Turning silver pellets into thin wire was easy. Turning them into silver dust was brutally difficult. By the time he finished dusting the first bag of pellets, Victor was so exhausted he couldn't even clean up. He simply collapsed where he stood, face-down in the alchemy room like a corpse.
The whole process was too draining, and the mixing time was far too long.
When he woke and reflected on it, Victor decided that until his mental endurance improved, he'd stick to making the standard Moondust bomb with silver shot as a stopgap. "Trembling Moondust" was just too much work.
He packed the still half-finished silver dust into his herb satchel, then went upstairs, pounding his right shoulder with his left fist and his left shoulder with his right, alternating as he climbed. He was surprised to find Dandelion in the living room, frowning as he thought through his writing. There was "only" half a glass of red wine beside him—an unmistakable sign he was short on inspiration.
When he spotted Victor, the poet brightened and raised his cup, inviting him to drink too.
Since the fatigue and mental depletion from that ridiculous alchemy weren't something sleep alone could fix, a little alcohol and a pleasant chat sounded like a fine idea. Victor accepted happily—and suggested that if they were going to drink, they might as well head to a tavern and do it properly.
…
The Hairy Bear Inn again—another almost-innocent afternoon. No… with just a little experience now, it was somewhere between innocent and practiced: business was good, but it hadn't tipped into full-blown noise. After the restrictions were lifted, there were clearly more people coming out to drink.
Victor ordered himself a cup of milk first, and got Dandelion a Vizima Champion to wet his throat. Catching Dandelion's astonished look, Victor explained casually, "I'm still growing. Milk helps you get taller."
There were barmaids, but the owner, Griffarin, still carried the drinks over himself. He pointed at Dandelion. "So he really is your friend. About that day—sorry. I thought he was trying to dine and dash. I almost stopped Angoulême from paying for him."
Victor smiled. "If he can't pay again next time, put it on my tab."
"Understood." Griffarin nodded and left.
Dandelion lifted his beer in a toast to Victor, knocked back half the cup in one go, then let out a light burp. "You seem to be doing pretty well around here, huh?"
Sipping his milk at an unhurried pace, Victor nodded. "Yeah. Angoulême told you, right? The Phantom Troupe is a successful mercenary company. We don't have enemies in the Temple Quarter. But Griffarin's being this polite mostly because of Shani."
After that, it was the classic story: when you're drinking with a friend, a thousand cups never feel like enough. Once the milk was gone, Victor and Dandelion went from beer to red wine, from red wine to hard liquor, and soon they were comfortably tipsy.
"Hey…" Dandelion's eyes narrowed as if he'd wrestled with a question for too long and finally gave up. "There's something I can't figure out, so I'll just ask you.
"You could be playing the lute among flowers and feasts—your music is so famous that even the greatest poet in the North approves of it." He patted his own chest with complete confidence.
"You could also choose alchemy, earn real respect, live well. Angoulême says you're an outstanding alchemy apprentice, and even the local gangs do steady business with you.
"But you're stubborn as a mule about becoming a witcher. That's the part I don't understand. For a young man, it makes no sense. Who in their right mind wants the kind of life Geralt has—rolling around in heaps of monster corpses, covered in mud, stinking like a stray?"
"Because I want power," Victor answered as if it were obvious. "Power beyond the ordinary. I can't become a mage, unfortunately, so I chose the witcher's path."
"What I mean is—why chase personal power at all?" Dandelion insisted. "Look at us. We live in a city with a king's protection and laws that actually mean something. If you want, you can stay in Vizima forever. You're not short on coin. This place is comfortable. What's so bad about it?"
This time Victor actually thought for a moment… then spoke slowly. "Maybe… it's also because I want to be able to say no. To anyone. Even if they're the most powerful person in the world. If I want to refuse, I want to be able to say it—loudly."
"That sounds like insecurity," Dandelion said, voice softer now. "Like fear is making you hungry for strength. But what made you feel like you could be murdered at any moment?"
"Angoulême ever tell you about Tailles?" Victor tapped his belt. "He taught me a lesson: even in a world with a king's protection and laws, you should still add one more layer of insurance for yourself."
"This steel sword."
Dandelion nodded… then shook his head. "I know Tailles. More than ten years ago, when Geralt taught him a lesson, I was there. I watched him trip himself up, slash his own face, and cry like a child. I never thought he'd turn into that kind of man…
"Still—who could've predicted it?" Dandelion sighed. "But he's only an amplifier. Even before you met him, you'd already decided to become a witcher, hadn't you?"
The question tugged up an old thread. Victor didn't answer. He lifted his glass, staring into it as if it held something far away.
"Maybe…" he murmured. "Maybe it was the voice in my head. From the day I left Bell Town and headed for Kaer Morhen, I had this… pull. Like fate had a hand on my back. Practice swordsmanship. Raise your strength. Become sharper…"
Seeing Victor drift off into his own world, looking half lost, Dandelion shoved him lightly to snap him out of it. "Forget it. People have a hundred reasons for doing what they do. Sometimes you don't even understand your own reasons.
"But since you've decided, then walk it through. Don't waver."
Victor thought he was right. He lifted his glass and took another big drink, and his worries evaporated. Then he heard Dandelion let out a long, heavy sigh.
"What is it?" Victor asked. "Why the sudden sigh?"
"I just suddenly feel like it's been a while since I took a bath," Dandelion said—grinning like a seasoned rake.
Victor barked, scandalized. "How can you even think that? If Shani finds out, she'll beat you senseless! After getting me started on kiddie drinks, now you want to drag a kid to that kind of place too?"
The bard snorted at the scolding. "A kid? You? Don't think I don't know. If people can't shut up about your lute playing, then at night you must be run ragged…
"And the next day you can't even get out of bed, right?" He leaned in, eyes glittering. "Or maybe you'd like Shani to hear about that?"
It went without saying: a threat that blunt and clumsy wasn't going to work on Victor Corion—supreme commander of the Phantom Troupe, calm and sharp-minded.
Victor acted as if he hadn't heard a single word. He rose leisurely, then slapped Dandelion's shoulder in friendly, generous fashion.
"Come on," he said. "We'll go across the street to the Eager Thighs for a bath. My treat."
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