After a few rounds of verbal sparring, the sorceresses' battle ended with both sides wounded—at least, that was how Victor saw it.
The graceful composure Keira and Triss had maintained during the "game" collapsed with a crash, and each of them ended up wearing a far more ordinary, down-to-earth image.
In the game, they'd both been "good friends" of the White Wolf, Geralt—companions who had fought the Wild Hunt side by side, the sort of figures you could plausibly ally with. So Victor didn't want to sour his relationship with either of them. Even more, he didn't want to hear any secrets he wasn't supposed to hear.
Unfortunately, as everyone knew, when two powerful opponents realize they can't force the other to yield—and neither wants to throw the first spell—they often shift the battlefield to a third party and wrestle through them instead.
Feeling four sharp gazes stabbing into him, Victor lowered his hands, closed his eyes, and folded his fingers over his abdomen, silently repeating: Clear mind, unshaken heart. He turned himself into a statue.
He looked neutral… but if they truly demanded a winner, then of course he would have to stand with Triss. The two had very different styles, and Merigold was the warm, genuinely caring mentor type.
Thankfully, Siegfried arrived at exactly the right moment, saving him from having to choose.
"Ahem." Siegfried's light cough snapped the suffocating tension just as it was about to boil over. Victor was surprised to see him here at all—he hadn't spotted him earlier.
"Esteemed ladies," the knight reported briskly, "we've received intelligence concerning Nilfgaard. Grand Master Jacques has asked me to invite you both to attend a meeting. Don't keep the king waiting."
The moment he finished, Triss and Keira switched as if someone had flipped a lever. Their noble bearing returned in an instant. Keira lifted her chin and left first. Triss offered Victor a small smile, then walked out of the garden with composed ease.
Siegfried lingered behind. He winked at Victor, then raised a thumbs-up. Victor couldn't tell whether the gesture was for the poetry performance… or for the imagined "good fortune" of having two sorceresses fighting over him in the garden.
He knew perfectly well it was the latter only in other people's fantasies—but the gossiping nobles lurking at a distance, like Jean-Pierre and his two friends, would definitely grab at shadows and spread the story as if it were fact.
…
Deep at night, after downing a vial of Viper stamina draught, Victor wandered through the Trade Quarter streets, letting his thoughts settle as he reviewed everything that had happened today—from choosing his clothes in the morning to leaving early at night.
Most of it had gone well. The only part he'd handled poorly was his contact with the sorceresses. In hindsight, he'd been impulsive when Keira undermined him. Her behavior hadn't carried much real malice, and there'd been no need to offend her with words.
And the more Victor replayed it, the more he felt Keira might have gone to the garden intending to talk—to ease things over. But she found Triss already there, as if Triss had beaten her to him, and that was why Keira's first words had been such a sharp, aggressive jab.
And "Merigold the Fearless" wasn't about to lose face in front of the new little brother she'd just claimed—so she fired back without hesitation.
Maybe that was the real truth of the garden tonight.
In any case, Victor refused to comment on the tangled history and grudges between the sorceresses. Even their mutual screams of "whore" earned only silence from him.
After all, he'd grown up hearing plenty of talk about feminism and bodily autonomy; the concept didn't shock him. Sorceresses merely had the power to live a few steps ahead of their age—and they were still nowhere near the sort of extremes people argued over in the most radical circles.
Besides, he wasn't some spotless innocent himself. He had no right to demand purity from others. That kind of tolerance was easy enough for him.
He stretched his arms and legs and continued walking through the Temple Quarter at night.
Then, on a familiar little path, he suddenly thought of Shani—and the realization hit with painful clarity:
She truly had left the city.
If he hadn't invented the stethoscope, would she still be here?
What was she doing now?
…
The next morning, Vizima Morning Post, front page.
The Voice of the King: Temeria Welcomes "The Return of the Dragonborn"
"Last night, at Princess Adda's autumn harvest banquet, the poet Victor from distant lands…"
Victor smiled, satisfied. The front-page headline was decent, and the article itself was fair. He finished it, then flipped to page two.
The Sorceresses' Favorite Man? The Dragonborn Tug-of-War!
"According to an unnamed noble, after the banquet shifted into free activity, the garden saw two royal advisors quarrel in jealousy over the Dragonborn poet…"
Victor rubbed his nose. The headline and the content were both pure invention. He kept reading and turned to page three.
The Dark Knight Might Be Late, But He Always Arrives
"Last night, 'Batman' launched his third blood-hot street crusade, beating down nineteen hooligans who had been harassing women after dark. Particularly worth noting was his battle cry this time—'atatatatata'—which, I must say, felt less friendly than his previous 'ora ora ora,' but…"
Standing in the market with vegetables in hand, Victor stared in surprise.
Batman had been pushed all the way to page three. The buzz had dropped that fast—couldn't even win page two.
Even so, pages one through three were still all about him. If page four was also him, that would be a complete "full-paper takeover."
Dandelion truly was a menace.
Then Victor saw page four's headline and went speechless.
Polite! Gentle! Everything You Want to Know About the Dragonborn Poet—A Bathhouse Attendant's Heartfelt Confession
"I work at the Eager Thighs…"
What in the hell—?!
They really did complete the full-paper takeover?
He could even faintly hear a vegetable-selling auntie not far away, animatedly telling customers about how the Dragonborn poet had supposedly gone to bed with two sorceresses in some outrageous marathon, describing it so vividly you'd think she'd been there.
Victor folded the paper up and stuffed it away. If medieval printing had included true-to-life photographs, this city would have been completely unlivable.
…
After buying his groceries, he headed back toward the street where he was staying—and suddenly noticed, not far ahead, Lily Knight Roderick leading a group from the opposite direction.
A noble beside him had a greenish face and was cursing nonstop, while Roderick listened with polite indifference. Victor found it odd, but when Roderick glanced at him, he gave a subtle wave—don't greet me.
Sensing something was wrong, Victor hurried home.
Angoulême was fine. She was sitting half-asleep on the couch, squinting as she gnawed on an apple. But the chairs and table were in disarray, clearly showing they'd had visitors earlier.
"Roderick brought people here just now?"
The moment she saw Victor, Angoulême reacted like she'd found family. She sprang up and grabbed him to complain:
"Boss, that bastard Dandelion ran! And he stole my Amber!"
Victor froze, then blurted in disbelief, "Huh?! He ran? What happened—why?"
A bard at the peak of popularity—why would he flee now?
"He slept with some count's wife last night. This morning the count personally brought men to have him chopped up. When Dandelion ran home to pack, he asked if I had a good horse. I didn't want to lend him Amber—I told him to take money and buy one. But I looked away for a second, and he left a note saying it was urgent and rode off on Amber!"
After Angoulême's furious rant, Victor covered his face with his left hand. The whole thing felt absurd, unreal. He'd been planning to settle accounts with the poet once he sobered up—only for Dandelion to vanish like smoke.
The one who'd been cursing in the street as they passed was probably that wronged husband—some bitter, raging count. Luckily, Roderick hadn't forgotten last night's goodwill and was willing to give Victor a little face. He checked the third floor, confirmed the poet was gone and his belongings were gone too, then turned around and dragged the victim away without another word.
"That noble looked short and pudgy, middle-aged, with gray hair and beard. Dressed like money. His wife must be young and pretty—exactly the kind of top-tier potential customer Victor Pharmaceuticals needs."
"…Yeah. That tracks… you little—!"
Victor whipped a kick at Angoulême. She flipped back with one hand, nimble as a cat, and dodged cleanly.
"When I'm thinking, don't babble nonsense next to me!"
Putting aside her interruption, there was no such thing as Victor Pharmaceuticals.
Dandelion was a bastard, truly. A walking disaster, a drunk, a lech, an idiot—yes, with one or two redeeming qualities here and there, but stacked together he was still a complete bastard.
Having a friend like that… it was hard to put into words.
Victor could only sigh.
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