First Shani, then Dandelion—seeing two friends off did leave a faint sense of loss, but life still had to move forward.
Victor got back to his routine of reading and jogging. The once-talked-about "Dragonborn Poet" had no new anecdotes circulating, and the buzz faded into silence a few days later.
Victor couldn't help but feel it: with that walking disaster Dandelion gone, the days really did turn peaceful and quiet. Even Angoulême's injuries seemed to heal faster.
Just before he left the house, he spotted the girl sprawled over the dining table, studying a scrap of paper—the copied Scoia'tael cipher letter a young man had handed her a few days ago.
He leaned closer to look. "Well? Any insights?"
"Almost. I'm this close to cracking it—just give me a little more time." She waved him off like an annoyance.
Seeing a team member so focused on her work filled him, as the group's leader, with genuine pride. He decided he'd bake two extra apple pies for dinner as a reward.
He slung his herbal satchel over his shoulder. Today, he was heading into the swamp forest to collect his messenger's reward from Yaevinn. Victor hadn't wanted to run errands for him in the first place, but the pay had been far too tempting: a rare alchemical material that happened to be essential for the Grasses elixir.
Still, after two conversations with Thaler of the intelligence service, Victor was sure the Scoia'tael were about to pull off something big—and the King's Eyes wouldn't be watching him for no reason.
So now he felt he'd gotten the short end of the stick.
He needed a raise.
Even if the elven commander was more likely to refuse, Victor had to make his stance clear—and cut off contact with the Scoia'tael for the time being.
…
From higher ground in the swamp forest, he looked out toward the logging camp in the distance. Humans weren't the only ones working there; some nonhumans were, too. Elves were the fewest—there were slightly more dwarves than elves.
"I said I'd come out to talk—and to see some unique scenery. And this is what you bring me to?"
"I wanted to look at it today. Can't you keep me company for a while?"
Victor glanced sideways at Yaevinn and noticed a few threads of white in the man's black hair. He didn't look like he'd been living well lately—maybe he'd been working himself raw.
Besides the two of them, Yaevinn had only brought along one familiar old hand: an elven scout. The three of them watched the logging camp from the trees.
"You come here often to observe? What—does this scene let you imagine a future where humans and nonhumans live in harmony? I seem to recall the tour slogan was, 'Work makes me happy.'"
"…You're insufferably sharp-tongued. Or do you genuinely think this counts as 'harmony'?
"No. I come here to watch humans squeeze my kin dry—enslave nonhumans—and to harden my resolve to resist to the end.
"You should understand: it's only because we resist that their 'non-resistance' looks precious. It's only because of us that those paper-thin nonhuman protection policies ever get implemented."
"I reserve judgment on your perspective."
"I allow you to reserve it.
"Now then—you wanted to talk. About what?"
"This courier job—why didn't you warn me ahead of time that the Scoia'tael were on Thaler's radar? I nearly got caught. Care to explain?"
Yaevinn's narrow eyes stayed fixed on the distance. A dwarven overseer was lashing an elf with a whip. From this far away, Victor couldn't tell why.
After a moment, Yaevinn turned back. "I'm sorry. I didn't know in advance either. I didn't want to drag you in—at least, not yet."
Victor stared into his eyes and believed him. Even if Victor stood with them, he'd be a drop in the ocean—just a monster-slayer with a blade, offering little to Yaevinn's cause. Honestly, a courier who always delivered might be more useful than he was.
"This time, I really do need a raise. Thaler searched me so thoroughly I was left with nothing. Anyone else would've landed in prison before the letter ever arrived.
"And for a while, we shouldn't contact each other."
Yaevinn barked a laugh. "Fine. But there's still no coin. If you need materials, go ask the herb-seller in the city's slums. I'll notify him."
Victor took what Yaevinn handed him—a gryphon venom gland—and couldn't resist offering one piece of advice.
"Why not take your people back to Dol Blathanna? Francesca Findabair rebuilt an elven kingdom. It's your homeland, isn't it?"
"Impossible. Dol Blathanna is my homeland, but I won't accept rule under that whore.
"I'll never forget her betrayal—binding thirty-two officers of the Vrihedd Brigade and handing them over to the Northern Kingdoms. And I'll never forget what she said to us then:
"'For the future of the elves!'
"Thirty loyal officers—men who never died on the battlefield—were hanged on gallows because they obeyed orders: sabotaging transport, disrupting production. After the war, they were branded as war criminals, 'civilian butchers.'"
He slammed his fist into a tree trunk, shaking loose a hiss of leaves.
"Francesca will never be my queen. I will never return to Dol Blathanna and place my fate in her hands again."
"But you should think about the people who follow you."
"I have. If I go back, the Northern Kingdoms will demand Dol Blathanna hand us over. Staying here and fighting is our only hope."
"I know you're waiting for war, my friend.
"When the Third Nilfgaard War begins, the southern empire—and Dol Blathanna—will remember the Scoia'tael again and call on your strength. And if they win completely, your people get their way out. That's what you're thinking, isn't it?
"But even if the South wins, your men might be spared—yet you will die for certain. Emperor Emhyr var Emreis won't tolerate a butcher with a name as filthy as yours. To stabilize his rule, he'll wipe you away as a stain that needs scrubbing."
"I don't care. I'm doing this for Dol Blathanna—not for that whore. When victory comes, I'll run—run far away, to somewhere no one knows my name.
"Do you know why I joined the Scoia'tael in the first place?"
"I'm offering friendly advice before we part. If you're about to tell me some heart-tugging tale, save it. I'm not especially interested."
"But I feel like talking," Yaevinn said, pushing off the beech he'd been leaning on and starting toward the docks. "I'll walk you out. You'll have plenty of time to listen to the dark secrets buried in my soul."
Victor sighed and followed. The elven scout still didn't speak, keeping to the rear. The last two times Victor had seen him, the man's face had been grim—none of the sunlight he'd worn at first meeting remained.
…
Yaevinn's story was painfully familiar—so familiar it was almost a cliché. Compared to countless others like it, his only true advantage was the rich, operatic baritone he spoke with.
"I once lived in a city full of humans. I was honest, hardworking, and I respected all their absurd habits and laws.
"Assimilation—I lived under that word for years. And during that time, I was deceived, mocked, and sometimes beaten and robbed.
"But I didn't hate humans. I felt I was better than they were. I told myself they simply couldn't control the weak parts of their nature. Those were their flaws, and I should be tolerant.
"I was robbed three times—about as often as anyone. Racist slogans were often smeared on my door with filth.
"For years I kept wondering: did I do something wrong? What could I do to bring peace to my life? Do you know what I finally understood?"
"No," Victor replied evenly. "But I'm sure you're about to tell me."
"I did nothing wrong. Looking for the fault in myself was like climbing a tree to catch fish, or diving into the sea to hunt deer.
"I was searching for an answer that didn't exist, in the wrong place. I would never find peace in human society, the way the moon will never catch the sun. Humans will never change."
—They will, Victor thought, if you give them a thousand years of evolution. Probably.
"They stubbornly cling to selfishness, jealousy, narrow hearts, fear of what they don't understand—believe me, there are countless other flaws besides.
"The day I realized that, I left the city and joined the Scoia'tael."
"And now you're very similar to humans," Victor said. "Congratulations. I mean the flawed parts… like beating and robbing. And racism."
…
From afar, the elven scout watched the boat drift away from shore toward the lake's center. He asked Yaevinn, "Why didn't you keep Victor? He clearly suspects something. Even if we didn't harm him, we could've detained him."
"Control your hatred. Don't mistake the target. Losing a brother hurts you—it hurts me too. But that's exactly why we must separate friend from foe.
"He isn't a friend—yet—but he's not an enemy. Pushing a possible friend into becoming an enemy is the height of stupidity."
Yaevinn patted the scout's shoulder.
"And besides," he added, thoughtful, "a rationalist like him definitely has a card up his sleeve. Even if you win by turning on him, he'll make the winner suffer for it."
"Come on. We should go back. It's time to move."
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