The tension in the tavern snapped like a dry branch. The leader of the "freedom fighters," his face purple with resentment, lunged across the table toward Sebastian. "You've turned our people into sheep, boy! You've stolen our war!" His dagger gleamed, aimed directly for the Dark Priest's throat.
He never reached it.
Geralt's movement was a blur of silver and shadow. The Cursed Steel Sword cleared its scabbard with a low, predatory hum. Before the bandit could even blink, the blade had severed his arm at the elbow, followed by a surgical thrust through the heart. The other three bandits rose, but Vesemir was already behind them, his own blade singing a lethal tune.
In the original timeline, this would have sparked a riot, a panicked surge of "butcher" accusations. Here, the silence was absolute—until the village elder spat on the floor beside the corpse.
"Sinners," the elder muttered, his eyes glowing with the green light of Vinushka. "They didn't want to save Temeria. They wanted to hide in the woods and steal from our larders while we worked the soil. Get these carcasses out of here. We don't want the stench of those who serve only their own greed."
The villagers didn't scream; they stepped forward to help the Witchers. They dragged the bodies toward the village gates, refusing to even grant them a Soul Stone harvest. To them, a soul that had tried to kill the Shepherd of the Right Track was unworthy of the fragment.
"Thank you, Witcher," the innkeeper Elsa said, placing a fresh mug of ale before Geralt. "You protected the Truth today. The Gods will remember."
The heavy doors of the inn swung open once more, but this time, the air was cut by a sharp, cold scent of lilac and gooseberries. A detachment of Nilfgaardian soldiers marched in, their black armor polished to a mirror finish. At their center stood Yennefer of Vengerberg, her eyes widening as she took in the scene.
She didn't see the usual carnage of a bar brawl. She saw a village in perfect, eerie alignment.
"Geralt," she said, her voice a mix of relief and confusion. "The Emperor told me White Orchard had changed, but I didn't expect... this."
The villagers didn't wait for her to speak. They swarmed the soldiers, not in fear, but with demands. "Commander! Get rid of these imposters!" a farmer shouted, pointing toward the woods where the bandits had been hiding. "There are more of them out there, pretending to be 'patriots' while they plot against the Priest and the Peace! We want them gone so the air stays clean!"
Yennefer looked at Sebastian, who sat calmly wiping a drop of blood from his scripture. She felt the massive, crushing weight of the Old Gods radiating from him—a power that made her own Chaos feel like a flickering candle.
"So," Yennefer whispered, her gaze returning to Geralt. "This is the 'Dark Priest' who has made the White Flame bow. He hasn't just conquered the land, Geralt. He's conquered their souls."
******
The square outside the inn remained tense until a group of men and women, dressed in simple, travel-worn civilian wool and linen, emerged from the shadows of the restored treeline. They did not carry the banners of Temeria, but they moved with a military discipline that gave them away. These were the real freedom fighters—veterans who had once bled for the Lily, but who now looked upon the "Right Track" with solemn respect.
Their leader, a grey-bearded man named Vernon, stepped forward and bowed his head toward the Nilfgaardian commander and Sebastian. "We apologize," he said, his voice gravelly but sincere. "We allowed those rats to roam free under the guise of our cause. It is a stain on what's left of our honor."
He looked at the villagers, then at the Dark Priest. "As former soldiers of the realm, we give you our word: we will hunt down every imposter, every fake 'patriot' who seeks to use this war as a cloak for their greed. We will present them to the nearest Nilfgaardian outpost for judgment. The peace of the Green God will not be disturbed by the likes of them."
While the veterans began organizing their search, Yennefer of Vengerberg was occupied with a different kind of investigation. She sat in a corner of the tavern, her violet eyes glowing with a sharp, analytical light as she hovered her hands over a Soul Stone Sebastian had provided.
As a sorceress, her first instinct was to find the "hook"—the horrific cost that magic of this magnitude always demanded. She expected to find a trapped, screaming consciousness, a soul denied its journey to the afterlife.
Instead, she found a masterpiece of divine efficiency.
"It's... impossible," Yennefer whispered, her breath hitching. She looked up at Geralt and Sebastian. "I've spent my life studying the necro-sciences and the flow of Chaos. But this... this stone hasn't taken the man. It has only peeled away a fragment—a psychic echo of his experiences and his strength."
She watched as a faint, ethereal mist drifted from the stone toward the ceiling, vanishing into the aether. "The core of the soul is gone. It's already moved on. This is nothing more than a spiritual footprint, preserved in crystal."
She turned the stone over in her fingers, her skepticism finally replaced by a dawning, terrifying respect. "It's legal. Truly, purely legal. There is no curse here, Geralt. No damnation. It is a tithe that the universe allows."
The revelation silenced the room. For the sorceress to validate the Dark Priest's art was the final seal of approval. The Lodge of Sorceresses had always feared the gods; now, Yennefer was realizing that the Gods had simply been waiting for a priest who knew how to harvest the "Right Track."
"The Emperor is waiting in Vizima," Yennefer said, standing up and smoothing her black velvet skirts. "He doesn't just want a priest anymore. He wants a Saint. And after seeing this... I think I'm inclined to agree."