Very Sunny

"My name is Geralt. Geralt of Rivia."

The stranger stated his name, smiling as he gestured for me to take a seat.

The boy of about eleven or twelve sitting across from him quickly shifted his seat, moving further inside.

Geralt wore a worn-out leather jacket with a loose thread dangling from his pocket. Bandages were wrapped around his neck and shoulders, and a grey, circular metal medallion hung from a silver chain on his chest, engraved with a snarling wolf's head.

He carried two weapons on his back; Kraun guessed they were single-handed swords.

The child was dressed similarly, though he carried only one weapon—a rather strange sight.

Seeking me out for business? Interesting.

Although Kraun didn't sense any malice from the man, he couldn't help but slide his hand into his coat pocket.

Touching the warm frame of his pistol, he felt a sense of calm wash over him.

He sat down openly, resting his medicine chest on his lap, and said with a firm tone, "You're an outsider; you don't even know what I do for a living. Tell me, what kind of business could we possibly have?"

If you can't give me a good reason, I'm walking out of here.

Geralt didn't answer directly. Instead, he shouted toward the counter, "Boss, bring my friend a glass of your finest rye beer as well."

"We can talk while we drink," the man said with a faint smile.

Though his hair was snow-white, he couldn't have been more than thirty years old.

Abel, the tavern waiter, was quick. He arrived at the table carrying two clay mugs. "Gentlemen, the best rye beer in the house. 20 copper coins each."

Geralt reached into his tunic, pulled out a small pouch, counted out 21 copper coins, and handed them over. "The extra is your tip."

Abel's eyes lit up. He set down the mugs and took the coins with both hands. "Kind sir, may the Lord of Flame light your path."

"The world grows darker by the day; the Lord of Flame may not have time to light the way for us."

The boy muttered this in a very low voice, but in the noisy room, Kraun heard it clearly.

His eyes narrowed slightly. A non-believer? Or are they followers of some other deity?

In a world where gods manifested their power, "non-believer" was synonymous with "heretic." Kraun himself was a pseudo-believer; he didn't believe the gods had time to answer human prayers, but he still offered a quick prayer whenever he visited a church.

Thinking this, he lost his patience. Regardless of which category these two fell into, he didn't want to deal with them.

Heretics were suppressed by all divine churches, and followers of other gods might have peculiar customs. One wrong word could lead to a bloody brawl.

The white-haired man before him was sturdy and powerful, and with the scar on his face, he looked like someone not to be trifled with.

As if he hadn't noticed the impatience on Kraun's face, Geralt pushed the clay mug filled with dark beer toward him. "I mean no harm. I just want to make a friend."

Do you think I believe that? If someone offers courtesy without a reason, they're either a thief or a schemer!

Kraun didn't speak, his gaze burning as he stared at the white-haired man.

"Heh, don't look at me like that," Geralt said with a cryptic smile. "I have a very keen sense of smell. I caught the scent of a certain herb in the chest you're carrying, and it just so happens that I need it."

An herb? I only have one type of herb in my chest, and it's sealed behind two layers of wood. You can smell it through that? Are you a dog? A flash of surprise crossed Kraun's eyes.

"Black Sage. I happen to need a refill. I'm buying in bulk at 50 silver coins per stalk."

Hearing this, he straightened his back and probed, "Not for sale. However, you could trade me Blue Tulip petals for it."

"Blood-Boiling Potion? Blue Tulips are more precious than sage, but that magical plant is useless to me. I have no stock of it."

A smile spread across Kraun's face. Confirmed—he's a mystic!

How else would an ordinary person know about a concoction like the Blood-Boiling Potion?

He pointed to the door behind the man and asked, "I don't have much on hand. I haven't been out gathering herbs these past few days. Have you asked the traveling merchants here?"

"The Gisai's prices are inflated. They treat me like a pig for the slaughter. We couldn't reach an agreement."

Good news—I've run into two people from the mystic world!

Kraun took a sip of his rye beer, deliberated for a few seconds, and said, "I have business to discuss with the Gisai, and it should be settled soon. Regardless, I will set aside two stalks of Black Sage for you. Can you wait for me a while?"

He was still concerned about selling his standard potions; they were practical items, and no merchant with an eye for quality would pass them up.

The Gisai were a nomadic people whose knowledge was as vast as the places they had traveled. Kraun was confident he could sell his potions for a good price.

"No problem. We're staying at this tavern. There are no charming ladies here, so I'll be drinking until closing time anyway."

Geralt raised his glass, offering a smile that any man would understand.

Kraun nodded slightly and smiled in return. "I just ordered two roasted lamb legs. I'll share them with my new friends in a bit."

He slung the strap of his medicine chest over his shoulder and headed toward the back door.

As the small, grease-stained wooden door opened and closed, the sharp, focused look in Geralt's eyes dimmed. "Alan, I've dragged you into being exiled from Kaer Morhen with me. Do you resent me? We no longer have a channel to replenish our potions, and your Trial of the Grasses cannot be delayed any longer. Yet, I still haven't found an alchemist to brew the concoctions for you."

"Master, how could I resent you? If not for you, I would have perished under the claws of a monster at five years old, just like my family." The boy stopped eating, his expression solemn. "No matter what you become, in my heart, you are still that upright, fearless hero who keeps his word and makes it his duty to eradicate monsters!"

A smile of relief appeared in the white-haired man's eyes, but his heart grew even more bitter.

He let out a long sigh, his thoughts drifting back to the night the transformation occurred...

"Master, Master," the boy's voice pulled the man back to reality.

"Master, why did you stop that man from proposing a trade earlier? For you, Black Sage can no longer meet your needs, and since I haven't undergone the Trial of the Grasses, I have no use for Black Sage either."

Geralt closed his eyes, as if savoring a memory.

After a moment, he opened them again. "I felt something very comfortable about him. How should I put it... sunlight. There was a feeling about him like standing in the sun on a winter day. The light was warm but not intense. Everything about it was wonderful."

"I didn't feel anything," Alan muttered, burying his head back into his meal.

The potato and lamb stew, seasoned with pepper and thyme—the taste was enough to make the boy, who had been sleeping in the wild for days, weep with joy.