In a medieval fantasy world, there was a cozy, peaceful little town that could have existed only in a fairy tale. On a small hill near the town stood a wooden cottage, with a well and flower garden out front and an herb garden behind. In that herb garden, Kelpie was tugging at the hem of a little boy's clothes.
The boy's name was Victor. He had just turned twelve, stood five feet tall—perfectly average—and had blond hair, blue eyes, and an utterly ordinary face.
When Kelpie caught his hem, he had been picking herbs to brew a potion for treating wounds.
Victor turned his head to look at Kelpie. She was a mare with a glossy black coat and a well-proportioned, muscular body. She moved gracefully, her mane gleaming with an oily sheen. She could surely gallop like the wind—a beauty that could exist only in a fantasy world. And this beautiful creature was gently tugging at his clothes, trying to get him to follow her.
Victor brushed the remaining dirt from his hands, stood up, and followed Kelpie to the cottage. There, in front of the door, he saw her: a girl with silver-gray hair, a sword strapped to her back, and tattered, bloodstained clothes, lying face-down at his doorstep.
Waking from the nightmare of being captured, Ciri felt something fumbling across her face. Panicked, she opened her eyes and struggled upright, only to see Victor, whose face was utterly ordinary and whose clear, crystalline eyes were the blue of water.
The homely furnishings—the wooden clock, stone fireplace, little animal ornaments, and plain white sheets—told her this was nothing like the place in her nightmare.
He's just a child, she thought. I'm safe. The thought left her limbs limp, and she sank back onto the bed. Her arm, bruised and slightly cracked from a heavy blow, throbbed faintly.
His small, warm, dry hand returned to her forehead to check that she didn't have a fever. Then the boy picked up the cup beside him and offered the thirsty Ciri most of a cup of warm water, watching as she gulped it down without a shred of decorum.
She was young, with fine, thick eyebrows and large, oval green eyes. A conspicuous scar ran from below her left eye across most of her pale cheek.
From her face alone, he could tell she was a tough, stubborn girl. "I'm Victor, a resident of Bell Town. What's your name?"
Looking into his innocent eyes, Ciri said, "...Fal...Falca. My name is Falca."
She was lying, but in an unfamiliar place, she didn't dare reveal her real name.
Victor smiled. "And the horse?"
"Kelpie."
Victor nodded. "You seem to be doing all right. Eat something, then get some more sleep and rest up. We can talk tomorrow."
He pulled a little serving cart over to the bed. It held crispy fried bacon, soft whole-wheat bread, and a bowl of vegetable soup. Those were the things she recognized, along with two fried eggs whose yolks were far too large to be from chickens, and a few fruits she couldn't identify.
Then he got up, left the room, and closed the door.
Ciri pulled back the blanket and sat up. She realized she wasn't wearing anything on her upper body. Her freshly cleaned body was wrapped in firm layers of bandages; her lower half was better off, though all she had on was a pair of cotton underpants.
Don't worry about it. He's just a child, Ciri thought. As for the many other questions on her mind, hunger would have to take priority.
The next day, Ciri found that the medicine he had used to dress her wounds seemed very effective. The pain in her arm had eased considerably, so she got dressed and walked out of the room, feeling refreshed. The little carrot-top, at least nine inches shorter than her, stood on a stool, stirring a cauldron with a long rod. It was nearly half his height and so large that, if you squeezed in, you could practically take a bath in it.
"Wait a moment. I'll finish this batch of potion first. If you're hungry, you can eat now. There's no one else in the house anyway," he said.
She went over and sat at the dining table, which had place settings for two. The table was laden with food, but her mind was elsewhere.
Alchemy wasn't new to her. She was fairly skilled at it herself. She couldn't drink potions, but she considered herself a good student of the many sword-oil recipes Uncle Vesemir had taught her.
Back at Kaer Morhen, her adoptive father, the White Wolf Geralt, would sometimes stand over a cauldron and stir away, eventually bottling all kinds of brightly colored potions.
As if in a daze, Ciri watched Victor finish his work and sit down across from her. He raised a hand to signal that they could begin, then smiled. "Hi, Falca. I'm Victor, an alchemist from Bell Town. I'm twelve years old, but you can call me Vic."
"Do you live here all by yourself? Is there no one else to look after you?" Ciri had assumed he was simply a late bloomer, but she hadn't expected him to be four years younger than her. Children that age rarely lived alone.
"I used to live with my grandmother too." He lowered his head to sip his soup as he answered, making his voice sound a little muffled.
Ciri froze. "I'm... I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to bring it up. Please don't be sad."
Victor looked up. His blue eyes were confused at first, then filled with amusement. "Sorry, I didn't explain properly and gave you the wrong idea. My grandmother's alive and well—in fact, she's almost too healthy. She's away because she went traveling overseas with my other grandmother and my aunt."
Ciri felt awkward at first, then burst out laughing along with Victor.
He cut into a pancake and speared a piece with his fork. "Don't worry about it. I chose not to go with them. I can take care of myself just fine. Staying home lets me practice alchemy, and I can help the neighbors too."
"Aren't they worried about you?" Ciri asked with a smile, feeling a little less guarded. The bacon was fried to perfection.
"Actually, I'm usually the one looking after them. Their cooking is terrible, and they're experts at making a mess of the house.
"Especially after I learned alchemy. They even left me in charge of making healing salves and selling tonics..."
Victor was in high spirits and chatted endlessly about the little details of village life. He liked this girl in the simplest way one person could like another—not in a way that meant he wanted to commit a crime. He was still a child, with neither the means nor the inclination to do anything of the sort.
Ciri found that she liked listening to him. His words had nothing to do with blood or fire; there was no pressure, no scheming, and no nauseating coercion.
Without meaning to, Victor soothed some of the hurt in Ciri's heart.
Books were neatly arranged on the shelves in the cottage. The tableware in the spacious dining room was clean and gleaming, while the morning sun streamed through the window and fell on the alchemy cauldron, giving the place a tranquil, peaceful feel.
The two of them laughed as they chatted.
In the blink of an eye, half a year passed. Ciri had unconsciously grown absorbed in the cozy life of the town. Its peaceful, happy existence was unlike anything she had ever experienced. There was no war or illness, the people had plenty to eat and wear, and everyone got along.
After she spun a story about being a traveler fallen on hard times—a tale she herself found absurd, far-fetched, and full of holes—Victor simply accepted her and shared his cottage with her while she recovered. The other residents of Bell Town welcomed her just as readily, greeting their new guest with warm beer and delicious cake and completely overlooking all the suspicious things about her.
Even the perceptive mare Kelpie was won over by the irresistible treats of neatly made bean cakes and finely chopped dried grass, letting the local children pet her as much as they wanted. They adored the beautiful, powerful Kelpie.
Unfortunately, fate wouldn't let her keep living in comfort...
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