Tamara and Anna

Ron had spent several days at Crow's Nest and had already figured out its layout. Crow's Nest stood on a limestone rise, commanding the ground below. At its base stood a ring of thick wooden palisades and a moat.

The only way into Crow's Nest was across the log bridge at the village entrance. As one walked up from the village, the ground rose steadily; the houses on either side gradually gave way to stone walls and watchtowers, and at the top of the slope stood the baron's castle.

It was a medium-sized fortress built of red brick, divided into three levels. The outermost level was where commoners and merchants went about their business. The smithy and stables were crammed into this layer, and the ground was permanently coated in rotting mud mixed with horse dung.

The level above was the barracks, where the baron's soldiers lived. Weapon racks and training grounds occupied most of the open space.

The highest level was the baron's own residence, its heavy oak doors kept shut year-round.

On his first day, Ron had reached a conclusion: this was a military fortress that was easy to defend and difficult to assault, but beyond controlling the surrounding villages, it held no strategic value.

To the east lay marshland, to the west dense forest, and there were no decent roads to the north or south.

Nilfgaard's commander had abandoned the attack not because the place could not be taken, but because the cost did not justify the gain.

Today, Ron had left his bodyguards behind and wandered Crow's Nest alone. Not far away was a dilapidated little garden, enclosed by a low stone wall whose top was overgrown with wild vines. A few small white flowers hung from the vines.

The garden was small, but the weeds around it had been pulled, the gravel path had been laid anew, and several clumps of unknown shrubs had been trimmed neatly.

A row of roses grew against the wall. Their blooming season was mostly over, and the edges of their petals had begun to brown, but they still clung on without falling. Several herbs grew in the corner, carrying the scents of sage and rosemary.

Crow's Nest was all horse dung, stone, and mud. Only this palm-sized patch was tended by someone. Ron sat down on a stone bench and rested his battle axe beside his leg.

An old woman was bent over at the flower bed, pulling weeds. Her graying hair was tightly coiled into a bun at the back of her head. She wore an old gray-blue smock of poor material, its cuffs rubbed pale with wear, though it had been washed clean.

When she looked up, Ron saw a pair of green eyes. Their color was still clear and bright, but fine wrinkles crowded their corners. She was only in her forties, yet she looked as though she had been old for a long time.

She noticed Ron and straightened up, one hand braced against the low wall of the flower bed while the other wiped itself on her apron.

"You're the new sergeant," she said. It was not a question.

Ron nodded. "Just passing through. I thought I'd sit for a while."

The old woman did not press him. She merely moved her bamboo basket aside and continued pulling weeds.

"I tend this garden myself," she said, keeping her head lowered as though she were speaking to the flowers.

"Not many people can keep roses alive in Velen. The soil here is no good, and neither is the water. This isn't a place for such delicate plants."

Ron looked at the row of roses. The petal edges were brown, but their stems and leaves were a healthy dark green, without insect damage or withered streaks. "You know how to care for them."

"I've grown flowers for twenty years," the old woman said. "There was a larger garden at my old home. After I came here with my husband, I could only grow this little patch."

Her hand paused at the base of a rosebush, her fingers gently parting the soil to inspect its roots.

"He never used to touch my flowers. Then, after one argument, he smashed all my pots."

Ron was silent for a moment. "I'm sorry."

At that moment, footsteps sounded at the garden entrance. A young woman stood beside the iron gate, dressed in a dark cotton gown, with brown hair.

She was very young, perhaps not even twenty. There was still some childishness left in her cheeks.

But she did not stand like a girl. Her back was straight, her chin slightly tucked, as though she had grown accustomed to holding herself tightly contained.

"Mother," she said.

The old woman patted the dirt from her knees, picked up the bamboo basket, and followed the young woman toward the castle.

Before turning away, the young woman glanced at Ron. Her gaze lingered on him briefly, not with wariness.

It was simply the instinctive second look one gave upon seeing someone entirely out of place in Crow's Nest. Then she vanished around the corner.

Ron remained seated. Anna Strenger was the baron's wife, and Tamara was the baron's daughter.

In the original timeline, Anna would be cursed, and Tamara would join the witch hunters and personally save her mother from the swamp. But that was still in the future.

That afternoon, Ron passed the garden and saw Tamara sitting alone on the stone bench.

Hearing his footsteps, she looked up. Seated on the bench, she tilted her head back and studied Ron for quite a while. It was not the shy look of a young girl, but a blunt, unabashed appraisal.

She first looked at Ron's two-handed battle axe, whose blade was a full circle larger than her head, then tipped her head up to look at the top of him.

Then she looked over the half-plate worn over his mail shirt, before her gaze returned to the battle axe. Unable to resist, she asked, "Big man, where are you from?"

"Calradia."

She frowned. She had heard her father's men talking about the newly arrived sergeant and his cavalry.

But they had never mentioned where he came from. She asked, "Where is that?"

"A distant continent."

"And how did you get here?"

"A storm. A shipwreck."

She rose to her feet and stepped two paces closer, her eyes lighting up.

"Tell me about it, will you? I've never been anywhere outside Velen. The farthest I've ever gone is Vizima. Tell me about Calradia, that strange, distant continent."

Ron glanced at her and did not refuse. He merely shifted his battle axe, laying its blade to one side.

He began with Khuzait—the wind swept over endless grasslands, and when cavalry charged over the horizon, the whole earth trembled. Khuzait riders could shoot from horseback without bracing themselves with their hands, using only their knees to grip the horse's belly.

Then he spoke of the Nords' cold coast, hemmed in by snowy mountains, where the Nords cut holes through the ice to fish, and their ships bore great dragon heads carved on their prows.

Tamara blinked at that, as if drawing the shape of such a ship in her mind.

Then there was Aserai's desert, where Aserai merchants had traveled through yellow sands for thousands of years. The location of every oasis was passed down only to their sons. Their cities were built of sand bricks, and their walls turned gold beneath the setting sun.

Sturgia's snowfields stretched without end. Sturgians traveled through waist-deep snow in bear pelts, and their cavalry could march across frozen rivers.

Tamara listened intently, her chin resting in her palm, her elbow braced on her knee, her body leaning slightly forward. In a low voice, she said, "I want to see the world outside." She was speaking to herself.

Tamara fell silent for a while, her gaze leaving Ron's face to turn toward the dull gray sky beyond the wall.

Velen's sky was always like this—either overcast or shrouded in fog, with the sun rarely visible.

Ron looked at Tamara's profile. He wanted to ask why she could not leave, but he did not speak. It was not that he did not want to know; he had already read the answer in her silence.

Then heavy footsteps sounded at the garden entrance, and the baron strode in with a jug of liquor.

His face was red, his hair disheveled, and he carried the sour smell of ale. Clearly, he had been drinking for some time.

He wore a smile, but it was strained, as though he had forcibly dragged it out of some unpleasant silence.

When Tamara saw him, a complicated expression flickered across her face. It was so quick that it vanished almost before it had settled there.

She stood and said, "I'll go check on the kitchen," then headed toward the castle gates. As she passed the baron, she did not look at him.

The baron opened his mouth at her retreating back, wanting to call out, but swallowed the words. He merely kicked an empty flowerpot at his feet, then turned and glared fiercely at Ron.

"Hey, you, boy!" He jabbed a finger at Ron's chest, nearly poking the metal plates of his half-plate. "Don't you go getting ideas about my daughter, hear me?!"