The two followed the White Stone River upstream. Winter had exposed the pebble-covered riverbed in the upper reaches, deep in the Blue Mountains.
"We couldn't help her," Geralt said to Witt beside him as he led his horse.
"I know. That was just money for drinks, then. My treat."
Witt held out twenty-three crowns and thirty-five ducats.
Geralt chuckled and pushed Witt's hand away. "Come on, kid. Give the money to Vesemir. Why do you think he left Kaer Morhen? Did you really expect him to send you out on contracts wearing an apprentice's leather armor?"
"Heh."
Witt and Geralt left the riverbed and stepped onto an overgrown path winding around the mountain. From here, they could see Kaer Morhen in the distance, wedged between the rock faces of two mountains.
A calamity years ago had left the once-imposing School of the Wolf fortress with defensive walls reduced to bare supports, one or two surviving towers, a sturdy gate, and a massive, thick-walled cylindrical keep.
Inside the gate, a burly man with loose black hair was practicing his swordsmanship. A scar ran down the left side of his face from his eye to the corner of his mouth. This was Eskel, a witcher of the School of the Wolf.
Eskel's sword movements were steady and composed, his expression meticulous. If he had possessed the same tolerance for the Advanced Trial of the Grasses Decoction as Geralt, his reputation would have rivaled that of any witcher alive. Not that he would have cared about such things.
"Welcome home..."
Halfway through his greeting, Eskel caught their scent and immediately covered his nose. "Did you two just crawl out of a troll's stomach? That smell..."
"Good to see you, Eskel." Unconcerned, Geralt tethered Roach nearby.
"Eskel, when did you get back? I didn't see you when I left yesterday." Witt smiled sheepishly.
"I only got here late last night. Just in time to see Vesemir giving Lambert a dressing-down, hahaha." The normally stern Eskel couldn't help laughing at the memory of Lambert's face.
Hearing the noise, Vesemir emerged from the keep. Seeing Geralt and Witt both in one piece, his concern gave way to teasing. "Looks like our master witchers had quite a haul."
"Papa Vesemir, we're back." The sight of the old witcher who had spent years by his side filled Witt with warmth.
Vesemir's hair was gray, as was his mustache. He looked like a robust old man in his seventies or eighties, but he might actually have been older than Kaer Morhen itself. He had witnessed the witcher profession's decline from its former glory to its present state.
Yet this weathered, still-stubborn old man had held fast to his original promise, keeping the witchers of the School of the Wolf alive.
"Vesemir, you should know Witt took down a swamp hag all by himself this time. You were right. He really is improving at an astonishing rate." As he spoke, Geralt took the trophies out of his saddlebags.
"Well done, Witt." Lambert came out too, about to clap Witt on the shoulder, only to retreat from the monster stench. He grinned. "See, Vesemir? What did I tell you? He can even handle a swamp hag. He's been ready to finish his apprenticeship and leave the mountains for ages."
Lambert, formerly the "youngest" witcher, wore his hair in a neat crew cut. Something Geralt had once said summed him up perfectly: "Lambert, Lambert, what a prick."
At Lambert's words, Vesemir's face turned stern again. "You have the nerve to bring that up? Whatever else he might be, Witt is still a witcher apprentice who hasn't passed the Trial of the Mountains. How could you encourage him to take a contract alone? Especially one involving a monster like a swamp hag, which takes practical combat experience to handle."
Lambert looked apologetic. When he first saw the contract, he had made a point of inspecting the monster nest. He had found no sign of anything other than drowners, which was why he had wanted Witt to get some experience.
"Please don't blame Lambert, Papa. I wanted to get some experience myself. I think I'm ready to become a real witcher," Witt said firmly.
"Good, Witt. It's been a long time since Kaer Morhen produced a new witcher. I believe you'll become the best of us. But for now..." Vesemir looked at the monster blood they had yet to clean off.
"You two had better wash up. I don't want to smell drowners while enjoying good wine."
"Hahahaha!" Lambert roared with laughter.
"Papa, this is the payment Geralt and I earned from the contract. And Eskel, thank you, my brother." Before leaving, Witt set aside a few ducats for Eskel, then shoved all his remaining money into Vesemir's hands and walked straight into the keep without giving him a chance to say another word.
"That boy..."
Vesemir glanced at Eskel, who had also received money, then exchanged looks with Geralt and Lambert. "A wolf cub of Kaer Morhen through and through."
"He certainly is..."
Lying in a wooden tub filled with hot water, Witt felt the day's exhaustion ease.
The bruise on his waist, almost gone thanks to his extraordinary healing ability, still seemed to ache faintly. His thoughts drifted to the pitiful person lying on the riverbank.
Witt clenched his fist underwater, trying to grasp something, but the water still slipped through his fingers.
No one else has been reborn into the Witcher world, so I'm the protagonist.
Clinging to that belief, Witt had gritted his teeth through eight years of grueling training and the agonizing Trial of the Grasses.
Although Witt had been unusually calm during today's close-quarters battle with the swamp hag, looking back on it now left him somewhat shaken.
If years of training hadn't ingrained the muscle memory of casting Quen first whenever he was unsure, that single blow might have sent the story back to the original, with no more Witt of Lyria.
This isn't a game. There's no loading a save and trying again.
After this winter came 1262, the eve of the storm, the last moment of breathing room Lady Destiny granted the world.
The Nilfgaardian Empire to the south had long eyed the fertile, history-rich North, while the northern kings remained mired in endless infighting over the ownership of individual villages and tracts of land.
Meanwhile, the kings' harsh treatment of nonhuman races had also sown hidden dangers for the coming war. Years of arrogance, extravagance, and indulgence had left most people oblivious to the approaching storm.
Witchers wielded extraordinary fighting power yet had always followed the path of neutrality. They seemed far removed from the storm, but destiny would not change to suit an individual's will.
"Witt, are you done washing? Vesemir sent me to call you to dinner. Don't take too long, or Lambert will eat everything."
Geralt's voice came from outside the door.
"All right, I'm coming." Only then did Witt realize the water in the tub had long since gone cold.
Witt stood and dried himself, then saw the brand-new School of the Wolf light armor laid out on the bed, along with a brand-new silver-plated longsword.
The dark gray light armor fit comfortably, with just the right weight to avoid hindering the School of the Wolf's steady yet agile fighting style.
Witt propped his silver and steel swords beside the table and left the room.
"Look, our young witcher's here," Eskel said as he drank his broth.
"Lambert, save some for me! That's the champion ale I brought from Vizima!"
"Geralt, who was it who got thrown out by a brothel owner for having no money? Wasn't it me, Lambert, who helped you out? And now you're squabbling with your brother over this little bit of money?"
"How many times have I told you to stop talking about this crap in front of the young ones?"
Witt smiled at the four men in the dining hall.
Who gives a fuck how the world changes, as long as the guys are still here.
After a pleasant dinner, they huddled beside the fireplace in the hall for warmth.
Vesemir spoke first. "When I went to Ban Ard to find someone to make Witt's light armor, I heard things were getting tense in the south."
Compared with the lively dinner, the mood had grown somewhat somber.
Eskel rubbed his hands. "Yes. I took contracts around the Kingdom of Sodden this year. There are already several abandoned villages along the Yaruga River. Sometimes, crossing the river, I could even see black-clad troops."
Lambert curled his lip in disdain. "It's the same in Lyria and Rivia, upstream along the Yaruga. Their queen, Meve, seems to have been deliberately expanding her army lately. Their patrols nearly arrested me several times."
"None of that has much to do with witchers. We need only adhere to neutrality," Vesemir said, settling the matter.
Witt looked at the silent Geralt. He knew what Geralt was thinking. These reports from around the Yaruga might mean nothing to the others, but to Geralt...
Across the Yaruga lay Cintra, the southernmost of the northern kingdoms. There waited the destiny Geralt wanted to resist: Ciri.
Vesemir looked at the silent Geralt, understanding as well. With reverence for destiny, the elder witcher offered his advice.
"Geralt, you rejected the Law of Surprise five years ago. Once this winter ends, it will be 1262. The second six-year term of the Law of Surprise will have arrived. Will you still reject the Child of Surprise Lady Destiny has prepared for you?"
Eleven years earlier, in 1250, Geralt had saved "Duny," and the unborn child in the womb of Princess Pavetta, daughter of the Lioness of Cintra, had become his child of destiny.
Geralt had sworn never to return to Cintra, but under destiny's guidance, chance brought him back in 1257, the sixth year after Ciri's birth. By then, however, the Lioness of Cintra had lost her daughter Pavetta and her son-in-law "Duny." Because of the dangers of a witcher's profession as well, Geralt had chosen not to take Ciri away. He had resisted destiny.
In this Witcher world, where real gods existed, even a curse uttered by an ordinary person before an agonizing death might take effect, let alone an oath so closely bound to destiny.
"Destiny is a double-edged sword. Its second edge is death, and its first is me..." Geralt accepted the wine Witt handed him and took a long swig.
"Geralt, you've been hiding wine too?" Lambert sprang up.
"Shut up!" Eskel and Vesemir spoke at once.
Still, Lambert's antics made the atmosphere less heavy.
"That's what the 'Lioness,' Calanthe, said. But I agree with her. I can't let that child travel with me." Geralt gave a dry laugh and took another swig.
Witt knew the child Geralt spoke of was Ciri, the original story's protagonist. That was also why Geralt could never escape the storm: he had always been at its center.
"I'll probably look for contracts around Sodden again this year," Eskel said, as though making an idle remark.
"Then I'll go to Brugge this year. You know, Geralt, the girls there just can't resist the utterly charming Lambert." Lambert snatched the wine.
"Then I'll have a look around Verden. I still have quite a few old acquaintances there," Vesemir said.
The Kingdom of Verden also lay along the Yaruga River, which formed its border with Cintra, while the Kingdom of Brugge bordered both.