"Witt and I plan to go find Old Graz near Ban Ard once winter is over. He said he had a contract waiting for us," Geralt said, making one last stand. "Witt will have to travel with one of us to gain experience after the Trial of the Mountains anyway."
"All right, all right." Eskel waved a hand.
Vesemir turned to Witt instead. "Do you still have that dream, Witt? The green ocean brimming with life, and the nightmare swept by frost."
Witt had not expected Vesemir to bring up the question himself. He did not know what the ocean in the first part represented. Perhaps it was some ocean from his previous life.
But the "nightmare swept by frost" in the latter part clearly referred to the world-ending prophecy of Ithlinne explicitly mentioned in the original work: the White Frost.
In the original work and the games, those who dreamed of the world-ending White Frost were either bearers of the Elder Blood, such as Ciri and Alvin, or powerful mages, sorcerers, and elven sages.
Witt certainly did not think he possessed any Elder Blood, because according to the original work, it generally manifested only in female descendants.
He had simply treated that nightmare as a mixture of memories from his previous life and the original work he had read. After all, dreams were themselves a jumble of memories.
"Yes, occasionally. Especially during those seven days of the Trial of the Grasses. I had that nightmare almost every day." Witt had not expected the old witcher to remember a nightmare he had mentioned in casual conversation several years ago.
"I didn't tell you then because I was afraid it would affect your trials. Now that you're about to become a true witcher, you should know about this."
Witt's heart jolted. Could I be a child of destiny too?
"The frost in the latter part of your nightmare should be the elven prophecy of legend, but no one currently knows whether it will come to pass. As for the green ocean in the first part..."
The old witcher took a sip of wine and continued, "That isn't an ocean. It's a vast lake, located in..."
Something occurred to Witt. There really was an emerald-green lake brimming with life in the original work: Brokilon.
"Brokilon. You came from Brokilon, child." Vesemir looked at Witt with a complicated expression.
Geralt and the other two found this hard to believe, because the name by which Brokilon was known in the human world was the Forest of Death.
"How could Witt have come from the Forest of Death? How is that possible?" Even the usually levelheaded Eskel could not help exclaiming.
Lambert jumped up from the rug again. Afraid Witt might not understand what the Forest of Death meant, he shouted at him, "Those dryads don't care whether you entered the forest deliberately or by accident. All that awaits you are arrows shot from hiding, all sorts of herbs deadly poisonous to humans, and talking trees!"
"What happened, Vesemir? Witt was only ten eight years ago, wasn't he? I don't believe those dryads would have spared his life for no reason."
Geralt, who often worked in that region, had received contracts to enter the forest in search of missing people, but he had refused every one, no matter how high the reward. He had personally witnessed the joint forces of the Kingdom of Verden and the Kingdom of Kerack enter the forest and never emerge again.
Apart from the barren mountains of Mahakam, the Forest of Death was the only free land for nonhuman races in the North. It was easy to imagine how important it was to the dryads. The dryad queen Eithné's hatred of humans never wavered. Whether they pleaded for mercy, begged, or cried, her answer was always a sharp arrow straight between their brows.
"Could Witt already have been fooling around at ten?" Lambert reached toward Witt's crotch as he spoke.
His suspicions were not without reason. There were no male dryads; theirs was an all-female race. Apart from feeding abandoned human girls the Waters of Brokilon to turn them into dryads, they also reproduced by sometimes abducting adult men who strayed into the forest and taking them to its heart to breed with them. Their offspring were female dryads without exception.
But note that they would mate with the man continuously, without rest or a trace of feeling, and his final reward was to be allowed to leave the forest alive. Most abducted men, however, did not last that long.
Know who can't survive in Brokilon? Boys and old men, because their equipment is useless!
That was a saying that circulated around the Forest of Death.
"No." Vesemir shook his head. "He should count as my child of surprise."
"Count as?"
"Yes. Back then, I helped a dryad who was being harassed by a monster at the edge of the forest. I hadn't asked her to repay me in any way, but when I passed the forest again not long afterward, she stopped me. Then she handed the unconscious Witt over to me and said he was my child of destiny."
"Well..." Everyone present found it hard to believe, even Vesemir, who had experienced it himself, and Witt, who knew the original story well.
Nothing like this had ever happened since humans learned of Brokilon's existence. Even Dandelion, the most imaginative poet with the most exaggerated turns of phrase, could not have written an opening like this: a boy from Brokilon became a witcher.
Heavens, this was practically the plot of a novel.
"So, Geralt, do you understand the might of destiny now?" Vesemir's voice was filled with reverence. Apart from the gods, who were everywhere yet nowhere to be found, nothing else could have brought such an expression to the face of this old witcher, who had lived for more than a hundred and sixty years.
Regardless of the kingdom or how its maps were drawn, they all used the same words to describe Brokilon's location: the Forest of Death was a vast primeval forest surrounded by Cintra, Brugge, Sodden, and Verden, inhabited by dryads, sprites, forest gods-leshens-and various other creatures.
Geralt remained silent. Willingly or otherwise, the people around him were all being drawn toward Cintra.
After a long while, Geralt spoke. "I understand. Once winter is over and Witt and I have completed Old Graz's contract, I'll try going to Cintra to find Queen Calanthe."
"That's great, Geralt!" Witt patted the White Wolf's shoulder.
Witt was both glad that Geralt had the courage to face his destiny and curious about his own astonishing past.
What exactly had allowed a ten-year-old boy like him to leave the Forest of Death alive? Beneath that curiosity lay Witt's fear of the unknown. None of this had been in the books.
"Whatever happens, don't forget that as witchers, we must uphold neutrality," Vesemir said solemnly. "This isn't simply about clinging to tradition. Monsters are growing fewer, and the space in which witchers can survive will shrink with them. War has nothing to do with witchers. Whichever side we lean toward, it makes no difference to us. The final result will be our own destruction."
"I understand." Witt nodded.
"Let Witt undertake his final trial tomorrow." Vesemir looked at the child he had trained for eight years, deeply gratified.
"I'll go with Witt. After all, he's the only apprentice to survive the Trial of the Grasses in recent years. Old Speartip is no pushover." Geralt was as reliable as ever.
"Catch." Lambert tossed over a metal object.
The instant Witt caught it, its cold, sharp feel told him what he was holding: a School of the Wolf medallion.
A metal wolf's head lay in his palm, roaring silently. It was quite heavy.
"Stop staring, boy. It'll only truly start working after it's activated at the Circle of Elements tomorrow." Vesemir slowly stood and stretched his arms and legs. "An old man can't stay up like you youngsters. The fire's nearly out. Get some rest."
Watching Vesemir return to his room and his brothers still chatting beside the fire, Witt lay down contentedly on the rug by the fireplace and enjoyed the peace.