A shallow stream burbled past, clear and cold. Wearing a full set of witcher armor and with his hair trimd into a blunt bowl cut, Victor sat by the water in ditation. The herb satchel he never left behind on outings hung crosswise at his hip, and a sharpened steel sword lay bare across his knees.
Today's hunt had no master accompanying him. It was his first ti operating alone. Since autumn began, Vesemir had taken him out beyond the keep almost every few days—tempering his mindset, refining his technique. In Kaer Morhen's kitchen, the at recipes had expanded accordingly: from deer and roe deer, to lynx and grey wolf, and even brown bear.
Now, with experience piled high and book knowledge to match, even without a witcher's razor-sharp five senses, Victor could still judge the ga trails used by large animals.
He was waiting for an adult brown bear that would soon go into hibernation.
This was a proper hunt.
…
On that sa day, Kaer Morhen welcod two returning wanderers—fully trained witchers coming ho. One was Lambert, ill-tempered and razor-tongued, with that distinctive M-shaped hairline. The other was Eskel, mild in manner, his side-parted hair framing a face marked by a disfiguring scar. They rode in together, dismounted at the drawbridge, and led their horses through the gate.
"Made it ho before the first snow, at least."
"Bullshit. I don't call a drafty hall and rooms with no furniture a 'ho.'"
"However you want to complain, Vesemir's here. That makes it ho."
"When the old man dies, I'm never coming back."
Trading idle remarks, they tied their horses in the stable and stepped into the courtyard.
"Huh—? A new apprentice?" Eskel noticed the wooden comb post, its surface marked by obvious fresh footprints. He moved closer as he spoke, studying the wear from use.
Lambert didn't follow. He turned straight toward the other end of the courtyard to inspect the "windmill" and the "pendulum."
"The jump-turns show so skill," Eskel concluded after his look. "Still not fast enough."
"Tch. The windmill's nowhere near good enough," Lambert said, straightening up. "Poor bastard definitely took a nasty hit this morning—the blood he coughed up hasn't even dried. The pendulum work, though? Not bad. Didn't get clipped too many tis." He rubbed the clotted blood off his fingers against a pile of hay. "Co on. Let's go ask the old man where he found a new apprentice. Anyone doing this well has been training at least a year and a half. I don't rember anyone like that last year."
"I'm more interested in the Trial of the Grasses," Eskel said. "For Vesemir to take in a new apprentice… maybe he's found a way to raise the success rate."
"That damned trial should stay buried in the dirt forever!"
…
Victor opened his eyes to a roar. Across the river, he saw it.
He moved fast, yanking out three vials from his herb satchel and downing them in one breath: Blizzard to sharpen reaction speed, Thunderbolt to boost strength, and Tawny Owl to reinforce stamina.
As secret witcher formulas, the effects were powerful—so was the toxicity. A normal person drinking them would, at best, pass out; at worst, drop dead on the spot. Even a witcher, with a fast tabolism, couldn't swallow too many different potions at once. And when toxicity built up too high, you had to drink the antidote potion White Honey—or you'd die of poison all the sa.
But for Victor the alchemist, that limitation didn't exist.
Because in the dead of night, with his door shut, he'd simply combined Blizzard with White Honey—making a non-toxic Blizzard. Thunderbolt and Tawny Owl got the sa treatnt, each turned into a non-toxic version by the sa thod.
The drawback was obvious: once the poison was gone, the potency dropped off a cliff. But Victor knew that was only because his ability still wasn't high enough. As his alchemy improved, sooner or later he'd be able to make versions with no loss at all—maybe even stronger than the originals.
Breathing in, feeling the effects circulate through his body, Victor settled into Plough Guard, sword point angled forward—
And t the starving bear as it lunged.
…
The newcor's room looked nothing like the other witchers' bedrooms—spartan to the point of looking like a vagrant's shelter. Here, there was a simple, practical set of wooden table and chairs. The bed was neither too soft nor too hard. A small cabinet held a few books. Four or five cotton undergarnts hung drying on a rack, a quiet sign of decent hygiene and a higher standard of living.
Only two things felt truly "witcher" about it.
One: the alchemy cauldron set by the hearth—equipnt for simring blade oils or brewing potions.
Two: a wolf pelt on the wall—witchers liked to decorate their doors and walls with the hides of beasts they'd killed.
Outside the room, Lambert glanced at Eskel and shook his head. "Whoever our new lodger is, he definitely knows how to live better than the Princess of Cintra. Maybe he's a king."
"Give it a rest," Eskel said. "Kings don't get smacked by the windmill hard enough to cough blood."
"Vesemir and his crossbow aren't here either. Looks like he went hunting with the king."
"Maybe we should drop our things, light a fire in the hall, and have a drink," Eskel suggested. "By the ti they get back, we can start roasting at."
"I like that idea."
…
When the bear finally collapsed onto the fern-choked edge of the woodland, five bolts from a spring-loaded heavy crossbow rig were pinned into its chest. A bear trap had nearly bitten its left foreleg off at the shoulder. Another bear trap clamped its right hind leg. Its neck lay twisted against mud softened by the stream, its breath coming in wet, rasping huffs.
Then a steel sword punched deep through its left eye and into the brain, ending its useless fury and pain—leaving only the right eye, already dulling, still staring up at the sky.
Victor examined the scratches on his armor where claws had raked him and spat out a couple of bitter curses. He should've been able to avoid that—if only his jump-turn speed were faster.
He rolled up his sleeves, drew a short blade, and flipped the bear onto its back. Quick and decisive, he cut from the breastbone down, carefully separating the fat layer. He removed the bear's heart, the gallbladder, and the bezoar stone—then kept slicing downward all the way to the anus, circling the blade around the genitals before finishing with a clean cut.
What a treasure of a beast.
The heart could serve as a special catalyst. The bile could be used in dicine. The pelt could be tanned. The paws could be used as a restorative delicacy. The at could be eaten. The bear's… could be used for…
In an era that didn't care about protected species, Victor thodically "assigned" every part of the brown bear a purpose in his head.
He heaved the dead bear up onto a stone that jutted from the streambed, letting the running water flush the opened belly clean—washing away blood and the last remnants of internal filth.
…
When Vesemir entered the great hall, the two witchers rose naturally to greet him.
Eskel stepped in first and wrapped him in a tight hug. "Master. We're back."
"Ohoho—well, look who's co ho," Lambert said, speaking nonsense as usual even while he leaned in for a brief embrace. "Isn't this our grand witcher master? Didn't you go hunting? How co you don't stink of blood—and why are your hands empty?"
Vesemir smiled kindly. "Wait a bit. Victor's still down by the river dealing with the bear. Today was actually his first solo hunt. I was worried sothing might go wrong, so I followed him quietly. Don't ntion that to him when he gets back."
Lambert tugged Vesemir down into a seat and shoved a cup into his hand. "Of course. But shouldn't you introduce this Victor to us first?"
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