The morning sun broke over the tree line in soft orange hues, casting long shadows on the muddy trail winding through Velen's bleak wilderness. Dew clung to the underbrush, and the cold air bit through the layered fabrics of Yunan's robes. Riding a few paces behind Geralt, he yawned dramatically and pulled his hood tighter.
"Remind me again," Yunan called out, "why we couldn't teleport and avoid this mud-soaked march through misery?"
Geralt, riding ahead on Roach, didn't bother looking back. "Portals leave a trail. The Wild Hunt can sniff them out like bloodhounds. I'd rather not lead them right to us."
Yunan sighed. "Right. Subtlety. I forgot you love a good scenic route filled with rotting monsters and bandit corpses."
Geralt's eyes scanned the trail ahead, saying nothing.
The path ahead veered into a narrow glade flanked by thick woods. Birds chirped half-heartedly overhead, and the wind whispered through the trees—until it didn't.
Geralt reined Roach to a stop. "Dismount."
Yunan didn't argue. The abrupt silence in the woods was warning enough. He slid off his stallion and loosened the sleeves of his robe in case spellwork was needed.
A wet snarl came from the left. Another from the right. Within moments, three ghouls burst from the underbrush, all sinew and fangs, eyes wild with hunger.
Geralt moved first. He drew his silver sword with a smooth, practiced motion, stepping into a low guard as one ghoul lunged. The blade sang through the air—clean, fast, merciless. The ghoul collapsed mid-leap, its head rolling to the ground.
Another tried to flank him. Geralt pivoted, ducked under its swipe, and drove his blade up through its chest. It twitched once and fell limp.
Yunan watched the third ghoul charge him, eyes narrowed.
"You'd think they'd learn."
He flicked two fingers, muttered a single word, and a crackling bolt of lightning shot from his palm. The ghoul was lifted off its feet, charred black before it hit the ground.
"Showoff," Geralt muttered, cleaning his blade on a patch of grass.
"Says the man who dances through monsters like it's a tavern brawl," Yunan replied, brushing a bit of ash off his sleeve.
Before they could remount, a low growl came from deeper in the woods. A louder splash followed. Five more figures emerged—drowners, blue-skinned and stinking of brine and rot. Their jaws snapped, drool dripping from long, jagged teeth.
Geralt didn't hesitate. He stepped forward, planted his feet, and swept his sword in a wide arc. One drowner lost its arm; another its head. The remaining three swarmed him, but he rolled through them, slashing upward to carve deep wounds across exposed torsos.
In the same breath, he thrust his hand out and cast Igni—fire erupted from his fingers and engulfed the remaining monsters. They shrieked as the flames consumed them.
A minute later, it was over. The glade was quiet again, the stench of burned flesh hanging in the air.
Yunan raised an eyebrow. "Remind me never to spar with you."
Geralt wiped his sword clean again and sheathed it. "You talk too much."
"Someone has to keep the mood light."
They remounted and resumed their journey. The path ahead twisted through low hills and sparse woods, the occasional corpse or toppled cart a reminder of Velen's cursed reputation. Smoke curled faintly on the horizon—sign of the Crossroads Inn, nestled where the old northern trail split east and south.
As they approached, Yunan tilted his head. "Charming place. Bet the ale's watered down and the food's burnt."
"Focus on the job," Geralt said. "We're here for Hendrik."
Yunan grinned. "Right. The elusive informant with ties to Nilfgaard. Let's hope he hasn't been turned into ghoul chow."
Geralt dismounted first and led Roach to a post near the entrance. Yunan followed suit, his boots squelching slightly in the wet earth. The inn itself was a squat building of aging timber, patched with mismatched boards and crowned with a sagging thatch roof. A broken sign hung near the door, swaying lazily in the wind.
Inside, the inn smelled of smoke, meat, and sweat. A few locals sat hunched over mugs, casting sideways glances at the newcomers. The fire crackled in the hearth, and a lute strummed quietly in the corner—more out of habit than talent.
Geralt made his way to the bar. The innkeeper, a stocky man with a stained apron and a face that looked perpetually annoyed, eyed them warily.
Before Geralt could open his mouth, Yunan leaned casually on the counter.
"We're looking for someone," he said. "Name's Hendrik. Lives nearby. Keeps to himself. You know the type."
The innkeeper opened his mouth—but before he could answer, the front door creaked open behind them.
Three armored men stepped inside. Their boots thudded heavily against the wooden floor. Scarred, scruffy, and smelling faintly of piss and arrogance, they looked like the kind of men who made trouble for sport.
The leader, a thick-necked brute with a dented pauldron and missing teeth, swaggered up behind Geralt.
"You lost, freak?" he sneered. "Don't remember calling for a monster catcher."
Geralt turned his head slowly, just enough for the torchlight to catch his eyes—catlike and golden, cold and sharp.
The thug's smirk faltered.
One of his companions, a wiry man with a half-shaved scalp, stepped forward quickly. "That's a Witcher, you idiot. Sit down."
The brute hesitated, then backed off, muttering curses as he slumped into a nearby chair.
Tension evaporated. The innkeeper sighed, visibly relieved.
Yunan straightened and clapped his hands once. "Well. That could've gone worse."
Geralt didn't smile. He just turned back to the innkeeper.
"Hendrik," he said. "Start talking."
The innkeeper eyed Geralt carefully, as if weighing whether telling the truth was worth the risk. Then he glanced at the three armored men now nursing their drinks in the corner and leaned in just a bit closer over the counter.
"Name's Hendrik, you said?" he muttered, keeping his voice low. "Aye. He came through here some time ago. Said little, kept to himself. Paid well. Never drank."
Geralt nodded slowly. "Where is he now?"
The innkeeper rubbed the back of his neck, glancing around the room again. "Heatherton. Small village just south of here. Quiet place. Or... it was."
Yunan, lounging against the bar with his usual air of boredom, raised a brow. "What's that supposed to mean?"
The innkeeper hesitated. "It's been strange, lately. Heard folks say it's gone cold... frost in the middle of summer. No birds. No sound. Just... stillness."
Yunan's eyes narrowed slightly. "That's not weather. That's magic."
"Or worse," Geralt said under his breath.
The innkeeper stepped back, taking the cue that the conversation was over. "You didn't hear any of that from me," he muttered, and turned away to tend the hearth.
Yunan tapped a finger against the wooden bar. "Well, that was cheerful. Sounds like our contact may have run afoul of something nasty."
Geralt nodded once. "Let's find out."
They stepped back outside, the inn's wooden door thudding shut behind them. The sky had begun to clear, streaks of morning light pushing through the thinning clouds. A breeze carried the scent of pine and the faint smoke of distant campfires.
The trail to Heatherton was barely more than a dirt track lined with weeds and half-dead trees. The landscape here was all swampy ridges and skeletal brush. As they rode, the silence around them thickened, broken only by the occasional caw of a far-off crow.
It didn't take long before more trouble found them.
Just past a rotted fencepost, a low growl echoed through the trees. Then another. Six ghouls burst from the treeline, more aggressive than the last batch. Their claws scraped across the ground as they charged, howling with bloodlust.
Yunan, still atop his horse, groaned. "Oh, come on. This is getting repetitive."
Geralt dismounted smoothly, drawing his sword in one motion. "I'll take the left."
Yunan didn't move. Instead, he raised his right hand, fingers crackling with energy. The air around him shimmered as he drew in power. The ghouls didn't even notice—they were too focused on Geralt.
Then came the flash.
"Ramz Al-Salos."
Lightning screamed from the sky, arcing in jagged forks that struck the ghouls dead-on. The smell of scorched flesh and burned grass filled the air as the entire pack dropped in a heap—smoking, twitching, still.
Geralt lowered his sword, blinking once.
Yunan stretched lazily. "Told you I wasn't in the mood to be delayed."
Geralt didn't say anything—just remounted Roach and rode on.
By mid-morning, the landscape began to shift. The dirt path turned frost-rimmed. The air grew unnaturally cold, each breath visible like steam. Even Roach slowed, ears twitching, as if sensing something wrong.
A cracked sign came into view, its paint faded and edges splintered.
HEATHERTON
Yunan's voice cut through the silence. "Frost in the middle of summer. Looks like your innkeeper wasn't exaggerating."
Geralt stared ahead. "The Wild Hunt's been here."
The village itself was a ghost of a place. Homes stood crooked and broken, their thatched roofs half-collapsed under sheets of frost. Doors hung open. No movement, no sound. It was like time had frozen along with the air.
They dismounted cautiously, weapons still sheathed but hands ready.
As they moved through the deserted street, the faint sound of barking echoed ahead—followed by a man's angry shouting.
"Back! Get back, you cursed things!"
They rounded the corner to find an old man waving a broken shovel at a pack of gaunt, half-feral dogs. His eyes were wide with terror, and his arms trembled with every swing.
The dogs turned when they saw Geralt and snarled. One of them charged.
Geralt drew his steel sword in a blur. One swing, and the dog dropped mid-lunge. Two more followed, and he dispatched them just as quickly—clean cuts, no wasted movement.
The rest scattered.
The old man staggered back, panting. "Thank the gods," he wheezed. "Those beasts... they've been roaming since the village went cold. Something evil's happened here."
"We're looking for a man," Geralt said, wiping his blade. "Hendrik. Lived here. Worked for Nilfgaard."
The man hesitated, eyes darting toward a nearby hut. "Aye. Him. Lived there, just yonder. Kept to himself."
"Is he alive?" Yunan asked.
The man didn't answer right away. "You'd best see for yourself."
The cold inside Hendrik's house clung to the walls like a second skin. Frost coated the floorboards, wrapping every surface in a white shimmer that refused to melt despite the daylight outside. The hearth was long dead. A man's corpse sat tied to a chair near the fireplace—eyes open, mouth frozen in a final silent scream.
Yunan stepped inside behind Geralt, his breath misting in the air. "I guess that's Hendrik."
Geralt knelt by the body, checking for any final signs of life, then shook his head. "Tortured to death."
The scene told its own story: the Wild Hunt had come through. They didn't just kill. They were searching for something. Someone.
Yunan moved to the fireplace, idly rubbing his gloved hands together. His eyes narrowed on a detail out of place—a wall torch bracket that wasn't frosted over.
"Geralt."
The Witcher turned. Yunan gave the torch a tug.
Click.
A hidden mechanism shifted beneath the floor. A section of the boards groaned and slid open beside the hearth, revealing a heavy iron chest sunk into a shallow compartment.
"Well," Yunan said, "either treasure, or something more useful."
Geralt pried open the chest. No traps. No magic. Just a worn leather ledger, an ink-stained quill, a sealed envelope, and a bundle of documents wrapped in oilcloth.
He opened the ledger first.
Scrawled in Hendrik's careful hand were mundane records—but beneath the ordinary purchases, something more.
Ledger Entries
Payment for a sack of grain – 35 NC
Invoice for charcoal – 24 NC
"Missing and Wanted"
Subject sought in Skellige and Novigrad.
Appearance unchanged: ashen hair, scar on her face.
Avoids contact with others.
"Drunken Swine"
So-called baron hosted subject at his castle—or should I say, illegally appropriated fort.
Reason – unknown.
Talk to baron at Crow's Perch.
"Clashed with a Witch"
Subject landed in swamp, encountered a witch.
Conflict ensued. Cause unknown.
Find the witch. Talk to the peasantry – village of Midcopse.
"Caution Advised"
I'm being observed. Don't know by whom or why.
Unsettling signs:
Dog ran off.
Water in bucket froze solid.
Strange glow in the sky – ill omen, peasants say.
Geralt set the ledger down. His jaw clenched.
"She was here," he said. "Ciri."
Yunan picked up the bundle of notes, flipping through a few pages. "Baron at Crow's Perch. Witch near Midcopse. Two leads."
Geralt nodded slowly. "We check the witch first. If there's any trace of her magic, I'll find it."
Yunan glanced at Hendrik's frozen body. "He risked a lot to keep this hidden. Probably knew it wouldn't save him."
"No," Geralt said. "But it bought us time."
They stood. Geralt replaced the documents carefully, keeping the ledger and the sealed note. Yunan gave the room one last glance, then followed him out.
Back in the pale morning light, the frost was slowly retreating from the edges of the village. Their horses waited in silence. The trail ahead stretched toward Midcopse.
Yunan swung into his saddle. "Alright, then. Off to meet the witch. Maybe she'll give us a warm welcome."
Geralt didn't answer, already riding.
The Wild Hunt had been here. But Ciri was still ahead—and this time, they had her scent.