The rented room was dimly lit, the scent of herbs and alchemical reagents thick in the air. Kael sat at a sturdy wooden table, tools spread before him. He worked with precision, grinding ingredients, heating mixtures, and carefully decanting them into small vials.
Oils were essential to a Witcher's craft—each one tailored to a different kind of monster. And after months of relying on whatever he could scavenge, it felt almost ritualistic to craft them himself once more.
Cursed Oil
He started with cursed oil, useful against werewolves, botchlings, and other abominations. The base was bear fat—thick and viscous—melted over a low flame. He crushed wolfsbane into a fine powder, adding a few drops of rebis to stabilize the mixture. When it darkened into a deep, almost black sheen, he poured it into a small vial.
Draconid Oil
Next was draconid oil, meant for wyverns, forktails, and basilisks. He mixed powdered basilisk scales with mandrake root, heating the mixture carefully before blending it with alchemical grease. It took on a greenish tint, the scent sharp and acrid.
Necrophage Oil
For the undead, he prepared necrophage oil. Alghoul marrow was key—it carried the essence of decay. He combined it with white myrtle petals and dissolved the mixture into a solution of thickened resin. The result was a foul-smelling, grayish oil, potent against ghouls, wraiths, and other creatures of rot.
Relict Oil
Finally, relict oil. This one required endrega venom, a rare find. He mixed it with bryonia and the powdered remains of a leshen root. The concoction shimmered slightly, an eerie effect that hinted at its deadly properties.
Kael leaned back, exhaling slowly. The oils were done. He packed them carefully, securing each vial in leather pouches. His silver dagger and sword were already coated in the oils he expected to need most.
With his preparations complete, it was time to find work.
Kael moved through Rivia's streets, stopping at every likely place—a notice board near the city gates, a rundown tavern where mercenaries gathered, even the marketplace where traders spoke in hushed voices of dangers on the roads. Most of the postings were for mundane tasks. Escort work, missing livestock, the usual nonsense that desperate men called a "contract."
But Kael wasn't interested in simple work. He needed something real—something that required a Witcher. He pressed on, asking questions, listening to rumors. Some spoke of a beast near the river, others of disappearances in the outskirts.
But one tale, overheard in a smoky tavern, caught his interest.
A man, voice hushed and shaking, spoke of a family slain in their own home, the bodies torn apart, yet no one had heard a thing. No signs of forced entry. No tracks leading in or out. Kael's fingers brushed against the vial of cursed oil at his belt.
That sounded like work worth investigating.
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Rivia's commercial quarter was alive with movement, merchants hawking their goods while guards patrolled the stone-paved streets. The air smelled of baked bread, leather, and sweat—far removed from the blood and death Kael expected to find soon.
His contact had directed him here, to a captain tasked with maintaining order. The city had seen war, occupation, and now an uneasy peace under Queen Meve's rule. With the Nilfgaardians gone, tensions still simmered beneath the surface. The last thing Rivia needed was a killer roaming free.
Kael found the captain near a barracks on the edge of the district, overseeing a group of soldiers. He was a hard-faced man, clad in a breastplate bearing the sigil of Lyria and Rivia. His armor was well-kept but bore the marks of recent battles.
The Witcher approached, his steps measured.
The captain's gaze snapped to him instantly. A soldier's instincts.
"You're the one asking about the contract?" the man asked, arms crossed.
Kael nodded. "That depends on what you're offering."
The captain frowned, glancing at his men before motioning Kael aside. He lowered his voice.
"This isn't some beast in the woods, Witcher. A whole family was butchered in their home—father, mother, two children. No forced entry. No screams. No tracks. Nothing." His expression darkened. "And that's a problem. Rivia's been through enough. We can't have people thinking there's another war coming or—Melitele forbid—some curse upon the city."
"Who found the bodies?" Kael asked.
"A patrol. One of the neighbors got curious after not seeing them for two days. We entered and..." He exhaled sharply. "You'll see for yourself soon enough. The house is still untouched. My men refused to move the bodies. Not after what they saw."
Kael studied him. The man was a soldier, not a coward, yet he looked disturbed.
"Your superior ordered you to find the killer?" Kael pressed.
The captain grunted. "More like ordered me to make sure there's no unrest. Rivia's just getting back on its feet after the Nilfgaardians left. The Queen doesn't want fear spreading through the city."
Kael nodded. "Then I'll take a look. I assume you'll pay once I bring you an answer?"
The captain scoffed. "No, you'll be paid when you bring me the killer's head."
Kael said nothing, only holding the captain's gaze for a moment before turning. The terms didn't matter. What mattered was the hunt. And if whatever had slaughtered that family left no trace, then it wasn't human.
Time to find out what he was dealing with.
Kael moved through the narrow streets of Rivia, guided by one of the captain's soldiers. The man was young, barely past twenty, and despite his attempt at keeping a steady pace, Kael could hear his armor rattling.
They reached the house—a simple two-story structure, no different from the ones beside it. Yet the air here felt heavier, colder. The neighbors had already abandoned their homes, whether from fear or orders, Kael didn't know.
The soldier stopped short of the door, swallowing hard. He wasn't going in.
Kael didn't blame him.
The door was slightly ajar, untouched since the discovery. Kael stepped inside, boots silent against the blood-stained floorboards. The smell hit him first—a thick, suffocating stench of rot, iron, and something else… something wrong.
His witcher senses flared to life as he moved through the small entryway, taking in the details. No sign of forced entry. No struggle. Whatever did this had been invited in.
Then he stepped into the main room—and froze.
The family was still there.
Or rather, what was left of them.
The father sat slumped in a chair at the dining table, his body unnaturally stiff, his skin drained of all color. His eyes had burst in their sockets, leaving dried black streaks down his cheeks. His hands were clenched into fists so tight his nails had pierced the flesh. A look of sheer, agonized terror was frozen on his face.
Kael crouched beside the mother's corpse, his eyes scanning every detail with practiced precision. He reached into his pouch and retrieved a small vial of moon dust, sprinkling it lightly over her remains. The fine silver powder shimmered in the dim light—then, instead of settling, it dissolved into faint wisps of black smoke.
Kael narrowed his eyes. Specter magic. But not a wraith. The reaction was too subtle. A wraith's presence would have left lingering essence, a trace of its torment. This was something else.
He moved methodically through the house, searching for signs—something that told him what had killed them, how, and why.
The lack of blood was strange. The father's body showed no signs of a struggle, yet the terror in his expression suggested he had died in sheer panic. The mother's twisted limbs hinted at something unnatural—a force that had broken her body without leaving visible wounds.
Kael turned his attention to the children's room. Their beds were undisturbed, blankets still tucked around their small bodies. But their faces… their mouths frozen in silent screams, their eye sockets hollow and black.
He exhaled, standing slowly. This wasn't a simple haunting.
His fingers traced faint markings near the doorway—small indentations in the wood, claw-like, but not from any beast he knew. He followed them along the floor, noting the subtle scorch marks barely visible against the aged planks.
A faint, acrid scent still lingered in the air, masked beneath the overwhelming stench of death. Not decay. Something else. Something burnt.
He ran his gloved fingers over the father's stiffened hands, peeling back his clenched fingers. Skin rubbed raw. Nails broken. He had been gripping something—something small.
Kael scanned the floor nearby until he found it—a single scrap of paper, crumpled and stained with sweat. He carefully smoothed it open.
The writing was rushed, unsteady. A single phrase, scrawled over and over in trembling script:
"The mirror, the mirror, the mirror—"
Kael's gaze flicked toward the only mirror in the house—a tall, ornate thing standing against the far wall. The glass was cracked. And something about it felt wrong.