Kael sat in the ruined house, back against the cold stone wall, his sword resting across his lap. The faint glow of embers flickered in the fireplace, the only source of warmth in the hollowed-out remains of the family's home. The fight had been brutal, the specter more cunning than most wraiths he had faced before. But in the end, it was gone.
He let out a slow breath, feeling the weight of exhaustion settle over him. His wounds weren't deep, but the ghostly touch of the spirit still lingered—a cold, unnatural numbness where its claws had grazed him. It would fade in time. The night stretched on in eerie silence, broken only by the occasional crackle of dying embers. Sleep did not come easily, but he rested—as much as a Witcher could.
Morning came cold and gray.
Kael stepped out of the house, rolling the stiffness from his shoulders as he made his way back toward the barracks. The streets of Rivia were already alive with activity—merchants calling out their wares, workers hauling crates from the docks, the occasional patrol of soldiers passing by.
The city was still recovering from Nilfgaard's retreat. Scars of the war lingered—burnt-out buildings, shattered streets, a tense undercurrent in the air. But life moved on. It always did.
He found the captain where he expected—at his post near the barracks in the commercial quarter. The man was speaking with a group of soldiers, but when he caught sight of Kael, his expression hardened.
"You're alive," the captain muttered, dismissing the men with a nod before turning to face him fully.
Kael smirked faintly. "Disappointed?"
The soldier let out a tired exhale, rubbing a hand over his face. "No. Just surprised. Some of the men saw what was left of the bodies. Figured whatever did that would've torn you apart too."
Kael reached into his pouch and pulled out the broken shards of the mirror—what little remained of the spirit's anchor. He tossed them onto the wooden table between them. "It won't kill anyone else."
The captain's gaze lingered on the fragments before nodding. He reached into his belt, pulling out a small leather pouch and tossing it to Kael. "Three hundred sixty crowns, as promised. The official bounty for finding and dealing with the murderer."
Kael caught it in one hand, the weight of the coin satisfying.
"Good work," the captain added after a moment. "Rivia could use more killers like you."
Kael scoffed, tucking the pouch into his belt. "You're lucky I'm not charging per ghost."
The captain chuckled dryly. "Get out of here, Witcher."
Kael nodded, turning on his heel. One contract down. But he wasn't done yet. There were more jobs to take, more coin to earn.
And something told him Rivia held more than just monsters in its shadows.
-------------------------------
Kael moved through the bustling streets of Rivia, his steps steady, his mind already shifting to the next task. He needed more supplies—alchemy ingredients, sharpening stones, maybe even a few throwing knives to replace the ones he'd lost during his journey. The coin in his pouch felt reassuring, a reminder that his work always paid.
The city was alive in its own way. Merchants shouted over one another, hawking everything from dried meat to bolts of fine Nilfgaardian silk. The scent of fresh bread mixed with the more unpleasant stench of unwashed bodies and horse dung. A normal day in a city rebuilding itself.
Kael was focused on scanning the market stalls when a presence brushed against his senses—subtle, but deliberate. Someone was following him.
He didn't react at first, simply adjusting his pace, letting his hand rest lightly near his dagger's hilt. He waited, listening, tracking the footsteps behind him until, finally, a figure stepped closer.
A man in a dark, hooded cloak walked alongside him, his face shadowed beneath the fabric. Not a beggar, not a merchant—his stance was too controlled, his presence too purposeful.
"Witcher," the hooded man spoke in a low, measured tone. "My master wishes to speak with you."
Kael barely glanced at him, his grip tightening slightly. "Not interested."
The man didn't falter. "She insists."
That made Kael stop. Just for a second.
She.
He turned his head slightly, getting a better look at the figure beneath the hood. He still couldn't see the man's face, but he could feel the weight of his gaze—watching, judging, waiting.
Kael exhaled through his nose, considering his options. He could walk away. Could force the issue, see if the man had the nerve to try and stop him.
But something about this felt… different.
"Fine," he said at last. "Lead the way."
The hooded man nodded once, then turned, weaving effortlessly through the crowded streets. Kael followed, his fingers resting near his weapons.
He had a feeling this meeting would be more than just talk.
-------------------------------------------
Kael followed the hooded man through the winding streets of Rivia, his senses sharp, every step calculated. They passed through the market, beyond the craftsmen's quarter, and into the noble district—where the streets were cleaner, the buildings grander, and the people warier of strangers.
He expected to be led to a manor or some hidden garden, but instead, his guide turned sharply down a side alley, stopping before what looked like a simple stone wall. Without hesitation, the hooded man reached out, pressing against a particular brick.
With a faint grind of shifting stone, a concealed passage revealed itself.
Kael narrowed his eyes. "A secret entrance? To where exactly?"
The hooded man said nothing, only gesturing for him to step inside.
Kael exhaled sharply but followed. He had already come this far. If this was a trap, it was a damn well-crafted one but he was confident in escaping from it.
The passage was narrow and damp, the air thick with the scent of earth and aged stone. They moved downward, the torchlight casting shifting shadows on the walls. The deeper they went, the more Kael felt the weight of something unseen pressing against him—a sensation of history, of power.
Finally, the corridor opened into a large underground chamber.
It was no mere cellar. The room was lined with banners—blue and silver, the sigil of Lyria and Rivia displayed proudly. Soldiers in polished armor stood at the ready, their hands resting near their swords but not yet drawing them. A heavy wooden table occupied the center of the chamber, maps and documents spread across its surface.
And at the head of the table stood Queen Meve of Lyria and Rivia.
Kael had never met her before, but he recognized her instantly. The silver-haired warrior queen, famed for her defiance against Nilfgaard, for her tactical brilliance and unyielding will.
She turned as he entered, sharp blue eyes studying him like a blade pressed against his throat. There was no hesitation in her gaze, no fear—only the cold calculation of a ruler who had seen far too many battles.
Kael tilted his head slightly. "Didn't expect to be summoned by a queen."
Meve smiled, but it was a hard, knowing smile. "And I didn't expect to summon a Witcher. But war makes for strange company."
She gestured toward the table. "Sit. We have much to discuss."