Kael remained standing, arms crossed over his chest. "Witchers don't fight in wars," he said plainly, his gaze steady on Queen Meve.
She smirked, but there was no humor in it. "No? Tell me, then—where were the Witchers of the Cat School when Cintra burned? Hunting monsters? Or was it coin that led them to Nilfgaard's side?"
Kael's expression didn't change, but he knew her words weren't baseless. The Cats had a reputation for taking any contract, no matter how bloody or dishonorable.
Meve continued. "And what of the Vipers? More than a few of their blades have been found buried in the backs of kings and generals in the past. Don't tell me your kind stays out of war, Kael. Some of you dive into it headfirst."
Kael exhaled slowly, his fingers idly tapping against the hilt of his dagger. "And yet you called on me, not them."
"Because I need a killer, not a traitor."
That caught his attention. Meve gestured toward the map on the table, indicating a few key locations marked in red. "The war with Nilfgaard may be over, but not all of their soldiers surrendered. There are remnants still clinging to the ruins of their empire in the north, raiding villages, ambushing supply lines. I could deal with them, given time."
She tapped another mark on the map, this one near the Mahakam foothills. "But then, there's the Wild Boars."
Kael raised an eyebrow. "Bandits?"
"Not just bandits. Butchers. Marauders. They're led by a man named Odo Var Eckers—a former Nilfgaardian officer. When the Black Ones pulled back, he and his men refused to leave. Instead, they turned to raiding, pillaging, and calling themselves lords of the land. They've taken over a fortress to the south, and now they hold the region in a stranglehold."
Kael studied the map, noting the position of the fortress. It was well-placed—on high ground, near a river, and far enough from major roads that a siege would be costly.
He looked back at Meve. "So why call me? You have soldiers. Send them in."
Meve leaned forward, folding her hands. "I could. But I don't want a war. My people need peace. If I march on Odo, it'll take months to break his stronghold, and in that time, countless villages will burn. I need someone who can slip in and kill him before that happens."
Kael let the silence stretch between them, considering her words.
A fortress full of ex-soldiers. A commander who survived Nilfgaard's brutal campaigns. This wasn't a contract to kill a simple beast—it was a war in miniature, fought with steel and blood in the shadows.
And yet… he wasn't about to refuse.
Kael finally exhaled. "My price will be high."
Meve smiled, this time with something closer to approval. "Good. Because I intend to pay well."
After discussing the reward Kael was about to turn away when Meve spoke again.
"One more thing."
He stopped, glancing back at her.
She tapped another mark on the map—this one deeper in the forests near the Dol Angra border. "There have been rumors of Scoia'tael activity in the region. Stragglers left behind after the war. They're regrouping, attacking merchant caravans, and even making small raids on outposts."
Kael frowned. "The war's over. I thought most of them either fled or laid down arms."
Meve's expression darkened. "Some did. But not all. These ones are more dangerous because they have nothing left to lose. If they continue unchecked, it won't be long before they start rallying others to their cause. And I don't have the manpower to hunt them down while dealing with Odo."
Kael studied the map, tracing a gloved finger over the marked locations. "You want me to deal with them too?"
Meve nodded. "I won't ask you to hunt them all down. But if you uncover any information—where their leaders are, how many remain, their plans—I'll pay handsomely for it."
He considered it for a moment, then gave a short nod. "Fine. I'll keep my eyes open."
Meve smirked. "That's all I ask." She gestured toward a servant standing by the chamber door. The man stepped forward and placed a heavy pouch on the table.
Kael picked it up and felt the weight of the coins inside. Good silver. Enough to keep him well-equipped for what lay ahead.
"Then we're done here. I'll come back for the rest after the job" he said, tucking the pouch away.
Meve watched him for a moment, then inclined her head. "Good hunting, Witcher."
Without another word, Kael turned and strode out of the chamber, his mind already focused on the task ahead.
--------------------------------------------------
Kael left Rivia behind with little ceremony, taking the western roads that wound toward the Mahakam foothills. His horse, a sturdy mare he had yet to name, carried him across the countryside with steady ease.
The journey stretched over a week, the air growing colder as he ventured closer to the mountains. He kept to the smaller roads where he could, avoiding unnecessary attention, though trouble found him regardless.
The first encounter came on the third night—a pack of nekkers that had made a den near a ruined watchtower. Kael had set up camp close to a stream when he caught their scent—musk and decay. They attacked just as the sun dipped below the horizon.
He met them with steel, his blade flashing in the fading light. Nekkers were pests, quick and vicious, but predictable. He cut them down with clean, practiced strikes, their bodies hitting the dirt one by one. When the last nekker lunged, he let the ice flow through his palm, his newly trained instinct kicking in.
Frost clung to the creature's skin where his hand met it, the nekker shrieking as ice spread across its limbs, slowing it down just long enough for him to drive his sword through its skull.
He knelt over the corpses, harvesting useful alchemical ingredients—mutagen glands, venom sacs, claws. When he stood, he flexed his fingers. The ice still wasn't as strong as the first time, but he could summon it on command now, even if only in small bursts. It was progress.
Two days later, Kael rode into an abandoned farmstead, intending to rest for the night. He had barely stepped inside the barn when he smelled rot. The scent of dried blood, lingering in the soil.
A Ghoul.
The creature burst from the shadows, jaws snapping. Kael sidestepped, his silver dagger flashing as he slashed across its throat. The ghoul gurgled, stumbling back, but not before its claws raked across his arm. The wound burned instantly—ghoul venom.
Kael cursed, rolling his shoulder. He drew his steel sword, coated in necrophage oil, and cut the ghoul down before it could recover. He didn't waste time. He pulled out a vial of Golden Oriole, downed the antidote in one gulp, and let the familiar warmth spread through his limbs as it fought off the venom.
After checking the ghoul's corpse for useful remains, he moved on, not willing to risk staying in a place that had already drawn monsters.
On the sixth day, just as the foothills came into view, Kael rode into an ambush.
Three bandits, poorly armed but desperate, rushed him as he passed through a narrow trail. He didn't bother with words. The first man lunged with a rusted axe—Kael parried, stepped in close, and buried his hunter's dagger in the bandit's throat.
The second swung wildly, a shortsword hacking at Kael's midsection. He twisted aside, letting the blade pass by his armor before he kicked the man backward. Before the bandit could rise, Kael stepped forward, driving his steel sword through his chest.
The last one hesitated. Kael wiped his blade clean and met the man's eyes. "Run."
The bandit took the offer, vanishing into the woods. Kael didn't care enough to chase him. Instead, he searched the bodies, taking what coin and supplies he could.
As he mounted his horse again, he rolled his shoulders, testing the soreness in his muscles. These fights were almost too easy now. His movements were faster, his strikes sharper. His body felt stronger than it ever had, his reflexes honed past what even the best of Witchers could achieve.
And yet, his ice sign still eluded him. He could channel it now—spread frost over his skin, slow his enemies—but it wasn't as explosive as it had been the first time.
'What was missing?'
By the seventh day, Kael reached the edges of the Mahakam foothills. The air was crisp, the scent of pine and wet stone filling his lungs. Smoke curled in the distance—signs of settlements, perhaps even a camp of Wild Boars or Nilfgaardian stragglers.
He slowed his horse, taking in the lay of the land. Somewhere out there was Odo and his gang. Somewhere out there was the real hunt.
Kael tightened his grip on the reins.
'Time to begin.'