The Blue Boars' hideout was nestled deep in the foothills, a fortified ruin built atop the remains of an old stone garrison. Age and war had crumbled parts of its walls, leaving jagged openings, but it still stood strong enough to serve as a defensible base.
Kael reined in his horse at a safe distance, keeping to the shadows of the treeline. The night air was still, broken only by the occasional hoot of an owl and the crackling of torches lining the fort's perimeter. A dozen men patrolled the walls, shifting in loose patterns.
Too relaxed. Overconfident.
Kael dismounted, leading his horse further back before securing it to a tree. Then, moving with deliberate silence, he began his approach.
From his vantage point, Kael observed. The bandits weren't well-disciplined soldiers—they were rogues, former Nilfgaardian conscripts turned mercenaries. Still, their numbers gave them strength.
Fifty-something men, just as the prisoner had said. Most were lightly armored, but a few wore Nilfgaardian plate, likely scavenged from old battlefields. They had crossbows stationed at the ruined towers, watching the main roads, and two guards stood at the entrance, spears in hand.
Inside the camp, tents and makeshift huts were scattered in the courtyard. A large wooden hall had been built at the center, where the Blue Boars' leader likely resided. Fires burned in the open, illuminating men drinking, gambling, and sharpening their weapons.
Kael scanned the exits. Besides the main gate, there were two collapsed sections of the wall—one along the western side and another toward the rear. Both could serve as entry points.
Then, there was movement.
A man, larger than the rest, stepped out of the main hall. His armor was old Nilfgaardian officer's gear, the black plate scratched and dented but still formidable. He carried a longsword at his hip and spoke with a tone that commanded attention.
The leader.
Kael noted his features carefully. He had short-cropped dark hair, a scar over his cheek, and the build of a seasoned warrior. Not a common thug—a former soldier.
After observing some more he
withdrew into the forest, considering his options. A frontal assault was suicide—fifty against one, no matter how well-trained, was a fool's gamble. He needed strategy.
Three choices came to mind.
The first one wait and observe. He could watch the camp for another day, noting patrol changes, supply runs, or any weaknesses in their routine. Patience could give him a better opening.
The second, was to create a distraction. A fire in the stables, a distant explosion—something to force the bandits out of their stronghold, giving him a chance to strike when they were disorganized.
And the third one, infiltrate the camp. The collapsed sections of the wall provided an opening. If he was careful, he could sneak inside, assassinate key targets, or reach the leader unnoticed.
Kael exhaled slowly, running a hand over his fiery red hair.
No matter what he chose, tonight would be the beginning of their end.
-----------------------------------------
Kael crouched low, his breathing steady, eyes locked onto the western side of the bandit encampment. The flickering light of torches outlined the wooden palisade, casting long shadows across the muddy ground. Two watchtowers stood tall, their vantage points making it difficult for most to approach unnoticed. But most weren't Witchers.
He moved like a shadow, weaving between patches of tall grass and scattered debris, keeping out of sight. The west was the least guarded, but that didn't mean it was unprotected. Four men patrolled the area—two near the storeroom, two at the rear wall. Enough to be dangerous, but not enough to stop him.
Kael took a throwing knife from his belt and flicked it into the air, catching it by the blade. He watched the patrols carefully, measuring their movements. The two near the storeroom were lazy, one of them leaning against a barrel, the other drinking from a flask. Careless.
With a swift movement, he unscrewed a vial from his belt—Dragon's Dream. A flammable gas, perfect for setting a delayed explosion. He soaked a small bundle of rags in the liquid, placing it just beneath a stack of barrels near the storeroom. With a flick of his fingers, he inscribed a weak Igni glyph onto the ground—one that would ignite the gas when someone stepped too close.
He smirked. If things went south, this would buy him time.
Satisfied, he retraced his steps back toward the collapsed section of the rear wall, where the wood had rotted and crumbled away. The two guards stationed here were alert, but their attention was focused on the tree line beyond, not behind them.
Perfect.
Kael drew his dagger, creeping forward with deadly intent. The nearest guard exhaled, unaware that it would be his last breath. The steel bit deep into his throat, muffling his strangled gasp as Kael caught his weight, lowering him gently to the ground. One down.
The second turned, sensing something was off—too late. Kael was already moving. With a swift step forward, he drove his hunter's dagger up beneath the man's ribs, piercing his heart. A sharp intake of breath, a shudder, then stillness. 'Two down'
With the path clear, Kael slipped through the collapsed wall into the heart of the enemy's den.
The bandit camp reeked of unwashed bodies and stale ale. Tents and makeshift wooden shacks filled the space, some occupied by sleeping men, others filled with stolen goods. A fire pit burned at the center, where a handful of bandits laughed and drank, oblivious to the predator in their midst.
Kael stayed low, keeping to the shadows as he approached the leader's quarters—a larger wooden structure at the far end of the camp. Two guards stood at the entrance, weapons at their sides.
'Too risky to take them head-on'
Instead, Kael extended his fingers and whispered a Sign.
"Axii."
The nearest guard's expression went slack. He blinked once, then turned to his companion and muttered, "I need to piss."
The other man groaned. "Again? Hurry the hell up."
The controlled bandit wandered off, leaving his companion alone. Kael struck fast—one smooth cut across the throat. Before the body could hit the ground, he caught it, dragging it behind the tent.
The Axii-controlled bandit returned moments later only for Kael to drove his steel sword through his chest, silencing him instantly. 'Both down'
The door was unlocked—a sign of arrogance. Kael slipped inside, eyes adjusting to the dim candlelight. The Blue Boars' leader, Havald sat at a wooden table, maps and documents scattered before him. His armor was better than the others, but it didn't matter if he isn't wearing it.
Kael didn't hesitate. He lunged.
Havald barely had time to reach for his weapon before Kael's sword slashed across his chest, cutting deep through muscle and bone. The man gasped, stumbling backward, blood pouring from the wound.
Kael grabbed him by the collar, slamming him onto the table, scattering papers everywhere. The leader struggled, eyes wide in pain and fury. "W-Witcher—"
Kael's sword ended the sentence.
He wiped his blade on the now dead man's clothes before turning to the scattered documents. Maps, supply records, lists of names. He pocketed the most important ones.
Then, from outside—shouting.
His trap had been triggered. The camp was coming alive.
Kael exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders. It was time to leave.