Karl hovered several feet above the ground, his cloak rippling softly in the night breeze. The moon hung high in the sky, pale and cold, casting silver light across the temple grounds. He was just about to accelerate upward and vanish into the night when his gaze swept casually toward the entrance of the temple.
That single glance made him pause.
Under the intermingling glow of moonlight and torchlight, two familiar figures stepped through the outer courtyard gates one after the other. Their silhouettes were unmistakable.
Geralt of Rivia—and Natasha.
Karl's brows lifted slightly. With a subtle shift of will, the magic supporting his body dissipated, and he descended smoothly until his boots touched the stone floor without making a sound.
He did not need to think very hard about why the two of them had come together at this hour.
It certainly wasn't to pray.
The temple enshrined a statue carved in his likeness, a symbol of faith that had begun spreading far faster than Karl was comfortable with. Yet neither of these two struck him as the devout type.
Nenneke had once remarked, with a mixture of fondness and exasperation, that Geralt was a man who trusted only the steel in his hands and the reality before his eyes. Gods, destiny, and abstract faith meant little to a Witcher whose life depended on tangible truths.
As for Natasha, she represented the prevailing mindset of the younger generation of sorcerers—skeptical, sharp-minded, and dismissive of anything that could not be measured, studied, or controlled. To her, belief was a crutch for the weak. Knowledge, Chaos, and personal power were what truly mattered.
Perhaps, Karl mused, after enough brushes with death and enough impossible miracles, she might one day begin to reconsider such views. But that day was not today.
Karl remained where he was, standing beneath the temple's towering columns, waiting.
The moonlight stretched his shadow long across the stone floor.
His enhanced senses had already caught snippets of their conversation long before they reached him. Though they spoke in low voices, certain words slipped through clearly enough.
"Dragon Hunt."
"Green Dragon."
The words stirred faint ripples in his thoughts.
His eyes narrowed slightly as his mind moved swiftly, combining what he knew of the two and the information at hand. Within moments, the general outline of the situation became clear.
This was almost certainly Natasha's idea.
Green Dragons were rare, intelligent, and immensely powerful. More importantly, their bodies were treasure troves of rare materials—dragon scales, blood, and organs that could fetch staggering prices among sorcerers and alchemists.
And Natasha needed money.
Specifically, she needed it to fund further research into solving her infertility problem—a wound far deeper than she ever allowed herself to show.
As for Geralt, his involvement was easy to explain. Witchers took contracts. If the pay was sufficient and the job was possible, they accepted. They did not meddle unnecessarily, nor did they chase danger for glory.
If this hunt had involved anyone else, Geralt would never have agreed. Provoking a Dragon—especially a sentient Green Dragon—was the kind of trouble even Witchers preferred to avoid.
But Natasha was not "anyone else."
The sound of footsteps slowed, then stopped several paces behind him. Karl felt two gazes settle on his back—one steady and familiar, the other sharp and calculating.
Still, he did not turn around immediately.
Silence stretched.
Geralt studied Karl's tall figure beneath the torchlight. There was something about the man that always made him uneasy—not fear, exactly, but a sense that he was standing before something vast and unfathomable.
He opened his mouth, then closed it again.
Hunting a Dragon was no small matter. Dragons were living calamities, capable of annihilating entire armies. Even with preparation, even with experience, survival was never guaranteed.
If Karl became involved and something went wrong…
Geralt's jaw tightened. The thought alone made his chest feel heavy. Asking a friend to walk knowingly into such danger felt wrong.
He hesitated too long.
Natasha, standing beside him, noticed immediately. Her violet eyes narrowed in irritation. With a sharp elbow, she jabbed him in the side—not hard, but with unmistakable insistence.
Geralt exhaled slowly, resigned.
"Karl," he called out.
At the sound of his name, Karl turned around unhurriedly.
There was no surprise on his face. Instead, his expression carried a calm certainty, as though this meeting had been expected all along. A faint, knowing smile curved his lips.
His gaze shifted between Geralt and Natasha before settling on the sorceress.
"Operation Dragon Hunt," Karl said plainly, his tone casual, as if discussing the weather. "I assume Natasha has already discussed it with you?"
He placed just a touch of emphasis on the word discussed.
His eyes flicked toward Natasha, amusement glinting faintly within them. The implication was obvious: was this truly a mutual decision, or had Geralt simply been dragged along?
For a brief instant, surprise flashed across Natasha's face.
She was certain their conversation had been quiet. The distance had been sufficient. There was no way he should have heard—
Then realization dawned.
Karl was a sorcerer whose strength vastly surpassed her own. If he had used some subtle mind-reading technique or enhanced perception spell beyond her detection, it would hardly be surprising.
The thought sent a chill down her spine.
She masked her reaction quickly, stepping forward and bowing slightly. This time, her posture was more formal than before, her demeanor cautious.
"Your Excellency," she began, her voice softened deliberately. "As you already know, this involves a Dragon."
She chose her words carefully, weaving logic and flattery together.
"Dragons are extremely dangerous beings. They possess intelligence, overwhelming power, and the ability to devastate entire regions. Villages burn, civilians die—"
"Geralt speaks highly of you," she continued smoothly. "He says you are strong, brave, and righteous. For the safety of innocent lives—"
"Enough."
Karl raised one hand, cutting her off cleanly.
The interruption was so abrupt that Natasha fell silent mid-sentence.
A short, humorless chuckle escaped Karl as he shook his head.
"Natasha," he said calmly, "you can save the heroic speeches."
His smile faded, replaced by a clear-eyed, almost cynical composure.
"I have never considered myself a paragon of virtue," he continued. "I am not some legendary hero driven by justice or compassion alone. I am not a 'good man' in the simple sense people like to imagine."
He met her gaze directly.
"I am selfish at times. I calculate gains and losses. And for matters that do not concern me, I often choose to stand aside and watch."
Natasha froze, caught off guard by his blunt honesty.
"What motivates me," Karl went on, unbothered, "is my own will. My promises. Sometimes curiosity. Sometimes simple interest."
She glanced sideways at Geralt, her expression tinged with disbelief and faint irritation.
This is the man you described as upright and noble? her eyes seemed to say.
Geralt did not return her look.
His attention remained fixed on Karl.
If anything, there was the faintest upward twitch at the corner of his mouth. Understanding flickered in his amber eyes.
During their previous interactions, Geralt had sensed something difficult to define about Karl. The man navigated noble courts with ease and spoke fluently in the language of diplomacy, yet there was always an underlying impatience beneath the surface.
Now it made sense.
This frank, unapologetic Karl—the one who discarded pretense and acknowledged his flaws—felt far more genuine.
Karl shrugged lightly, as if stating something obvious.
"A Dragon is a rare creature," he said. "I've never fought one myself. Whether I hunt it or not depends on my own judgment—not on moral pressure or someone else's needs."
He paused briefly, eyes glinting with interest.
"I won't hunt a Dragon simply because it is labeled dangerous. Nor will I refuse simply because it is intelligent."
The night air seemed to grow heavier as his presence subtly intensified.
"Still," Karl added, a hint of anticipation creeping into his tone, "it has been quite some time since I encountered an opponent worthy of testing my limits."
A slow smile spread across his face.
"My bones," he said lightly, "are starting to feel a little rusty."
Geralt exhaled quietly.
Natasha's fingers clenched at her side.
She understood now—this was not a man who could be swayed by moral appeals alone. If she wanted his help, she would need to offer something else.
Something that genuinely interested him.
And that realization, more than the Dragon itself, made her uneasy.
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