Chapter 7: The Recruitment
The months that followed were the busiest of Alaric's life.
Twenty-two thousand people needed homes, food, purpose. The city functioned barely, sentinels patrolled, basic supplies held, but every day brought new problems. A fire in the workshop district. A dispute between former slaves from different cities. Children getting lost in the vast, unfamiliar streets.
Alaric handled what he could and delegated what he couldn't. Daro proved invaluable, organizing the port and the growing fishing fleet. A former scribe named Livia took over record-keeping, tracking who lived where and what they needed. A healer called Mirri, organized a makeshift infirmary and began training assistants.
But one problem haunted him more than the others.
The Unsullied.
Thirteen thousand soldiers who had been cut as boys, their manhood taken in the most brutal ritual imaginable. They stood guard, trained daily, followed orders perfectly. But they didn't live. They didn't laugh or argue or dream. They simply existed, waiting for commands that might never come.
Alaric couldn't change what had been done to them. But he could try to fix it.
☆☆★☆☆
The healing took two months.
He started with one volunteer, a young Unsullied named Marselen who'd shown the most spark during their conversations. Alaric explained what he intended to try. Regeneration magic, accelerated healing, cellular reconstruction. It was complex, delicate, and had never been attempted before.
Marselen didn't hesitate. "I trust you, lord."
The first attempt nearly killed him.
Alaric worked for eighteen hours straight, sweat pouring down his face, Aurelia feeding him energy when his own flagged. He rebuilt tissue, reconnected nerves, stimulated growth that should have taken years. By dawn, Marselen was whole again, and unconscious from the pain.
When he woke three days later, he wept.
Not from pain. From something he'd never expected to feel again.
After that, the rest came willingly. Alaric worked in batches, healing ten each day, then twenty, then fifty as his technique improved. By the end of the second month, all thirteen thousand Unsullied were whole.
They didn't change overnight. Decades of conditioning didn't vanish with new flesh. But something shifted. Smiles came easier. Jokes started appearing. A few even approached Alaric with questions about the future, what they could become, not just what they could do.
It was the most satisfying work he'd ever done.
☆☆★☆☆
Before leaving again, Alaric needed someone to hold things together.
Daro was capable, but he was an admiral, not an administrator. Livia kept excellent records but lacked the authority to enforce decisions. Mirri healed but didn't lead.
Alaric considered his options and made a choice.
He called a meeting in the castle's main hall—Daro, Livia, Mirri, and a dozen others who'd shown promise. Then he introduced them to their new leader.
Her name was Valaena.
She'd been a slave in Astapor, a bookkeeper for one of the Good Masters. Alaric had noticed her during the negotiations, sharp eyes, quiet voice, the way she watched everything without seeming to. When he'd freed the slaves, she'd approached him directly.
"I can help," she'd said. "I know numbers. I know people. I know how things work."
He'd put her to work immediately, and she'd exceeded every expectation. In three months, she'd organized the food distribution, settled three major disputes, and earned the respect of everyone who dealt with her.
"You'll be steward," Alaric told her in front of the others. "You'll make decisions when I'm gone. You'll settle disputes, manage resources, keep things running."
Valaena blinked. "Lord, I was a slave. I have no name, no family, no standing."
"You have ability. That's enough for me."
She stared at him for a long moment. Then she nodded. "I won't let you down."
"I know."
☆☆★☆☆
With Valaena in charge, Alaric left again.
This time, he took the Phoenix's Pride and a dozen smaller ships—enough to transport whatever recruits he found. The fleet sailed south and west, toward the Free Cities, toward Sothoryos, toward the people he'd met in his first travels.
Daro commanded the voyage, pride evident in every order. Aurelia rode the figurehead, feathers gleaming in the sun. Alaric stood at the prow and watched the horizon.
☆☆★☆☆
Pentos came first.
The city rose from the flatlands like a merchant's dream—walls of pale stone, harbors crowded with ships, markets spilling into every square. Alaric walked its streets openly, staff in hand, Aurelia on his shoulder. Word spread quickly. The wizard was back.
He started with the merchants he'd befriended years ago. A grain trader named Mopatis who'd once given him shelter during a storm. A silk merchant called Illyrio, not the one from the books, but an ancestor perhaps, with the same love of good food and better deals. A banker from the Magisters' Council who remembered the gems Alaric had traded and wanted to know where they came from.
He didn't lie. "I made them. I can make more. And I'm building a city that needs trade partners."
They listened. They asked questions. And when he offered them places in his kingdom, not as subjects, but as partners, with rights, protections and opportunities, some of them actually considered it.
In the end, five merchant families agreed to send representatives. Three bankers signed contracts to establish a chapter of their house in Aetherion. Two dozen traders, clerks, and administrators packed their belongings and boarded his ships.
Not everyone came willingly. A few tried to negotiate better terms, to play games, to treat him like a mark. Alaric walked away from those. He wasn't desperate. He was building something people wanted to join.
The ones who understood that were the ones he wanted anyway.
☆☆★☆☆
Myr was next.
The city of glass and intrigue, where every smile hid a dagger and every trade agreement came with three layers of betrayal. Alaric moved carefully here, meeting old contacts in neutral spaces, letting them come to him.
A glassblower named Vargo remembered the wizard who'd saved his daughter from a wasting illness. He came with his whole family, his best apprentices, and crates of finished work that would fill Aetherion's windows with color.
A spice trader called Mero had watched Alaric heal a dying horse years ago. He came with contracts and connections and a willingness to establish a new trade route.
A spymaster, because Myr had them in abundance approached Alaric in secret. Not to join, but to negotiate. Information for safe passage. Contacts for future dealings. Alaric agreed, and left with names and faces stored away for later.
No administrators from Myr. The ones capable of running things were too enmeshed in the city's webs to leave. But he gained craftsmen, traders, and a network that would prove useful.
☆☆★☆☆
Lys was harder.
The pleasure city, where beauty was currency and everyone wore masks. Alaric spent two weeks there, moving through gardens and palaces, meeting the people he'd known before.
A healer named Lya remembered him. She'd trained under the same masters who'd taught Mirri, and her skills were legendary. When Alaric described his city, where healers could practice without paying tribute to the Archeron, she agreed to come.
A scholar called Belis had spent years studying the old histories. He brought books, scrolls, and a hunger for knowledge that Alaric recognized immediately. The academy quarter would have its first true academic.
But the administrators he sought remained elusive. Lys's ruling class had no interest in leaving their gilded cages. The few who might have been capable were too comfortable, too compromised, too afraid of what they'd lose.
Alaric left with fewer recruits than he'd hoped, but the ones he gained were worth the trip.
☆☆★☆☆
The fleet sailed south, toward Sothoryos.
Aretuza rose from the jungle as it always had, dark stone and defensive wards, a fortress of learning and power. Alaric walked through its gates like coming home.
Tissaia met him in her tower, Yennefer beside her. They looked the same, of course. They always would.
"You've been busy," Tissaia observed. "We've heard rumors. A wizard building a city in the northern seas. Freeing slaves. Healing the Unsullied."
"Word travels fast."
"Magic travels faster." She gestured to a chair. "Sit. Tell us."
He told them everything. The city, the people, the plans. The wards and sentinels and growing fleet. The need for administrators, teachers, mages who could help him buildhis kingdom.
When he finished, Yennefer spoke first.
"You want us to come."
"I want you to consider it. Both of you. Your students, if any are interested." He looked at Tissaia. "I'm not asking you to abandon Aretuza. But a new kingdom needs people who understand magic. Who can teach it, guide it, keep it from being abused."
Tissaia was quiet for a long moment. Then: "You've grown."
"I've had time."
"More than that." She studied him with those winter-pale eyes. "You came here first as a student, hungry for knowledge. Then as a friend, hungry for connection. Now you come as a king, hungry for people to share your dream with." She almost smiled. "It suits you."
Yennefer snorted. "Don't get soft, Tissaia."
"I'm never soft. I'm merely observant."
In the end, fifty students chose to come. Young sorceresses and sorcerers, Aretuza trained both, despite the traditional separation, who saw opportunity in a new land. Some wanted adventure. Some wanted freedom from the old hierarchies. A few just wanted to be part of something being built, not something already finished.
And Yennefer.
She found Alaric on the beach the night before departure, the same beach where they'd first met decades ago.
"I'm coming," she said without preamble.
"I hoped you would."
"Don't look so pleased. I'm not doing it for you." She stared out at the waves. "I've spent centuries in this place. Learning, growing, becoming. It's comfortable. Too comfortable." She glanced at him. "You're offering something else. Something new. I want to see if it works."
"It'll work."
"You sound sure."
"I have to. If I don't believe it, no one will."
Yennefer was quiet for a moment. Then, softly: "That's the most honest thing you've ever said."
☆☆★☆☆
The Wolf School sat on its plateau, unchanged by the years. Vesemir met Alaric at the gates, older now but no less sharp.
"You're back."
"I am."
"Usually when people visit, they want something." Those ancient eyes studied him. "What do you want?"
Alaric told him.
He described his kingdom, his city, his plans. He described the healings he'd performed on the Unsullied, the regeneration, the restoration. And he made his offer.
"I think I can fix the mutations. Not remove them, they're part of what makes witchers what they are. But the side effects. The sterility. The ones who die young because their bodies can't handle the changes."
Vesemir's expression didn't change. But something shifted in those ancient eyes.
"You're certain?"
"I'm certain I can try. And I'm certain that if it works, your children, all your children, could have choices they've never had. They could still be witchers. Or they could be something else. Something more."
Silence stretched between them.
Then Vesemir laughed, a rough, surprised sound. "You show up after all these years, make wild claims, and expect me to uproot everything?"
"I expect you to consider it. The school's welcome either way. But if there's even a chance..."
"Even a chance," Vesemir repeated. He looked back at the keep, where young witchers trained in the courtyard. His children. All of them, every one.
"Give me a month," he said. "I need to talk to them. Let them decide."
☆☆★☆☆
A month later, the Wolf School packed its history onto wagons and marched toward the coast.
Three hundred witchers, masters and students, young and old, followed Vesemir down from the plateau. They brought weapons and potions, books and trophies, everything that had made their school a home. Behind them, the keep stood empty, its halls echoing with centuries of memory.
Vesemir walked at the front, Alaric beside him.
"You know this is insane," the old witcher said.
"I've been told."
"If it doesn't work, if you can't fix them, they'll have given up everything for nothing."
Alaric met his eyes. "It'll work. I promise you that."
Vesemir studied him for a long moment. Then he nodded, once, and kept walking.
☆☆★☆☆
The fleet sailed north, carrying its strange cargo. Fifty sorcerers and sorceresses. Three hundred witchers. Merchants and bankers and craftsmen. Healers and scholars and dreamers.
And Yennefer, standing at the rail, watching Sothoryos disappear behind them.
"You've got quite a collection," she said.
"I've got a start."
"A start." She glanced at him. "You know what they'll call you, don't you? When word spreads. The wizard who built city. The king who frees slaves."
Alaric shrugged. "They can call me whatever they want. As long as they show up."
Yennefer almost smiled. "You're impossible."
"I prefer 'determined.'"
The wind filled the sails. The fleet cut through the waves. And ahead, somewhere beyond the horizon, a city waited for its people to come home.