Chapter 10: The Frozen Shore
The voyage took nineteen days.
The Phoenix's Pride cut through grey seas, her blue and gold sails bright against the endless sky. Alaric stood at the prow each morning, watching the horizon, feeling the air grow colder with each passing league. Aurelia stayed close, her silver-blue feathers fluffed against the chill, though the cold didn't seem to bother her as much as it should.
Behind them, Aetherion had long since vanished. Ahead, nothing but water and sky and the promise of a continent that didn't know it was about to be visited.
The three witchers kept to themselves mostly, training on deck when weather permitted, sharpening their mithril blades, watching the sea with those yellow eyes. Lambert was the talkative one, sharp-tongued, quick to laugh, hiding something behind the jokes. Eskel was quieter, steadier, the kind of man who'd seen too much to be surprised by anything. And Geralt, who'd visited the Wolf School years ago and somehow ended up volunteering for this madness, said almost nothing, just watched and waited and thought his own thoughts.
"You trust them?" Yennefer had asked before he left.
"I trust Vesemir. He chose them."
That was enough.
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On the twentieth day, land appeared.
Not the Wall, they were still too far north for that, following the coast toward the frozen lands beyond. What rose from the sea was a line of cliffs, grey and white, capped with snow even in what should have been summer. Beyond them, mountains lurked, their peaks lost in cloud.
"The Frozen Shore," Geralt said, appearing beside Alaric at the rail. "That's what the maps call it."
"Any idea what's there?"
"Nothing good." The witcher's yellow eyes scanned the coastline. "Ice rivers. Frost giants, if the stories are true. Mammoths. Things that live in the snow and don't like visitors."
"You sound almost interested."
Geralt's mouth twitched. "It's different. Most contracts are the same monsters in different places. This is... new."
They sailed on, following the coast north, looking for a place to land.
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The beach was black sand, frozen hard as stone, backed by cliffs that rose sheer and forbidding. Alaric studied it from the ship, then nodded.
"This works. Lower a boat."
Lambert snorted. "That beach? We'll freeze before we reach the cliffs."
"Then we'll walk faster."
The boat took them ashore, Alaric, the three witchers, and enough supplies for a month. Aurelia flew ahead, a silver-blue speck against the grey sky, scouting from above. The ship would wait offshore, moving as needed, ready to pick them up when called.
The moment Alaric's boots touched the sand, he felt it.
Magic. Old magic, deep magic, woven into the very bones of this land. It wasn't like the magic of Sothoryos, vibrant and alive, or the magic of Aetherion, structured and controlled. This was something else. Something that had been here before humans, before witchers, before anything. Something that was still here, waiting.
"You feel that?" he asked.
Geralt nodded slowly. "Something's wrong with this place."
"Not wrong. Just old." Alaric started toward the cliffs. "Come on. We've got a long walk."
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The first week was brutal.
They climbed the cliffs, crossed frozen rivers, picked their way through valleys where the snow hid crevasses that could swallow a man whole. The cold was relentless, not the dry cold of the far north in his old world, but a wet cold that seeped through clothes, through skin, into the bones. Alaric's immortality kept him warm enough, but the witchers relied on their enhanced bodies and the furs they'd brought.
Lambert complained constantly. Eskel endured silently. Geralt watched everything.
They found signs of life on the eighth day.
Tracks in the snow, not human, not animal, something in between. Small feet, bare, with toes that splayed wide. They led toward a stand of twisted trees that shouldn't have been able to grow in this cold.
"The Children," Alaric breathed.
"Or something that wants us to think so." Geralt's hand rested on his sword. "Could be a trap."
"Only one way to find out."
They followed the tracks.
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The trees were old.
Older than anything Alaric had seen, older than the forests of Sothoryos, older than the black stone of Asshai. Their trunks were thick as houses, their branches twisted into shapes that almost looked like faces, like hands, like creatures frozen mid-motion. The snow beneath them was less deep here, as if the trees themselves pushed back against the cold.
In the center of the grove, something waited.
At first, Alaric thought it was a child, small, slight, with skin the color of bark and eyes too large for its face. Then it moved, and he saw the age in those eyes, the weight of millennia looking out at him.
"You are not of this land," it said. Its voice was like wind through leaves, like water over stone. "You carry death in your blood, but you are not dead. What are you?"
Alaric stopped walking. The witchers fanned out behind him, hands on swords, watching.
"My name is Alaric. I'm a king, of sorts. From across the sea." He spread his hands, showing he meant no harm. "I came looking for you. For your people."
The Child studied him with those ancient eyes. "Why?"
"Because you're dying. Because your kind is fading, hiding in the last places the Andals haven't found. Because I have a land where you wouldn't have to hide. Where magic isn't feared. Where you could live as you were meant to live."
Silence. The wind whispered through the branches.
"You speak of things you cannot understand," the Child said finally. "We are not like your people. We do not build cities or farm fields or make laws. We are of the forest, of the earth, of the old magic. Your land would kill us as surely as the Andals' swords."
Alaric shook his head. "My land is different. I made it different. There are forests there, real forests, ancient and deep. Places where your people could walk without being seen, if that's what they want. And if they want more, if they want to be known, to be part of something, there's room for that too."
The Child was quiet for a long moment. Then it turned and walked deeper into the grove.
"Follow," it said. "The Elders will decide."
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The village, if it could be called that, was hidden in a valley that shouldn't have existed.
The approach was narrow, winding, easy to miss. But once through the gap, the land opened into a bowl of green that defied the frozen waste around it. Hot springs steamed in the center. Trees grew tall and healthy. And everywhere, among the branches, among the rocks, among the shadows, Children moved.
Hundreds of them. Maybe thousands.
Alaric stopped at the edge, taking it in. "I didn't think there were this many left."
"There are not," the Child who'd led them said. "What you see is all that remains. When we are gone, there will be no more."
They were led to the largest tree, a weirwood, Alaric realized, its bark white as snow, its leaves red as blood. A face was carved into the trunk, old and wise, watching everything. Before it stood three Children, older than the rest, their eyes depthless with years.
"You seek to take us from our home," the eldest said. It wasn't an accusation, just a statement.
"I seek to offer you a new one. One where you won't spend every moment fearing the men who want to kill you."
"And if we refuse?"
"Then I'll leave you in peace. I didn't come to conquer or capture. I came to offer."
The Elders exchanged glances, a whole conversation in a look.
"You speak of a land across the sea," another said. "A land of magic and safety. How do we know it exists?"
Alaric considered. Then he reached into his cloak and produced a small crystal, one of the communication stones he'd created years ago, linked to Aetherion's wards. He pressed it, and an image bloomed in the air before them.
The capital. Terraces and towers, canals and gardens. The castle rising above it all, light streaming from its crystals. People walking the streets, living their lives, free.
"This is Aetherion," Alaric said. "My city. My kingdom. It's real. It's waiting."
The Elders watched the image, their ancient faces unreadable. Then, slowly, one of them reached out a hand toward the light.
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They stayed in the valley for three weeks.
The Children were cautious, suspicious, slow to trust. Alaric didn't blame them. They'd been hunted for thousands of years, driven from their homes, reduced to this last refuge. Trust didn't come easily.
He spent the time learning. Their language, their ways, their history. He walked among them, answered their questions, showed them more images of Aetherion. The witchers helped, their presence less threatening than it might have been, they were outsiders too, changed by magic, hunted by the same fears.
Geralt, in particular, seemed to connect. Something in his silence, his patience, his way of watching without judging, spoke to the Children in ways Alaric couldn't.
"They're like us," he said one night, when Alaric asked. "Changed. Alone. Clinging to what's left."
"You feel for them."
"I feel for anything that's been hunted to the edge of extinction." He looked at Alaric. "You really think they'll come?"
"I think some of them will. Maybe not all. But some."
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On the twenty-first day, the Elders gave their answer.
"Some of our people will go with you," the eldest said. "Not all. The old among us will stay, we are too rooted to leave, too tied to this place. But the young, the ones who still dream of something more... they will see your land. If it is as you say, more will follow."
Alaric nodded. "How many?"
"Three hundred. For now."
Three hundred Children of the Forest, coming to Aetherion. It was more than he'd hoped.
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Before leaving, Alaric asked about the others.
"The dryads," he said. "The elves. The dwarves. Are there any left? Any who might want to come?"
The eldest Elder was quiet for a long moment. Then: "The dryads hide in the deep woods, south of here. They are few, but they survive. The elves, the Aen Seidhe, they call themselves, scatter across the continent, hiding in mountains and forests. Some may remember the old ways. Some may want to remember."
"And the dwarves?"
"The dwarves dig deep. They have their own kingdoms, hidden under mountains. They do not trust surface-dwellers, and with reason. But if you find them, if you offer them what you offer us..." The Elder shrugged. "Who knows?"
Alaric filed the information away. Future trips. Future searches.
For now, he had three hundred Children to bring home.
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The journey back took longer.
The Children moved through the snow like it was nothing, their bare feet finding paths the witchers couldn't see. They avoided the worst of the cold, the worst of the terrain, leading the way with an ease that shamed Alaric's careful preparations.
At the coast, the Phoenix's Pride waited, her crew staring as three hundred small figures emerged from the frozen waste.
"Load them carefully," Alaric ordered. "Warm berths, hot food, whatever they need. They're our guests."
The voyage south was different from the journey north. The Children stayed mostly below deck at first, uncomfortable with the open water, the endless sky, the lack of solid ground beneath them. But as the days passed and the cold faded, some ventured up. They watched the sea with wonder, touched the ship's rails with curiosity, asked questions about everything.
Aurelia fascinated them. A creature of fire and magic, reborn from death, she was like something from their oldest stories. She seemed to know it, preening when they watched, sometimes landing near them to let them touch her feathers.
Geralt spent most of the voyage with them, learning their language, their names, their stories. By the time Aetherion appeared on the horizon, he knew more about the Children than Alaric did.
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The city rose from the sea like a dream.
White stone and silver crystal, terraces tumbling down to the harbor, the castle soaring above it all. The Children gathered at the rails, staring.
"It's real," one whispered.
"It's real," Alaric confirmed. "And it's yours now, if you want it."
Docking was chaos, but good chaos, the kind that came from a city eager to welcome new citizens. Valaena had prepared, clearing a district near the castle's base, planting trees that reminded the Children of home, creating space for them to build as they chose.
Yennefer met him on the dock, arms crossed, expression carefully neutral.
"You found them."
"I found them."
"Three hundred."
"To start. More later, if they choose."
She studied the small figures disembarking, their ancient eyes taking in everything. "They're beautiful."
"They're ancient. The oldest things left in this world, maybe."
Yennefer nodded slowly. Then she looked at him. "Welcome home."
Alaric smiled. "It's good to be back."
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That night, a feast.
Not the formal kind, with speeches and seating arrangements, but the real kind, tables in the great plaza, food for everyone, music and laughter and the warmth of community. The Children sat among the citizens, tentative at first, then slowly relaxing as they realized no one here meant them harm.
Vesemir found Alaric at the edge of the crowd, watching.
"Three hundred," the old witcher said. "That's a lot of new people."
"Good people. Old people. They've got magic we've never seen, knowledge we've never dreamed of."
"And you want them in the Wizengamot?"
Alaric shook his head. "Not yet. Maybe not ever, if they don't want it. They've had enough of human politics. If they want to live in the forest and be left alone, that's what they'll do."
Vesemir grunted. "Wise."
"First time anyone's called me that."
"First time you deserved it."
They stood in comfortable silence, watching the celebration. Aurelia circled overhead, trailing silver-blue light. The city hummed with life.
"So," Vesemir said eventually, "what's next?"
Alaric looked out at his people, humans and witchers and sorcerers and now Children, all together, all free. "More cities. More searching. There are dryads in the south, elves in the mountains, dwarves under the hills. They deserve a home too."
"That's a lot of work."
"It is." Alaric smiled. "Good thing I've got time."
The stars wheeled overhead. The music played on. And somewhere in the deep north, the Children who'd stayed behind tended their sacred groves and wondered if they'd made the right choice.
Alaric hoped, one day, they'd come see for themselves.
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I will be posting the 2nd extra chapter today as we hit 200 power stones