6 years Later - Kaer Morhen 1263
The wind howled through the broken stone of the keep, carrying with it the first true breath of winter. Cold crept into every corridor, every crack in the walls, and yet Sebastian barely noticed.
He stood alone in one of the chambers, a steel sword resting in his hand. Before him, an old mirror scratched, dulled by age reflected a boy who no longer looked like a boy.
Not even twelve, yet his presence already felt wrong for his age.
He had grown lean and sharp. His black hair fell in medium-length waves, slightly messy from hours of training, framing a face that had lost much of its childhood softness. There was something colder there now.
His eyes glowed faintly gold in the light. Witcher eyes. Unmistakable.
A thin scar rested near his heart, pale against his skin a reminder of the night his old life nearly ended. A momento from the Leshen that claimed his family.
Sebastian tilted his head, studying his reflection with a faint frown.
"…I look like a mess," he muttered.
Behind him, boots scuffed softly on stone.
Vesemir's dry chuckle echoed through the chamber.
"You sure do."
Sebastian smirked slightly but didn't turn.
"I still need to train more."
Vesemir stepped closer, arms crossed, eyeing the boy and the sword with a mixture of approval and concern.
"You've been swinging that blade since dawn," the old witcher said. "Even witchers know when to rest. And you're still growing, whether you like it or not."
Sebastian rolled his wrist, testing the balance of the sword.
"I'll rest in a minute. Just… a little more practice."
Vesemir snorted lightly, turning back to whatever task had drawn him there earlier.
"Fine. Just don't collapse on the floor, I'm too old to drag you to bed."
Sebastian allowed himself a faint grin. "Thank you Vesemir."
Then he lifted the sword again.
Steel cut through the air as he practiced a sequence, precise, controlled, far more refined than most boys his age could dream of. Footwork clean. Guard tight. Strikes sharp.
Yet his mind wasn't on technique.
'I hope my plan works…' he thought.
Geralt's face flickered through his memory the stoic expression, the weight of destiny he refused to carry.
'And that he received my anonymous letter. It took a lot of planning and work to get that done.'
The thought tightened his grip.
'If all goes well… if he believes it… it should work.'
The blade paused mid-swing.
Sebastian stared at its edge, the metal trembling just slightly as doubt crept in.
"…Right?" he whispered, more to himself than to anyone else.
For a moment, the howling wind outside sounded almost like laughter.
Sebastian exhaled slowly.
****
(One week ago)
Temeria
Rain slid down the warped shingles of a roadside inn, dripping from the eaves. Inside, the hearth crackled low, throwing amber light over wornout tables, half-drunk tankards, and one witcher who sat apart from the noise.
Geralt of Rivia leaned back in his chair, boots on the bench opposite him, a mug of watered-down ale cooling in his hand. The innkeeper kept glancing his way, nervous, respectful, afraid. Usual.
A faint creak sounded near the door.
Geralt's eyes shifted before his head did.
A man in travel-worn clothes stepped in, rain-soaked and hunched. He scanned the room once, then walked straight to Geralt's table without asking permission. He set down a folded letter, nodded once, and left without a word.
Geralt watched him go.
Then he looked at the letter.
Thick parchment. a seal of wax.
He turned it over slowly. A sigil had been pressed into it, formal and aristocratic.
'Var Winneburg...'
Geralt frowned slightly.
"…That name, Nilfgaardian." he muttered under his breath.
The front bore an address written in a precise, almost arrogant hand:
GERALT OF RIVIA
THE WHITE WOLF
He stared at it for a moment longer than necessary.
"Nilfgaard sending fan mail now?" he murmured dryly.
A trap, most likely. Political bait. Some scheme involving courts, crowns, or corpses. He'd been pulled into worse.
Still… he slid a thumb beneath the seal and broke it.
The parchment unfolded with a soft crackle.
His eyes scanned the words.
[To the Witcher known as Geralt of Rivia,
You will doubt this letter. You should. A Witcher who trusts too easily does not live long. Yet if there is even a fragment of truth in what follows, ignoring it will haunt you more than any monster.
Emhyr var Emreis, Emperor of Nilfgaard, prepares for conquest. Cintra is not merely a stepping stone, it is a target of personal intent. The Lioness' kingdom will fall. This is already set in stone.
But conquest is not his true prize.
Cirilla of Cintra, his blood and his daughter, your Child of Surprise.
He intends to claim her. Not as kin. Not as heir. As a tool. A symbol. A weapon. A womb for dynasties meant to bind the North to Nilfgaard by blood and legitimacy.
This cannot be allowed.
You are no god, witcher. You cannot halt Nilfgaard's march, nor should you try. War is coming, and it will not be stopped. But you can deny the Emperor the one thing he desires above crowns, above kingdoms, above victory itself.
Cintra is doomed. And all of the North will soon follow. But fate has given you one lever to pull. Use it.
Believe me or not, I write as one who serves Nilfgaard, yet refuses to serve madness. Some wars cannot be prevented. Some disasters can be redirected.
If you do nothing, you will one day remember this letter and wonder what might have been spared.
A friend you will never meet.]
Silence settled around Geralt as he finished reading.
The hearth popped.
Someone laughed at a distant table.
Geralt folded the letter once. Then again.
"Emhyr…" he muttered.
His jaw tightened.
It reeked of politics. Intrigue. Manipulation. Nilfgaardian games played with blood and destiny. Could easily be bait, meant to draw him into a larger scheme.
But one line echoed louder than the rest.
'Cirilla… your Child of Surprise.'
His fingers curled slightly around the parchment.
"…Damn it," he breathed.
If it was false, he'd wasted time, get imprisoned by Calanthe or worse.
If it was true…
He pictured Cintra. Calanthe. The girl he had sworn to leave behind. Fate he had tried to walk away from.
Ignoring it would rot inside him.
Geralt rose from his chair, coins clinking onto the table. The innkeeper flinched as he passed, then relaxed once the Witcher moved toward the door.
Rain greeted him again, cold and insistent.
Roach waited nearby, head lowered against the weather.
Geralt swung into the saddle, tucking the letter into his bag.
He glanced once toward the southern horizon.
"…Guess we're paying an old friend a visit," he muttered to himself, voice low and grim. "And fast."
He nudged Roach forward.
Hooves struck mud.
And the White Wolf rode, chased by fate he couldn't afford to ignore.
/-\
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