I walked through the town, my boots crunching on the packed dirt streets as I made my way toward the church. The bustling afternoon activity continued around me, merchants calling out their wares, children playing in the alleys, the rhythmic clang of a blacksmith's hammer echoing from somewhere nearby. The town had a comfortable, lived-in quality to it, the kind of place where people knew their neighbors and strangers were noticed but not necessarily unwelcome.
My enhanced senses picked up the usual mixture of smells: cooking food, horse manure, wood smoke, unwashed bodies, and the earthy scent of the surrounding farmland. Nothing unusual, nothing threatening. Just normal human life going about its business.
The church wasn't hard to find. It stood near the center of town, a modest stone structure with a wooden roof and a small bell tower. Not grand like the cathedrals in major cities, but well-maintained and clearly important to the community. Flowers grew in neat beds along the front, and the path leading to the entrance was swept clean.
As I approached, I noticed two women in robes standing near the entrance. They wore simple garments of undyed linen, belted at the waist with rope, and their heads were covered with white veils that left their faces visible. The robes were practical rather than ornate, designed for work rather than ceremony.
I recognized the style immediately from descriptions Vesemir and Geralt had given me over the years, and from what I'd learned in the Witcher games in my previous life. These were followers of Melitele.
The Cult of Melitele, though they preferred to be called an order or simply followers, was one of the oldest, most widespread, and deeply respected matriarchal religions on the Continent. Unlike more aggressive faiths that demanded conversion or preached fire and brimstone, the followers of Melitele focused entirely on healing, peace, nature, and the protection of life.
Melitele herself was the goddess of fertility, childbirth, agriculture, and the harvest. Her worship dated back to pre-human eras, meaning even some non-humans respected her traditions. She represented the universal archetype of the Triple Goddess, manifesting in three distinct forms that reflected the cycle of life itself.
The Maiden represented youth, spring, innocence, and potential, the promise of what could be. The Mother represented life, fertility, protection, and unconditional love, the nurturing force that sustained all living things. The Crone represented wisdom, fate, winter, and death, the inevitable end that gave meaning to the beginning.
The heart of the faith was the grand Temple of Melitele located in the duchy of Ellander, a massive complex that served as both a spiritual center and a practical hospital. The temple was run exclusively by women in a strict matriarchal hierarchy. Men were generally not permitted to enter the inner sanctuaries or hold positions of spiritual authority, though they were welcome to seek healing and guidance.
The hierarchy was led by a High Priestess, most famously Nenneke, a fierce, wise, and highly capable woman who commanded respect from kings and peasants alike. Beneath her were full priestesses, followed by novices and young sisters in training. The temple grounds hosted vast botanical gardens, greenhouses, and a massive pharmacy where the sisters studied medicine, surgery, herbalism, and midwifery.
What made the followers of Melitele unique was their absolute commitment to pacifism and neutrality. They actively avoided taking sides in the wars between the Northern Kingdoms and Nilfgaard. Priestesses did not bear weapons. Their sanctuary operated as a neutral, safe-haven hospital where any wounded person was treated, regardless of their race, politics, or background. A Nilfgaardian soldier and a Northern Kingdom knight could lie in beds next to each other, both receiving the same quality of care.
Rather than demanding grand sacrifices or preaching abstract theology, the sisters showed their faith through action, delivering babies, treating the sick, teaching peasants sustainable farming techniques, and providing comfort to the dying. They were practical, grounded, and focused on making the world better through direct intervention rather than prayer alone.
The cult also didn't reject science or magic. Instead, they blended ancient magical traditions with practical medical knowledge, often using telepathy to diagnose ailments and herbal remedies to cure diseases that standard medicine couldn't touch. Some of the most skilled healers on the Continent were priestesses of Melitele, their knowledge passed down through generations of careful study and experimentation.
As I approached the entrance, the two women looked at me with expressions of calm welcome. The older of the two, a woman in her forties with kind eyes and smile lines around her mouth, stepped forward.
"Welcome, Witcher," she said, her voice warm and genuine. "You must be here for our commission."
I nodded, noting the lack of fear or disgust in her expression. The followers of Melitele were trained to see past appearances, to treat all living beings with compassion. My pointed ears and distinctive appearance didn't seem to faze her at all.
"Yes, ladies, I am," I replied. "My name is Cain."
She smiled and gestured toward the church entrance. "Come this way. I will lead you to Priestess Morrigan."
I followed her inside, the younger priestess falling into step behind us. The interior of the church was simple but clean, with wooden pews arranged in neat rows and an altar at the far end. Sunlight streamed through small windows, illuminating dust motes that danced in the air. The scent of incense hung faintly in the space, mixed with the smell of fresh herbs and beeswax candles.
Near the altar, I saw a woman kneeling in what appeared to be meditative prayer. Her posture was perfect, her breathing slow and controlled. As we approached, she stood and turned to face us, and I felt my breath catch slightly.
She was beautiful in a way that was both striking and unsettling. Her hair was raven black, cut to just past her neck in a style that framed her face perfectly. But it was her eyes that truly caught my attention, yellow amber, like a cat's eyes or a Witcher's, but with a depth and intensity that seemed to look right through me.
Her features were sharp and elegant, with high cheekbones and full lips that curved into a slight smile as she studied me. She wore the same simple robes as the other priestesses, but somehow she made them look regal, like ceremonial garments rather than work clothes.
"Ah, so a Witcher has answered our request," she said, her voice smooth and melodious. "It has been some time since we have seen one come to these parts." Her amber eyes swept over me, taking in every detail. "I must say, I didn't know elves gave up their own to become Witcher's. And I have never seen an elf with your looks either."
There was something in her tone that wasn't quite flirtation but wasn't entirely professional either. It made my medallion vibrate slightly against my chest, though whether from magic or just my own heightened awareness, I couldn't tell.
I gave her a warm greeting, keeping my expression friendly but professional. "Hello, Priestess Morrigan. I am Cain. I take it you are familiar with Witcher's?"
She nodded, her smile widening slightly. "Aye, I am, child. I have come across those of your order in passing over the years. Geralt of Rivia once stayed at our temple in Ellander for several weeks while recovering from a few of his monster hunts. And I've met others, a Eskel, and Lambert, even the legendary Vesemir himself, though that was many years ago."
The way she said Vesemir's name carried a hint of fondness, and I wondered briefly what story lay behind that tone.
I decided to cut to the point. "I saw your commission about the cemetery. But I have to ask, why is the Cult of Melitele in some no-name town like this?"
Morrigan's expression shifted slightly, a flicker of something, maybe amusement? crossing her features before settling back into that serene smile.
"We are not a cult, Witcher," she said gently, though there was steel beneath the softness. "We are an order, or followers, if you prefer. The distinction matters to us, even if it doesn't to others." She gestured around the simple church. "As for why we're here, the answer is simple: the people here needed help, and so we help them."
She walked toward the altar, her movements graceful and deliberate. "We give medical and magical healing within our power to do so. We offer helpful words of wisdom to those who seek guidance. We help deliver children into this world and put their loved ones to rest when they depart it." She turned back to face me. "Which is why we put out the request for a Witcher."
I nodded, understanding. "The cemetery."
"Yes," Morrigan confirmed. "Come. I'll show you."
She led me through a side door and out into the area behind the church. The cemetery was modest in size, perhaps fifty or sixty graves marked with simple wooden crosses or stone markers. It was well-maintained, with the grass trimmed and flowers planted near several of the graves. But even from a distance, I could see signs of disturbance.
"Witcher," Morrigan began, her voice taking on a more serious tone, "we have been experiencing disturbed graves. The bodies are carved, mutilated, and sometimes taken entirely. It started about two weeks ago, and it's been getting worse."
I walked forward, my Witcher senses immediately going into overdrive. My enhanced perception, combined with my Sequence 9: Hunter abilities, made me notice things that would be invisible to normal people, even to most Witchers.
The scent profile was the first thing I picked up, and it told me everything I needed to know.
Ordinary ghouls smell like raw rot, like meat left in the sun for days, mixed with the sour stench of decay and the metallic tang of old blood. It's an unpleasant smell, but straightforward, the smell of death and decomposition.
But this was different.
A Grave Hag has a distinct, foul odor profile that's unmistakable once you know what to look for. It's a mixture of grave mud, that thick, wet earth smell that clings to everything, combined with sour vinegar, like spoiled wine, and old bone dust, that dry, chalky scent that gets into your nose and throat.
With my combined Witcher-Hunter sense of smell, I didn't even need to look at the graveyard closely. I could catch her scent on the wind from over a mile away and instantly know her exact species, approximate age, and even her general health before ever seeing a single track.
But I wanted to confirm everything, to build a complete picture of what I was dealing with.
"Show me the sites," I said to Morrigan.
She led me to several graves that had been disturbed. I knelt beside the first one, my eyes scanning every detail while my mind cataloged the information with the precision of both a trained Witcher and a supernatural Hunter.
The claw marks were the first piece of forensic evidence. Grave Hags use long, sickle-like claws to unearth coffins, and the marks they leave are distinctive. These were deep, jagged gouges carved into the wooden coffin lid, each one about four inches long and curved slightly. They were deliberate and controlled, not the chaotic tearing you'd see from a standard ghoul that just rips and tears mindlessly.
My hunter observation instantly differentiated the pattern. A ghoul would have scattered the wood fragments everywhere, leaving a mess of splinters and torn earth. But these marks showed intention, almost like a human using tools. The Grave Hag had dug carefully, methodically, preserving the body inside for her purposes.
The soil displacement was equally telling. The dirt was piled in a specific pattern, mounded to one side of the grave in neat piles rather than scattered randomly. Grave Hags dig intentionally, using their claws like shovels, rather than scattering dirt everywhere like a mindless beast. It showed intelligence, planning, and a disturbing level of sophistication.
I moved to the next grave, this one more recently disturbed. Here, I found traces of thick, paralyzing mucus on the ground near the coffin. I touched it carefully with a gloved finger, noting the consistency, viscous, sticky, with a faint greenish tint. This was tongue slime, the paralytic secretion use to immobilize their victims before feeding.
The mucus confirmed her signature tongue weapon, that prehensile appendage she could extend up to fifteen feet to lasso victims and drag them toward her waiting claws. The paralytic agent in the slime would leave a victim conscious but unable to move, forced to watch as she fed.
At a third grave, I found microscopic traces of grave dirt and crushed bone packed into the eye sockets of a partially exhumed corpse. I examined it closely, my enhanced vision picking up details that would be invisible to the naked eye. This was her blinding dust, the pocket-sand tactic she used in combat. She would scoop up handfuls of grave dirt mixed with pulverized bone and throw it directly into an opponent's eyes, temporarily blinding them while she closed for the kill.
The final piece of evidence was the most disturbing. On one of the bodies that had been left behind, too decomposed for her to bother taking, I found deep, crushing bruises around the neck and torso. The pattern was unmistakable: whip lacerations caused by her prehensile tongue lassoing the victim before her claws finished the job.
The bruises were dark purple, almost black, and the skin had split in several places from the force of the constriction. I could see where the tongue had wrapped around multiple times, squeezing with enough pressure to crack ribs and collapse the windpipe.
I stood, my analysis complete. Every piece of evidence pointed to the same conclusion. Then, as if confirming my deduction, a familiar notification appeared in my vision.
System Notification: Codex Profile Located
Based on the evidence collected, Grave Hag monster is confirmed as the target.
Grave Hag
Classification: Necrophage
Threat Level: Medium-High
Habitat: Cemeteries, battlefields, mass graves
Behavior: Intelligent, territorial, uses tactics and ambush strategies
Primary Weapons: Sickle claws, prehensile paralytic tongue, blinding dust
Weaknesses: Necrophage oil, fire, silver
Recommended Approach: Set traps, use terrain advantage, target tongue first
I dismissed the notification and turned to Morrigan, who had been watching me work with an expression of fascination.
"It's a Grave Hag," I said simply. "A necrophage that specializes in feeding on corpses and occasionally taking live victims. She's been here for at least two weeks, probably longer. She's established this cemetery as her territory and won't leave willingly."
Morrigan's amber eyes widened slightly. "A Grave Hag? I've heard of them, but I've never encountered one personally. They're supposed to be quite dangerous."
"They are," I confirmed. "Intelligent, tactical, and vicious. But I can handle it." I paused, then added, "We should discuss payment."
Morrigan smiled, a knowing expression crossing her beautiful features. "Ah yes, a Witcher does not hunt for free. That is the way of your order, is it not?" She gestured back toward the church. "However, we followers of Melitele do not have much in the way of coin. Our resources go toward medicine, food for the poor, and maintaining our facilities."
I nodded, having expected as much. "I'm not hurting for money at the moment," I said honestly. "But I have another request. Do you have any books or tomes on your healing arts? Medical texts, herbalism guides, surgical techniques, anything like that?"
Morrigan's expression shifted to surprise. "Books on healing? I did not know Witcher's had need for our healing arts. Your mutations make you resistant to most diseases and poisons, and you heal faster than normal humans."
"They do," I agreed. "But I'm hoping to change the Witcher order for the better. To do that, we need recruits to not suffer through our mutation trials and die at the rates they currently do. Better medical knowledge, better understanding of the body and how to treat trauma, that could save lives. Young lives."
I met her amber eyes directly. "So does that work as payment? Your healing texts in exchange for dealing with the Grave Hag?"
Morrigan studied me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she looked to the two other priestesses who had followed us out to the cemetery. They exchanged glances, some unspoken communication passing between them.
Finally, Morrigan nodded. "Your payment will be waiting for you when you are done, Witcher. We have several texts that might serve your purposes, medical treatises, herbalism guides, even some of our more advanced surgical techniques. They are yours once the Grave Hag is dealt with."
"Then I'll begin immediately," I said.
I spent the next hour preparing for the hunt, using every advantage my combined Witcher training and Hunter abilities gave me. The key to hunting a Grave Hag wasn't brute force, it was preparation, tactics, and turning her own aggression against her.
First, I identified the terrain. The cemetery had several narrow choke points between tombstones, iron fences, and crypt doors. My Hunter intuition allowed me to easily predict her pathing. She would instinctively take the path of least resistance to avoid knocking over heavy monuments that could alert locals to her presence. Grave Hags were intelligent enough to understand the value of stealth.
I chose a spot between two large stone crypts, where the path narrowed to about six feet across. This would be my kill zone.
Next, I prepared a custom Hunter trap. Instead of relying solely on magical Signs, my Sequence 9 potion and Witcher training allowed me to craft physical traps that would turn her own aggression against her. It's a good thing my modern world knowledge on traps gives a me a large range of options.
For the tongue snare, I positioned a heavy, spring-loaded mechanism I'd fashioned from materials I found in the church's storage shed, iron bars, rope, and a counterweight system. Because Grave Hags attack by lashing their tongue outward from a distance, I placed a pressure plate just behind a deceptive barrier of loose stones. When she stepped forward to lunge, the trap would snap shut, either pinning her legs or crushing her low-slung torso.
For the blindness counter, I rigged a tripwire connected to a small clay jar I'd filled with a flash-powder mixture, a combination of sulfur, charcoal, and magnesium shavings I'd prepared from my alchemy supplies. When she tripped it, the explosion would counter her own blinding tactics, overwhelming her sensitive, nocturnal eyes and leaving her completely disoriented.
Then came the bait. I secured a piece of decomposed flesh I'd taken from one of the disturbed graves, grim work, but necessary. I coated it heavily with Black Blood potion and Necrophage Oil. If she took a single bite before realizing it was a trap, the alchemical agents would immediately begin liquefying her internal organs, drastically cutting her reaction speed, strength, and health before the physical fight even began.
I positioned the bait in the center of my kill zone, then retreated to a concealed position behind one of the crypts.
Finally, I drew my sword, Eirael, the Moon Frost blade I'd received from the system. The weapon hummed softly in my hand, its enchantments responding to my intent. I decided this would be enough.
I settled into a kneeling meditative position, controlling my breathing until it was almost nonexistent. My heartbeat slowed to a crawl. I became part of the environment, just another shadow among the tombstones.
Then I waited.
The sun began to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple. Shadows lengthened across the cemetery, and the temperature dropped. The perfect hunting time for a Grave Hag.
I sensed her before I saw her.
The scent hit me first, that distinctive mixture of grave mud, sour vinegar, and bone dust. Then I heard the soft scrape of claws on stone, the wet sound of her breathing, the slight rustle of her movements through the grass.
She emerged from behind a mausoleum, her form hunched and predatory. She was even more grotesque than I'd imagined from the descriptions. Her body was humanoid but twisted, with elongated limbs that ended in those sickle claws. Her skin was a mottled gray-green, covered in grave dirt and bits of rotting flesh. Her face was the worst part, vaguely human but stretched and distorted, with a mouth that opened far too wide and eyes that glowed with a sickly yellow light.
She moved toward the bait, her head swiveling as she scanned for threats. Her intelligence was evident in the way she approached, cautious, alert, ready to flee at the first sign of danger.
She reached the bait and paused, sniffing it carefully. For a moment, I thought she might detect the trap. But hunger won out over caution. She bent down and took a bite, her teeth tearing into the poisoned flesh.
The effect was immediate. She staggered, her body convulsing as the Black Blood and Necrophage Oil began their work. She tried to spit out the meat, but it was too late. The alchemical agents were already in her system, spreading through her bloodstream like liquid fire.
That's when I struck.
I burst from my concealment, my sword flashing in the dying light. She sensed me at the last second and tried to turn, but her movements were already sluggish from the poison.
I didn't give her time to recover. I closed the distance in three long strides and brought my sword down in a diagonal slash aimed at her extended arm.
The blade cut through flesh and bone like they were paper. Her arm, the one ending in those wicked sickle claws, separated from her body and fell to the ground with a wet thump.
She screamed, a sound that was part human shriek and part animal howl. Black ichor sprayed from the stump, and she stumbled backward, her remaining arm clutching at the wound.
But I was already moving. I flowed with the momentum of my first strike, spinning and bringing the sword around in a horizontal arc aimed at her neck.
She tried to dodge, tried to bring up her remaining arm to block, but she was too slow. The poison had sapped her strength, and her reactions were a fraction of what they should have been.
My blade connected with her neck, and I felt the satisfying resistance of flesh and bone giving way. The Moon Frost sword's enchantments flared, ice spreading from the point of impact and freezing the wound even as I cut through it.
Her head separated from her body and tumbled to the ground, rolling several feet before coming to rest against a tombstone. Her body stood for a moment longer, black blood pumping from the stump of her neck, before finally collapsing in a heap.
The entire fight had lasted less than thirty seconds.
I stood over her corpse, my breathing steady and controlled. My enhanced Constitution meant I wasn't even winded. The fight had been almost disappointingly easy, but that was the point of proper preparation. Witcher abilities mixed with sequence 9 Hunter potion made me probably to strong for something like these monster. Well a well-planned hunt should feel easy because you've eliminated as many variables as possible.
I cleaned my blade on the grass, then bent down and picked up the Grave Hag's head by her matted hair. It would serve as proof of the kill.
The walk back to the church took only a few minutes. The sun had fully set now, and the first stars were beginning to appear in the darkening sky. I could hear the sounds of the town settling in for the evening, doors closing, conversations drifting from lit windows, the distant bark of a dog.
Morrigan and the two other priestesses were waiting for me in the church. They looked up as I entered, and I saw Morrigan's eyes widen slightly as she took in the severed head I carried.
"It's done," I said simply, setting the head down on a cloth one of the priestesses quickly spread on the floor. "The Grave Hag won't be disturbing your cemetery anymore."
Morrigan approached, studying the head with a mixture of fascination and revulsion. "You work quickly, Witcher. And efficiently." She looked up at me, her amber eyes gleaming in the candlelight. "We are grateful for your service."
She gestured to one of the other priestesses, who disappeared into a back room and returned moments later carrying a stack of leather-bound books and rolled scrolls.
"As promised," Morrigan said, "our healing texts. These include treatises on anatomy, surgical techniques, herbalism, and the treatment of various ailments. Some of them are quite old, passed down through generations of our order. They should serve your purposes well."
I took the books, feeling their weight in my hands. They were well-made, the leather covers soft and supple, the pages thick and carefully preserved. This was knowledge that could genuinely help improve the Witcher trials, reduce the mortality rate, save young lives.
"Thank you," I said sincerely. "These will be put to good use."
I was about to turn and leave when the three women stepped closer, forming a loose semicircle around me. There was something in their expressions that made my medallion vibrate more intensely against my chest.
"We saw how you handled that Grave Hag from the temple window," Morrigan said, her voice taking on a different quality, lower, more intimate. "Your skills are quite impressive, Witcher. We are thinking these books and scrolls are not enough payment for such... exceptional service."
My mind raced, trying to understand what was happening, but my body was already responding to their proximity. They were all beautiful women, and my teenage hormones combined with Witcher mutations made my physical reactions intense and immediate.
The two other priestesses moved closer, their hands reaching out to touch my arms, my chest. My medallion was vibrating like crazy now, a constant thrumming that should have been a warning but somehow felt distant, unimportant.
Morrigan stepped directly in front of me, her amber eyes locked on mine. "How about a drink, Witcher?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "To celebrate a successful hunt?"
Before I could respond, she was leading me deeper into the church, toward a room behind the altar. The other two priestesses followed, their hands never leaving my body, their touches sending electric jolts through my nervous system.
The room behind the altar was small and private, lit by candles that cast dancing shadows on the walls. There was a low table with a bottle of wine and several cups, but I barely registered it. My attention was entirely focused on the three women who were now surrounding me, their robes beginning to loosen, their intentions crystal clear.
Morrigan poured wine into a cup and brought it to my lips. I drank without thinking, the liquid sweet and strong, warming my throat as it went down. She smiled and set the cup aside, then reached up and began unfastening my armor.
"You've been so tense, Witcher," she murmured, her fingers working at the buckles and straps. "Let us help you relax."
The other two priestesses joined in, their hands removing my armor piece by piece until I stood in just my shirt and pants. Then those came off too, and I was naked before them, my body responding with embarrassing enthusiasm to their attention.
Morrigan's robes fell away, revealing a body that was both beautiful and impossible, too perfect, too symmetrical, like a sculpture come to life. Her skin was flawless, her breasts full and high, her waist narrow, her hips curved. The other two priestesses disrobed as well, their bodies equally perfect, equally impossible.
Some distant part of my mind screamed that something was wrong, that this wasn't natural, but that voice was drowned out by the overwhelming sensations as they pressed against me, their hands exploring every inch of my body.
Morrigan kissed me, her lips soft and demanding, her tongue sliding into my mouth with practiced skill. One of the other priestesses knelt before me, her mouth closing around my cock, her tongue swirling around the head in a way that made my knees weak. The third pressed against my back, her breasts soft against my skin, her hands reaching around to stroke my chest and stomach.
They guided me down onto the floor, onto soft cushions I hadn't noticed before. Morrigan straddled me, her amber eyes glowing in the candlelight as she positioned herself above my cock. She sank down slowly, her heat enveloping me inch by inch, her inner walls gripping me with perfect pressure.
She began to move, her hips rolling in a rhythm that was both ancient and primal. The other two priestesses positioned themselves on either side, their mouths finding my neck, my chest, my nipples. Hands were everywhere, touching, stroking, squeezing.
I lost track of time. The three women took turns riding me, their bodies moving with inhuman grace and stamina. They switched positions seamlessly , one on my cock, one on my face, one stroking herself while watching. The room filled with the sounds of pleasure, moans, gasps, the wet slap of flesh on flesh.
Morrigan's amber eyes never left mine as she rode me, her expression one of intense focus mixed with hunger and satisfaction. She leaned down, her breasts pressing against my chest, her lips finding my ear.
"You taste divine, Witcher," she whispered, and I felt her teeth graze my earlobe. "So much power, so much potential. We could feast on you for days."
I came inside her with a groan, my body shuddering with the intensity of it, but she didn't stop. She kept moving, kept riding, drawing out every last drop before finally lifting herself off and letting one of the others take her place.
The second priestess was smaller, more delicate, but no less skilled. She took me in her mouth first, her tongue working magic I was already hard again, then I took her from behind with wild abandon. Her moans filled the room, high and keening, and I felt myself building toward another climax embarrassingly quickly.
As I laid down the third priestess positioned herself over my face, her thighs bracketing my head, her scent overwhelming my senses. I licked and sucked at her, my tongue finding her clit and working it in circles while she ground against my mouth, her hands tangling in my hair.
They used me thoroughly, completely, taking their pleasure from my body with an intensity that bordered on violent. I came again and again, my body responding to their touches even when I thought I had nothing left to give.
Finally, after what felt like hours, they released me. I lay on the cushions, my body covered in sweat and other fluids, my mind foggy and disconnected. The three women dressed themselves, their robes falling back into place as if they'd never been removed.
Morrigan knelt beside me, her hand stroking my hair with surprising gentleness. "Sleep now, Witcher," she murmured. "You've earned your rest."
And I did. I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep right there on the floor of the altar room. I woke to the sound of someone clearing their throat.
My eyes opened slowly, my body feeling heavy and sluggish. I was still on the floor, still naked, my clothes and armor scattered around me. But the candles had burned down to stubs, and the light coming through the windows was the pale gray of early morning.
Standing over me was an older woman in priestess robes, her expression a mixture of concern and confusion. She was perhaps in her sixties, with gray hair and kind eyes that were currently wide with shock.
"What... what are you doing here?" she asked, her voice carrying the authority of someone used to being obeyed.
I sat up quickly, my head spinning slightly, and reached for my pants. "I... I'm sorry. I was here for the commission. The Grave Hag. Priestess Morrigan said...."
"Priestess Morrigan?" the woman interrupted, her confusion deepening. "Young man, I don't know what you're talking about. I am the head priestess of this temple of Melitele, and there is no one here by that name."
I froze, my pants halfway on, and looked at her more carefully. She was flanked by two other priestesses, both of them much older than the women I'd been with last night. One was in her fifties, the other barely out of her teens, but neither matched the descriptions of the priestesses I'd met.
"But... the commission," I said, my mind racing. "The Grave Hag in the cemetery. The disturbed graves."
The head priestess shook her head slowly. "Witcher, I know nothing about a commission for a Grave Hag. Our cemetery has been peaceful for months. And I certainly know nothing about any priestess named Morrigan or the two followers you seem to be describing." She gestured to her companions. "We were busy helping with a difficult childbirth all day yesterday and well into the night. No one else was here."
I stared at her, my blood running cold despite my enhanced Constitution. "Then who... who was I talking to? Who did I...?"
The head priestess's expression shifted to something like pity. "I don't know, child. But whoever you encountered, were not of our order."
I finished dressing quickly, my hands shaking slightly as I buckled my armor back into place. The books and scrolls Morrigan had given me were still there, stacked neatly on the table, which only made the situation more confusing.
"I'm sorry for this incident," I said, gathering my belongings. "I'll leave immediately."
The head priestess nodded, though her expression remained troubled. "Be careful, Witcher. There are forces in this world that can deceive even those with your training and abilities. Whatever you encountered last night, I would advise caution in the future."
I nodded and left quickly, my mind spinning with questions and unease. What the hell had I been talking to? Who had I been sleeping with? The Grave Hag had been real, I'd killed it, taken its head as proof. But the priestesses...
I made my way back through the town, the early morning streets mostly empty. The few people who were out gave me curious looks, but I ignored them, too focused on trying to make sense of what had happened.
When I reached The Hatchling, I found Callum and Calla sitting at a table in the common room, drinking and eating breakfast. They looked up as I entered, and I saw Callum's expression shift from relaxed to concerned in an instant.
"Cain?" he called out. "You look like you've seen a ghost. What happened?"
I walked over to their table and sat down heavily, my mind still trying to process the night's events. The books and scrolls were still in my pack, physical proof that something had happened, but the questions remained.
Who had I really met last night? What had they wanted? And why did I have the distinct feeling that I'd just encountered something far more dangerous than a simple Grave Hag?