Chapter 12 - Enduring Scars (1)

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Aretuza.

Tetra stood before the grand oak doors of Tissaia de Vries' chambers, her heart pounding with anticipation. The summons had been brief, the meaning clear. Her time at Aretuza had come to an end. Finally.

Straightening her robes, she pushed the doors open. The familiar scent of lavender drifted toward her as she stepped into the room. Tissaia, as poised and unreadable as ever, sat behind her desk. Her quill moved with precise strokes before she set it down, her piercing gaze lifting to meet Tetra's.

"Tetra," Tissaia began, "it is time. You have proven your talents here. You are ready to take your place in the world."

The words washed over Tetra like the toll of a bell, heavy with finality. Ready. She felt the faintest tremor of satisfaction at the declaration. This was it—her moment. No more studying behind Aretuza's walls. No more waiting. Out there, beyond these halls, lay the answers she had sought for years.

"You will go to Kaedwen," Tissaia continued, her tone calm yet commanding. "To Ard Carraigh, where your talents will be put to their rightful use. The court sorceress there will step aside, and you will take her place."

Kaedwen. Of course, it would be Kaedwen. Tetra fought to keep her expression neutral, though her chest burned with a mix of anger and exhilaration. Kaedwen was the very heart of her grief, the place where her mother had been murdered. The nobles, the courtiers, the witcher—they were all there. And now, so would she.

The memory surged, unbidden. She had been just a child. Her mother was dragged through the streets. The crowd had jeered, their chants of "traitor" drowning out Rosalind's cries of innocence. When fires burned, Tetra's scream had echoed through the courtyard, unnoticed in the chaos.

Later, Klara Larissa de Winter had knelt before her, speaking softly, urgently. "Your mother was no traitor, child. She was a victim of greed, of fear. Do not let this world break you as it broke her."

But it had broken her. And no amount of assurances or carefully chosen words could mend the fracture left by her mother's death.

Tissaia's voice broke through her thoughts. "This is not merely an assignment. It is your opportunity to reclaim your mother's legacy, to fulfill the potential your mother saw in you. Do not squander it."

An opportunity. Yes, Tetra thought, her blood surging with determination. This was her chance, her golden opportunity to make them all pay. She would find the threads of the conspiracy that had torn her mother from her, and she would unravel them one by one.

Her mind flickered again to Ard Carraigh. In the years after her mother's death, she had dreamed of walking through those halls with fire at her fingertips, purging every noble who had whispered her mother's name with disdain. She had imagined herself powerful, unstoppable—a force that could rewrite the fate her family had suffered.

When she was older, Klara had encouraged her anger, shaping it into resolve. "You will surpass them all," Klara had said once, during a lesson on elemental manipulation. "And when the time comes, you will reclaim what is yours—not with vengeance, but with strength."

But now that the moment was here, all Tetra could feel was the simmering rage that had never truly left her. Strength or vengeance? Does it matter, so long as they pay?

The corrupt courtiers, who had framed Rosalind. The nobles, who had stood by and watched her execution. And most of all, the witcher—that wretched mutant, the one who had taken the contract to capture her. She would not rest until every one of them had suffered for what they had done.

"I understand, Mistress," Tetra said aloud, her voice steady, though a fire smoldered beneath her calm tone.

Tissaia stood, moving around the desk to face her. "You have carried the weight of your mother's death for years, but it must not blind you. You will need clarity, strength, and restraint to thrive in Kaedwen's court."

Tetra inclined her head, biting back the sharp reply that threatened to escape her lips. Restraint? She had no interest in restraint. She would play the game, yes—bide her time, gather her strength. But when the moment came, she would strike, and she would not falter.

"Thank you, Mistress," she said instead, bowing her head.

Tissaia's expression softened slightly, though her tone remained firm. "Go with purpose, Tetra. Your mother's legacy deserves nothing less."

Tetra turned and left the room, her steps echoing down the silent corridor. Each step felt lighter than the last, as if she were shedding the weight of her student years with every movement. For the first time in her life, the path ahead seemed clear.

She was no longer the helpless child who had watched her mother die. She was a sorceress now—trained, powerful, and ready. And soon, those responsible for Rosalind Gilcrest's death would know the depth of her wrath.

Kaedwen would burn.

...…

A decade later-

Tetra stood at the balcony of the royal palace in Ard Carraigh, her gaze fixed on the sprawling city below. The snow-laden roofs gleamed in the pale light of morning, the streets teeming with merchants and nobles alike. This city—this kingdom—was hers now, if not in name, then certainly in influence. King Dagread, still malleable after all these years, hung on her every word. His decisions were hers to shape, his council hers to manipulate.

The noble house responsible for her mother's death was gone, its lineage severed. The conspirator who had framed Rosalind Gilcrest and orchestrated her public hanging had met his own gruesome end, his wealth confiscated, his name erased from Kaedweni history. Tetra had watched his house fall brick by brick, savoring the taste of her triumph as she struck down every remnant of his legacy.

Yet, as the cold wind whipped through her hair, it brought no satisfaction, only the bitter sting of unfinished vengeance.

Her mother's image haunted her still. She could see it as clearly as the day it had happened—Rosalind, standing on the gallows, her face pale but proud, the noose tight around her neck. The jeers of the crowd had filled Tetra's ears, drowning out her screams as her mother's life was stolen before her eyes.

And at the center of it all was him. The witcher.

Tetra clenched the railing, her knuckles whitening. For ten years, she had poured every resource at her disposal into uncovering his identity. Courtiers and spies combed the kingdom for any hint of the mutant who had taken the contract to kill her mother. She had interrogated merchants, bribed informants, even resorted to forbidden spells that promised to reach into the past.

Nothing.

The years had not dulled her hatred, but they had shifted it. Her obsession with finding that witcher had grown into something larger, something all-consuming. She had learned of the Schools of the Cat and the Viper—their penchant for bloodshed, their willingness to take any contract, no matter how vile.

Assassins for hire, she thought bitterly. Amoral creatures who kill without question.

The stories of their exploits only fed the fire within her. A child slaughtered because a noble demanded it. A village burned because a contract promised coin. Mutants who lived outside the laws of men, unbound by morality or consequence.

It no longer mattered who he was. All witchers were the same—monsters hiding behind the guise of necessity.

Tetra's nails dug into her palms as her thoughts darkened. She had studied enough to understand how hatred consumed, how it burned away reason and left only ash. But no amount of self-awareness could stop the inferno within her.

She had convinced herself long ago that there was no other side to the coin. What good had the witchers ever done that outweighed their sins? Their existence was built on exploitation—of men, of beasts, of chaos itself. They were killers and hunters, nothing more. And those who claimed otherwise were deluded, clinging to romantic notions of saviors who never truly existed.

"Hatred blinds," Klara Larissa de Winter had once told her, long before the older woman's death. "It is a fire that consumes everything, including the one who wields it."

But Tetra had never believed in balance. Not when her mother had been murdered.

'Yet sometimes, fire… purifies,' she thought.

When hatred filleth thy heart, thou perceivest no virtue in the object of thy scorn; thy judgment is darkened, and that which is admirable appeareth detestable, for the eyes of resentment behold only that which they desire, and ne'er the whole truth.

- [Idk someone else might have quoted it before me]

A knock on the door pulled Tetra from her reverie.

"My lady," said a steward, bowing low. "The king requests your presence."

Tetra turned, her face a mask of serene control. "Tell him I will be there shortly."

As the door closed, she moved to the mirror, studying her reflection. The years had made her sharper, more formidable. Her beauty remained, but it was a weapon now, wielded with precision. She thought of Dagread—his trust in her unwavering, his mind a plaything she could twist as needed. She had no illusions about her methods; manipulation was simply a tool, one she used with ruthless efficiency.

Her reflection smirked back at her. Kaedwen was hers, and soon, the witchers would pay.

No matter how many years it took, no matter how many stood in her way, she would see their end. To her, they were not protectors or necessary evils—they were a plague.

And plagues, she thought, are meant to be eradicated.

...…

April 30th 1173

The Killer, Morhen Valley.

8 hours to Belletyn.

The griffins descended from the blood-orange sky, their wings slicing through the air like massive scythes. Alaric stood poised, his silver sword drawn in his right hand, the other already weaving subtle currents of magic into the air around him. Beside him, Igor flexed his fingers, a manic grin splitting his face as he muttered half-formed spells under his breath.

Tissaia observed from a few paces behind, her arms crossed and her expression unreadable. She arched a brow when both men turned to her with exaggerated gallantry.

"Allow us," Alaric said, his voice dry but laced with confidence. "Wouldn't want you sullying your hands with griffin blood."

Igor nodded enthusiastically, practically bouncing on his heels. "Yes, yes! We've got this entirely under control. Sit back and marvel."

Tissaia gave a faint, unimpressed smile. "As you wish. But don't take too long—I'd rather not miss dinner time."

The first griffin screamed as it dove, talons extended toward Alaric. He moved like a shadow, sidestepping its charge with inhuman speed. His sword was a blur as it struck, silver slicing through the creature's flank. It screeched in pain, banking sharply to avoid his follow-up swing.

"Clever beast," Alaric muttered, shifting his stance.

The griffin swooped back, its golden eyes locking onto him with feral intensity. Alaric was ready. He hurled a kinetic bolt at it—and the creature faltered mid-flight, buffeted by the force. Seizing the opportunity, Alaric dashed forward, using another burst from is feet to leap impossibly high.

With brutal precision, he drove his blade into the wide eyed griffin's neck mid-air, twisting as they both crashed to the ground in a tangle of blood and feathers. He rolled clear of the carcass, his movements fluid despite the force of the landing.

Exhaling sharply, Alaric straightened, flicking blood from his sword as he glanced over at Igor.

"You have gotten even better at Telekinesis." Tissaia commented as Alaric approached her side.

Alaric nodded "He's still playing, isn't he?" he asked, tone flat.

"Of course he is," Tissaia replied coolly. "It's Igor."

"Do you think he realizes griffins can't be reasoned with?" Alaric quipped, stepping to the side as Igor narrowly avoided another attack.

The second griffin was circling its prey, snapping its beak in frustration as Igor danced around it. He hurled a series of spells with wild abandon: bursts of air, streaks of fire, even a hastily conjured wall of earth that the griffin smashed through like it was made of twigs.

"Marvelous! Look at the strength of its wings!" Igor shouted, grinning as he narrowly avoided a sweeping talon. "A truly remarkable specimen! Carn'dol tearth ys straede!" He raised another wall of earth, this one sturdier, and the griffin reared back with an enraged shriek.

"Kill it, Igor!" Alaric snapped, irritation creeping into his voice.

"I'm getting to that!" Igor retorted, his hands already glowing with the next spell. "But imagine what we could learn if—"

"Dinner," Tissaia interjected, her tone clipped.

Igor flinched for a fraction of a second. Alaric chuckled under his breath as Igor's bravado faltered.

"Yes, yes," Igor muttered, summoning another burst of flame, "fine, I'll—"

The griffin lunged, its talons raking the air inches from Igor's head. He stumbled back, almost tripping over his own spell, and Tissaia's patience snapped.

"I've had enough of this," she said coldly, stepping forward with measured grace. She extended a hand, her voice rising in flawless Elder Speech. "Gynvael treise aenye! Loa'then ys caerme yn deith, aen yghern ys endrein!"

White flames erupted, enveloping the griffin in an icy inferno. Its screeches turned into a guttural, echoing silence as frost crawled over its body, freezing it solid. When the flames finally died, all that remained was the eerie statue of a griffin, its final moments preserved in crystalline ice.

...

The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows of Alaric and his entourage along the winding path of The Killer. The forest around them had grown eerily quiet, the usual chatter of wildlife replaced by an unsettling stillness. Then it came—a sudden burst of light streaking across the distant sky, followed by the low rumble of an explosion that shook the air. The sound rolled through the valley, its echo lingering like the promise of something terrible.

Alaric's head snapped toward the source of the disturbance. His amber eyes narrowed, locking onto the distant flashes. His heart sank as dread clawed at his chest. The direction… it was unmistakable.

"No…" he whispered, his voice trembling. The realization hit him like a blow to the gut. His legs moved before his mind could fully process it. "NO!" he roared, and in the next instant, his body surged with kinetic energy.

Alaric launched himself upward, a controlled explosion of force propelling him into the canopy above the trail. He barely touched the branches as he leapt from one to the next with blinding speed, each movement precise and purposeful. His boots scraped against bark and moss, but he didn't falter. Kinetic bursts rippled from his feet with every bound, sending him hurtling forward like a bolt of living lightning. The wind howled in his ears as branches whipped past his face, snapping under his momentum.

From above, Igor's voice rang out, sharp and panicked. "AL!"

Igor's hands moved in a flurry of practiced gestures. "Aine'vaen ys straede!" The words rang with power as the air around him shimmered, and in an instant, his feet lifted from the ground. He soared upward, propelled by a spell of flight, the forest below rushing by in a blur of green and brown. He spotted Alaric darting through the canopy beneath him, a streak of movement that seemed impossibly fast.

"Damn it, Al! Wait!" Igor shouted, though his words were swallowed by the wind.

Behind them, Tissaia's face was a mask of concern. She turned sharply to the soldiers trailing them. "Get to the end of the trail as fast as possible! Move!" Her voice carried authority, and the soldiers didn't hesitate, spurring their mounts into a gallop.

With a flick of her hand, Tissaia joined the pursuit, her robes billowing behind her as she conjured a burst of magical speed. The ground blurred beneath her as she zipped through the forest, her sharp eyes locked on Igor's flying form above and Alaric's relentless movement below.

Alaric didn't slow. His focus was singular, every fiber of his being honed toward reaching Kaer Morhen. He pushed harder, kinetic energy radiating from him in controlled bursts that sent leaves and splinters flying in his wake. His movements were almost feral, driven by desperation as he vaulted over a fallen tree and kicked off a sturdy branch, soaring through the air like a phantom.

Then the forest thinned, and the canopy gave way to open sky. The trio emerged at the edge of a cliff overlooking the valley below.

Alaric froze mid-step, his breath caught in his throat.

Kaer Morhen was burning.

Thick columns of black smoke twisted into the darkening sky, illuminated by the hellish orange glow of flames that consumed the ancient keep. The sound of destruction reached them even from this distance—the crackle of fire, the collapse of stone, and faint yet violent sounds of an intense battle carried on the wind.

-x-x-x-

A/N:-

2800+ words today.

This will be the final chapter of the daily uploads. From now on, we will be shifting to the new schedule. Thank you all for your continued support and enthusiasm.

As always, if you have any questions, feel free to comment. I will do my best to answer without spoiling too much. I will see you guys on Monday.

Clear skies to all of you! ✨