Chapter 7 - Onwards to Kaer Morhen

In a room far removed from the chaos of Igor's lab, the atmosphere was tense, charged with the weight of unspoken thoughts. Tissaia and Igor sat across from Alaric at a long oak table.

The air smelled faintly of old parchment and alchemical tinctures. The room, lit by the gentle glow of enchanted lanterns, was spacious and orderly—clearly meant for reading or discussions requiring clarity of mind, a quiet contrast to the storm brewing in their minds.

"It's not that I saw these things… not exactly," Alaric began. "But somehow… I know. Deep in my mind, I can feel it. Like an echo of something waiting to happen."

Igor frowned, his energy subdued for once. "Know what, exactly?" he asked, leaning forward slightly.

Alaric's gaze had been fixed on a small, intricate knot in the oak table, his fingers tracing its whorls absently. He stopped, his amber eyes locking onto theirs. "That Kaer Morhen will fall. That every Witcher, every student there, will die. If what the oneiromancer showed me holds even an ounce of truth…" He paused, his voice softening, "All of us will die too."

Tissaia's brows furrowed. No matter how many times Alaric recounted his tale, the absurdity of it all seemed impossible to grasp. Yet, deep within her, a primal instinct screamed that what he was saying was the unvarnished truth. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

Igor, however, let out a low whistle, "And you're certain?" he asked.

"No." Alaric shook his head, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "That's the worst part. I could be wrong. For all I know, these dreams, these… memories, might be nothing more than the ramblings of a fragmented mind." He exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening. "But what if I'm not? What if it's real? If even a fraction of it comes true..." he trailed of staring at that knot again.

A heavy silence descended, broken only by the faint crackle of the lanterns.

Alaric let out a hollow laugh, a sound devoid of humor. "I wasn't supposed to be here," he rasped, his voice trembling with a mixture of disbelief and torment. "I was supposed to die... on the day of my Trial of the Grasses. I know it. And yet, somehow, I'm still here. Alive. I've been trying not to think about it. But it keeps coming back, gnawing at me like a bunch of stubborn nekkers that won't leave me be." He said with a flicker of despair in his eyes.

Igor finally spoke, his voice uncharacteristically somber. "You're saying... you were destined to die long ago?"

Alaric nodded his head, his expression grim. "Yes, so are both of you."

His gaze shifted to Tissaia. "I also know about you, Sky. You…" His voice faltered for a moment, and he looked away. "You took your own life after a coup in the Brotherhood."

"And you, Igor," Alaric continued, his tone softer but no less grim. "A golem you were experimenting on crushed you. Knowing you, it probably was another brilliant idea right up until it happened."

The silence that followed was unbearable. Tissaia's composure slipped for a moment, a flicker of anguish crossing her face before she straightened again, her resolve hardening.

Igor looked as though he wanted to say something but couldn't find the words. In the end he just gave out a dry laugh, though it lacked its usual energy. "Well, that does sound like me. Going out in a blaze of glorious stupidity."

Time passed. Igor tapped a finger nervously on the table, while Tissaia's gaze grew distant. The three of them let the time stretch for a while, tacitly.

Finally, Alaric spoke again. "I need your help. Both of you."

"You'll have me," Igor replied immediately, firmly. "I'm with you. No questions, no doubts. What are friends for?"

Tissaia said nothing, her gaze fixed on Alaric, her eyes filled with unspoken support. "We'll do what needs to be done. But," she added, her tone growing firm, "we'll need more than just hope and absurd prophetic dreams."

Igor pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. "No point delaying. I'll take an indefinite leave from the academy. Let's head to the city—I need to visit my family."

...…

By the time they arrived at the de Sade Estate, the moon hung high in the sky, casting long shadows over the manicured grounds. Igor wasted no time issuing commands to the estate staff, his voice booming with authority.

"Ready the elite soldiers," he barked to the steward. "Arm them with the best we have. We leave for Kaer Morhen at dawn."

The steward bowed and departed, leaving the three to gather in the grand dining hall. Over dinner, the atmosphere shifted to one of purpose and focus, the earlier tension giving way to determination. Igor, wine glass in hand, leaned forward with a conspiratorial grin.

"All right, Al," he said, "you've convinced me to leave my perfectly chaotic lab. Now, tell me: what's the plan?"

Alaric leaned back in his chair, "I hope we've got time—at least a couple of years, if the visions are accurate. First, we'll return to Kaer Morhen. I'll use the ravens to recall every Witcher who's still on the Path. Once we're all gathered, we'll fortify the keep."

He gestured to Igor. "With your soldiers, and the magic you, Sky and the mages already at Kaer Morhen will bring, we'll be ready. The pogroms won't stand a chance."

...…

The crisp morning air carried the sound of hoofbeats as the trio rode northward, their path winding through the alpine forest and mountain. Onwards to Morhen valley. Sunlight filtered through the canopy, casting shifting patterns over the road. The conversation between Alaric and Igor filled the journey, a steady stream of excited chatter punctuated by dry humor.

"If what the oneiromancer showed you is true," Igor began, his voice brimming with energy once again, "then perhaps your soul has the strength of two. That would explain why Axii and Aard comes so naturally to you, but Yrden gives you trouble."

"So, what you're saying," Tissaia drawled, glancing at Alaric from the corner of her eye, "is that Al might be a natural psionic?"

"Exactly!" Igor exclaimed, as if he'd just solved an ancient mystery. "Your mutations combined with you being a source make your mind uniquely attuned to 'Mind'. Axii is direct extension of will at its core. But Yrden? That's another beast entirely."

"Yrden is indeed more complex than Axii. Witchers cast it by combining the elements—earth, fire, water, and air—into a delicately balanced magical construct. But Alaric's magic isn't like theirs."Tissaia said, her tone shifting into thoughtful analysis. "If Igor's theory is correct, your struggle with Yrden stems from your inability to synthesize those elements. Maybe combining elements as a Source destabilizes the process."

"Exactly!" Igor exclaimed again, gesturing enthusiastically. "But there's a workaround! Because you're a psionic, and a Source, you might be able to channel ether directly without needing to combine the elements. Ether magic is considered an extension of mind magic, just a lot more complicated. It's not about enforcing your will—it's about creating magical constructs."

Alaric frowned. "Even if that's true, I wouldn't be able to do much with raw ether. Channelling it alone wouldn't produce any useful magic or even pseudo magic like signs."

Igor scratched his head, visibly deflated for a moment before brightening again. "Well… no, not yet. But imagine the possibilities!" He leaned closer to Alaric, his enthusiasm rekindled. "You could pioneer an entirely new branch of psionic ether manipulation! Just think about it!"

Tissaia, her tone laced with dry humor, glanced at Alaric. "Don't worry, dear. If all else fails, you can always act as an ether storage unit for Igor and me."

Alaric shot her a mock glare, his voice gruff as he grumbled, "Oh, how generous of you, oh noble sorceress."

Igor chuckled, thoroughly enjoying the banter. "Ah, this reminds me of the good old days," he said, his gaze growing distant with nostalgia. "The two of us, discussing magic like this. So many theories, so many arguments…"

Alaric's expression softened, his gaze briefly meeting Igor's. "Yeah," he agreed, his voice quieter now. "Good times."

...…

Kaer Morhen,

May 18th 1092

Alaric stood at the gates of Kaer Morhen, his travel bag slung over his shoulder and his silver sword gleaming in the morning light. The ancient keep's stone walls seemed to loom higher than ever as he looked back at the place that had been his home for so many years. Dagobert Sulla, his adoptive father, stood a few paces behind, his expression calm but his eyes betraying a hint of sadness.

"You're ready," Dagobert said, holding out a sealed letter. "This is for Gerhart of Aelle (Hen Gedymdeith). I've already sent ravens to let him know you're coming, but this will explain in detail why I believe you're a case worth time."

Alaric took the letter, tucking it carefully into his satchel. "I'll prove you right, Father. I promise."

"Prove it to yourself first," Dagobert replied, his tone measured. "And don't let your arrogance blind you to your limits. You're strong, Alaric, but you're not invincible."

Alaric smirked, the hint of cockiness unmistakable. "I'll keep that in mind."

As he turned to mount his horse, his friends and teachers gathered to see him off. Barmin, the grizzled Witcher who had been like an uncle to him. He patted Alaric back a little too hard, making him cough. "Don't do anything stupid," Barmin said, though the slight grin on his face suggested he knew Alaric wouldn't heed that advice entirely.

With a final wave, Alaric spurred his horse forward, the gates of Kaer Morhen fading behind him as the road stretched ahead.

...…

By the time Alaric reached Ban Ard city, the sun was sinking below the horizon, casting long shadows over the sprawling streets. The city was a bustling of trade, magic, and opportunity, its vibrancy a stark contrast to the serene isolation of Kaer Morhen. Exhausted from the journey, he found an inn to rest for the night, but his mind buzzed with anticipation.

The next morning, his first stop was the city hall, where notice boards were pinned with contracts for Witchers and mercenaries alike. Barmin's warning echoed in his mind: Don't take any contracts until you've found a substitute for Quen and Yrden.

But Alaric was like a teenager who got his first vehicle and wants to go street racing even if he has barely passed the driving test. He was thrilled at the idea of proving himself. He wasn't about to let a lack of mastery over two Signs hold him back.

Scanning the notices carefully, he avoided anything that hinted at specters—his struggles with Yrden made such contracts a risky venture. Similarly, the more mysterious cases that required investigative work seemed unappealing. Alaric wanted something straightforward, something he could take on with confidence.

Finally, one caught his eye:

...…

To Whom It May Concern:

Let it hereby be known that whoever eliminates the nocturnal beast terrorizing the north-eastern farmlands of Ban Ard, the creature responsible for slaughtering livestock and instilling fear among the farmers, will be given a sizable reward. Take heed that this is a dangerous creature and dispatching it will require the skills of a trained Witcher, not just a group of peasants with pitchforks. For more information, contact old man Willard in the City Hall.

...…

"Sounds like a pack of ghouls," Alaric murmured to himself, his lips curling into a faint grin.

He sought out old man Willard, who was sitting at a desk in a cramped office. After exchanging pleasantries, the two set off toward the eastern farmlands.

"The beasts comes at night," Willard explained as they walked. "Livestock found torn apart, bones picked clean. Farmers say they've seen shadows—figures crawling low to the ground. They're too scared to go out after dark."

"Ghouls," Alaric said confidently, though his voice carried a note of caution. "Maybe an alghoul if we're unlucky."

At the farm, the villagers were anxious but relieved to see a Witcher. Alaric negotiated his fee, settling on 400 ducats after a brief haggle. Once the terms were agreed, he found a quiet spot to meditate till dusk.

A few hours later he was sitting cross-legged in the fading daylight, he sharpened his silver sword with deliberate precision, his mind steady but brimming with anticipation. The eagerness of youth burned in his veins.

-x-x-x- 

A/N:-

I guess a classic witcher hunt was a long time coming now.

Got ideas for future arcs or plots? Maybe there's something you'd love to see our main character tackle sometime in the future? Comment down below!

While I have a general direction for the early plot, I'm actively brainstorming for the later arcs. Your input would be incredibly valuable. Even the simplest ideas or spontaneous musings can ignite a spark and help clear those creative blocks.

So, don't hesitate—share your thoughts!

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

Clear skies to all of you! ✨