Chapter 16 - Enduring Scars (5)

The moon loomed heavy in the sky, its silvery glow bathing the rugged silhouette of Kaer Morhen in a spectral light. The Hour of Belletyn was upon her, the veil between realms thinner than ever. Tetra Gilcrest stood on a jagged outcrop beyond the west wall, her crimson robes billowing in the cold mountain wind, her eyes alight with a sinister fire.

She could feel the surge of power coursing through her veins. Her hands were steady as she traced the runes in the air, the glowing sigils forming a lattice of a magic long forbidden magic.

This was it. Years of planning, of biding her time, had led her here. The witchers—those abominations—were finally within her grasp.

"This fortress will cease to exist," she whispered, her voice carrying with it a venomous resolve.

The circle before her flared brighter as she completed the incantation, her voice rising into the unearthly cadence of the spell. The air grew thick with malice, the ancient words she spoke tearing through the fabric of the world. Beneath her, the earth trembled as something stirred in the depths, something vast and hateful.

The Idr.

A chill rippled down her spine even as the spell obeyed her command. The monstrous entity clawed its way to the surface, the ground erupting in a spray of rock and soil as the massive, segmented beast emerged. Its grotesque mandibles clicked hungrily, and its predatory eyes gleamed in the moonlight.

Tetra's lips curled into a grim smile. This will be their end.

She watched as the Idr surged toward the wall, its body a slither of horrifying speed. The defenders on the ramparts froze, their disbelief turning to terror as the creature struck. The shrill screams of the dying cut through the night, and Tetra savored every moment.

"Perish," she spat under her breath, her hatred burning like a wildfire. These mutants, had no right to exist. They were a blight on the world, killers who justified their atrocities with hollow promises of protection.

Her grip on the summoning spell tightened as the Idr began its carnage, its mandibles tearing through stone and flesh alike. Each scream was a victory, each death a step closer to vengeance. Yet, her work wasn't done.

As the defenders scrambled, Tetra drew another rune in the air, her magic coalescing into a barrier that shielded her from the chaos. The Idr would keep them distracted. She had a fortress to infiltrate and a 'grandmaster' to kill.

With a surge of power, Tetra launched herself into the air, the spell of flight wrapping her in an invisible current. The cold wind rushed past her as she ascended, her eyes scanning the chaos below. Smoke and fire filled the courtyard as the defenders struggled to regroup, their once-mighty barrier faltering under the relentless assault.

Her lips twisted in satisfaction as she spotted the breach in the defenses. The magical shield that protected the inner keep shimmered weakly, its cracks spreading like spiderwebs.

"They're breaking," she murmured to herself, her voice tinged with grim delight.

As she soared over the battlefield, her mind flickered to the image that had driven her here—and her hatred flared anew.

The courtyard came into view, and with a sharp gesture, Tetra adjusted her flight. Her feet touched the ground near the breached wall, her arrival unnoticed amidst the chaos. The spell still pulsed at her fingertips, a reminder of the power she wielded.

From her vantage point, Tetra's sharp eyes scanned the chaos below, her mind drinking in the sight of the mighty Witchers—those arrogant abominations—scrambling to protect their crumbling bastion. A part of her relished the poetic justice of their desperation.

"Can you hold it off?!!" a voice shouted from the battlements, frantic and desperate.

Her gaze drifted to the fortress walls, where her keen eyes caught sight of a Witcher—a man with dark hair and an almost feral intensity about him.

He shouted something at the woman standing beside him, a sorceress whose magic glowed bright against the gloom of the night. The magic radiating from her was cold and suffocating.

Tetra's breath caught in her throat. She'd recognize that magical signature anywhere.

Amidst the chaos, a lone figure stood hovered near the inner wall, her sharp posture and glowing hands radiating authority. The Idr flinched continuously under relentless assault.

Then she saw her face.

Tissaia de Vries.

The headmistress of Aretuza, standing amidst the chaos like a flame refusing to be snuffed out.

For a moment, the memory of her student days swept over her—a younger Tetra, eager and burning with questions, standing before Tissaia in those hallowed halls.

She had admired her, envied her, feared her, but above all, she had respected her. Tissaia had been unyielding in her expectations, her sharp words cutting as deep as any blade.

But that respect soured as the years passed. Tissaia, for all her wisdom, had been blind. Blind to love. Blind to the truth that witchers were monsters—not protectors, but killers.

And now, here she was, standing amidst those very creatures, fighting for them.

Tetra's stomach churned with rage. How could someone so intelligent, so powerful, stand shoulder-to-shoulder with these mutants? Had Tissaia always been this naïve, or had love twisted her into something weak?

Tetra's lip curled into a sneer as she watched her former mentor weave her magic, attacking the Idr cracks spread across its armor. Tissaia's raw power was undeniable, but it was wasted—spent on defending a cause that deserved to crumble.

"Fool," Tetra muttered under her breath.

The Idr roared again, its segmented body smashing into the outer wall with a sickening crunch of stone. The defenders scattered, and Tetra watched with satisfaction as one of the witchers barely dodged the creature's snapping mandibles.

She tore her gaze back to Tissaia, her thoughts darkening. This was no longer the mentor she had once admired. This was an obstacle. And like all obstacles, Tissaia would fall—if not tonight, then soon enough.

A sudden gust of wind swept across the battlefield, carrying with it the acrid scent of burning flesh. Tetra inhaled deeply. This was not a night for sentimentality or second thoughts. Tissaia was a part of this doomed fortress now, a defender of the very monsters who had taken everything from her.

She made her choice, Tetra thought coldly. And she'll pay for it.

There was work to be done, vengeance to be claimed.

And if Tissaia de Vries insisted on standing in her way, then she would burn with the rest of them.

...…

Tetra's chest heaved as she raised her arms, raw power crackling at her fingertips. The air around her hummed with energy, her magic surging into its final, devastating form. She could feel the rush of victory—so close, she could taste it. The pathetic Witcher before her staggered under her assault, his armor scorched and his movements sluggish.

Wolf Grandmaster Barmin.

Her lips curled into a sneer. He was nothing—a relic of a dying order, clinging to ideals that deserved to be buried alongside the rest of his mutant brothers. This moment would be the culmination of everything: years of planning, years of hatred, years of aching loss that had hollowed her out.

Her heart pounded as she focused her magic, the spell weaving itself into a beam of pure, destructive energy. It was vengeance given form, and it would incinerate him.

This is for you, Mama. She whispered.

Barmin staggered again, blood dripping from his temple, but his eyes never wavered. They locked onto hers, filled with a defiance that stoked her fury.

"Die," Tetra hissed, her voice trembling with rage and triumph as she unleashed the spell.

The beam of energy tore through the air, brilliant and unyielding, its searing heat burning away everything in its path. Tetra barely registered another roar that came from somewhere beyond the battlefield—a voice full of fury, like a storm breaking.

Then she saw it.

The Witcher's sword, bolting through the air.

Her heart lurched. It was coming too fast, a streak of deadly steel glinting in the torchlight.

"No!" she screamed, her voice breaking as she tried to dodge, but the blade was relentless.

Her spell struck true, slamming into Barmin's chest and sending him sprawling, but even as he fell, his sword found its mark.

The tip of the blade drove into her abdomen, the impact knocking the breath from her lungs. She staggered, her knees buckling as the pain ripped through her—a searing, burning agony that stole her strength. Her hands faltered, the spell vanishing into nothingness as her vision blurred.

Her mind screamed in denial. This isn't how it ends. Not like this!

She clutched at the sword protruding from her stomach, her fingers slick with blood, as the world around her seemed to tilt and fade. Her vengeance—her mother's vengeance—was incomplete. The witchers were still alive, still standing, their taint on the world unpurged.

No, no, no...

And then, suddenly, another blow came.

A kinetic blast slammed into her, the force of it tearing her from her feet and flinging her through the air. She barely had time to gasp as she collided with a pillar, the impact shattering stone and sending her body crumpling like a discarded doll.

Pain. Searing, unrelenting pain.

She lay amidst the rubble, her vision darkening, her breaths shallow and ragged. Every nerve in her body screamed, but it was the weight in her chest—the crushing realization of her failure—that hurt the most.

Her thoughts spiraled, frantic and disjointed. I was supposed to win. For her. For Mama.

Tetra's mind conjured the image of Rosalind, proud and kind, her laughter like sunlight breaking through clouds. For one fleeting moment, the warmth of her mother's embrace cut through the pain.

But then, that image twisted, burning away into the truth she could never escape.

Smoke.

Screams.

Mama.

The air burns, thick and sharp, tearing into her lungs. Shadows flicker—twisted faces, jeering mouths, voices she can't understand. Words blur together, harsh and jagged, cutting like shards of glass.

"…witch…"

"…traitor…"

"…burn her…"

Fire. So much fire.

It crackles and roars, a beast alive, devouring everything. There's heat on her face, her skin prickling, her eyes stinging. Or is it tears? She can't see. She can't breathe.

A figure. High above. Bound. Writhing. Screaming. A scream that splits her world in two, raw, fearful; and endless.

Mama?

A small hand reaches out—her hand?—but the distance grows, stretching impossibly far. The glow of flames swallows everything, and the crowd presses in, a suffocating wall of bodies and noise.

She's running—no, falling.

The orb in her hands glows faintly, a pale, trembling light. It's slippery with sweat, her grip weak. It might shatter. She doesn't know. She doesn't care.

Her feet slap against stone, bare and freezing, but her skin feels numb. Heavy arms grab her, lift her. She kicks. Screams. Fights.

No! Stop! Let me go! Cassian!

Words pour out, meaningless, weightless. They scatter like ash.

"…innocent…"

"…Mama…"

"…save her…"

The arms hold her tight. Unyielding. Words drip from the shadow's mouth, but they're hollow, empty.

"She's gone…"

Gone?

Tears slid down her cheeks, hot against the chill of death. "Mama…" she whispered, but her lips were not able to voice her words. The the was a plea, a lament, a final surrender.

Is this what you felt? The helplessness, the pain?

The world around her dimmed, her senses fading. In her last moments, she saw Barmin's crumpled form in the distance, his chest rising faintly.

A flicker of rage sparked within her. He lives?

But it was brief, smothered by the darkness closing in. Her final thought was not of the Witchers, nor of her failure. It was of her mother's face, radiant and untouchable, waiting for her in the void.

Tetra's lips parted in a broken sigh, her body stilling.

And then there was nothing.

...…

The clang of steel and the crackling of magic echoed through the smithy as Alaric and Calith approached, moving with the silent precision of predators. The oppressive glow of spellcraft spilled through the shattered doorway, casting flickering shadows against the walls. Alaric could feel the hum of magic vibrating in the air, his medallion thrumming insistently against his chest.

Elgar's strained grunts and a mage's guttural incantations mixed with the chaotic sounds of battle outside. The smithy itself, normally a place of creation, was now a crucible of destruction. Tools and weapons lay scattered, some glowing red-hot from stray magical bursts.

Alaric crouched low, peering through the jagged remnants of the doorway. Inside, Elgar fought valiantly, his special blade a blur as he deflected bolts of searing magic. He was bleeding from a deep gash in his side, his movements slower than usual. Opposite him stood the mage, a tall, gaunt figure cloaked in dark robes, his hands wreathed in crackling arcs of raw power.

The mage smirked, his voice dripping with disdain as he unleashed another volley of spells, forcing Elgar back toward the forge's glowing embers. "Witcher scum," the mage sneered. "You'll die like the rest of your kind—irrelevant and forgotten."

Alaric's grip tightened on his blade, his remaining hand flexing instinctively despite the phantom ache of his lost arm. His molten gaze fixed on the mage as he motioned for Calith to flank right while he took the left.

"On my mark," Alaric whispered, his voice barely audible over the din.

Calith nodded, his lips pressed into a grim line as he crept toward the shadows on the right, his footsteps soundless on the stone floor.

Elgar parried another spell, the force of it sending him stumbling into a rack of tools. His sword arm faltered for a moment, and the mage saw his opening. With a twisted grin, the mage raised both hands, his voice rising as he began to weave a powerful incantation.

"Now," Alaric hissed.

In one fluid motion, Alaric surged forward, his boots skidding across the smithy floor as he closed the distance. His glowing blade swung in a wide arc, the heat of it casting an eerie red light across the room. The mage, caught mid-incantation, turned just in time to see the Witcher bearing down on him.

Before the mage could complete his spell, Calith struck from the other side, his silver blade slicing through the mage's ward in a burst of sparks. The sudden, two-pronged attack left the mage momentarily stunned, his concentration faltering as the spell fizzled out in his hands.

"Surprise," Alaric growled, his voice cold and deadly as his sword found its mark. The blade bit deep into the mage's side, searing flesh as it pierced through the dark robes.

The mage screamed, his hands clawing wildly as he tried to summon another spell, but Calith was already there. With a swift, clean stroke, Calith's blade severed the mage's arm, sending it and the smoldering remains of his spellwork clattering to the ground.

The mage staggered, his eyes wide with shock and fury as blood poured from his wounds. "You… you—"

Alaric didn't let him finish. He stepped forward and drove his blade into the mage's chest, twisting it with a grim finality. The mage gasped, his body convulsing before crumpling to the ground in a heap.

For a moment, the smithy was silent except for the crackling of the forge.

Elgar slumped against the wall, his chest heaving as he clutched his bleeding side. "Took you long enough," he muttered, his voice strained but laced with relief.

Alaric stepped forward, extending his remaining hand to help Elgar to his feet. The motion was awkward, a reminder of his recent loss, but his grip was steady. "You're welcome," he said flatly, though a faint smirk tugged at his lips.

Calith glanced at the fallen mage, his blade still in hand. "That all of them?" he asked, his tone wary.

Alaric's gaze swept the room, his medallion no longer thrumming. The oppressive magic that had suffused the air was gone, replaced by the familiar sounds of the battlefield beyond.

"For now," Alaric said, his voice grim. He turned back to Elgar. "Can you walk?"

Elgar nodded, though his movements were stiff. "Barely. But don't expect me to keep up."

Calith moved to support him, sliding an arm under Elgar's to help him stand. "We'll get you back to the others," Calith said.

As the three Witchers stepped out of the smithy, the battle outside raged on. But the death of the summoners had begun to shift the tide, the retreating Idr and the scattered soldiers leaving the defenders with a fighting chance.

Alaric glanced at the forest beyond the keep, his expression dark. The phantom weight of his severed arm was a constant reminder of Barmin's last words and the sacrifice he had made, but for now, survival came first.

"Let's finish this battle," he muttered, his blade still glowing faintly as he led the way back into the fray.

-x-x-x-

A/N:-

Managed to pen down over 2800+ words.

I apologize for the delay, but this chapter took much longer than expected to write. Usually, I can write around 1200+ words in one sitting for a couple of days straight. However, with this chapter, I felt like I was constantly searching for the right words.

Another chapter is coming tomorrow, and I'll do my best to ensure it's ready on time.

As always, if you have any questions, feel free to ask.

Clear skies to all of you!