Chapter 17 - The Cycle of Hatred

The first rays of dawn crept over the horizon, casting a pale orange glow across the bloodied battlefield. Smoke and ash hung heavily in the air, the acrid scent mingling with the metallic tang of blood. The cries of the wounded and the dying still echoed faintly, but the cacophony of battle had dulled to sporadic clashes and muffled orders.

Alaric stepped out of the smithy with Calith and Elgar, their movements heavy with exhaustion. Calith supported the limping Elgar, whose face was pale but determined, his bloodied side hastily bandaged with a strip of torn cloth. Alaric walked a step ahead, his blade still glowing faintly as his remaining hand rested on its hilt.

The courtyard, once a place of order, was now a chaotic ruin. Bodies of both attackers and defenders lay scattered, mingling with the wreckage of siege machines and discarded weapons. Yet there was a shift in the air. With the mages on the attackers' side dead, the tide of the battle had turned. The defenders fought with renewed vigor, their lines holding strong as the remnants of the enemy force faltered and began to scatter.

As Alaric surveyed the scene, his sharp eyes caught movement above. Tissaia hovered mid-air, her robes billowing gently in the early morning light. She radiated an aura of calm command, her hands still glowing faintly from the wards she had maintained through the night. Her piercing gaze swept the battlefield until it landed on Alaric.

Her expression changed instantly. With a fluid motion, she descended, her feet touching the blood-slicked ground with unnatural grace. As she approached him, her eyes widened in shock.

"Your arm…" she whispered, her voice trembling as she reached for him.

Alaric glanced down at the cauterized stump where his arm had once been. The flesh was blackened and raw, still radiating faint heat. He opened his mouth to respond, but Tissaia cut him off, her voice rising in alarm.

"What happened? Who did this to you? Alaric, you should have—"

Before he could answer, a deafening explosion ripped through the air. The ground shook violently, and everyone instinctively turned toward the sound. The last escalade, still crowded with attackers desperately trying to flee, had erupted in a massive fireball.

Debris and bodies were flung into the air, and a wave of heat rolled across the courtyard.

From the far wall, Igor's furious roar echoed, cutting through the stunned silence. "THAT'S WHAT YOU GET FOR RUINING MY NIGHT!"

Moments later, Igor swooped down, his robes flaring dramatically as he landed beside Tissaia and Alaric. His face was streaked with soot, and his normally excitable demeanor was replaced with a sharp-edged annoyance. He looked Alaric up and down, his gaze lingering on the stump of his arm.

"Well," Igor said flatly, "you've lost an arm."

Tissaia turned on him, her expression a mix of fury and disbelief. "Is that all you have to say?" she snapped. "How can you be so calm about this?"

Igor shrugged, brushing ash off his sleeves. "He's alive, isn't he? And frankly, this gives me the perfect excuse to experiment with my alchemical engineering prosthetics." He grinned, his eyes lighting up with unsettling enthusiasm. "I've been dying to test a design I've been working on—perhaps something that channels magic. Oh, or something with integrated runes—"

Tissaia's hands began to glow ominously, the telltale sign of her temper reaching its breaking point. "Igor," she hissed, her voice dangerously low.

Alaric reached out, his remaining hand gently wrapping around her wrist. The heat of her magic ebbed slightly at his touch, and she turned to him, her anger softening as she met his gaze.

"Let's assess the damage," Alaric said, his voice calm despite the exhaustion etched into his features.

Tissaia's jaw tightened, but she gave a curt nod, the glow around her hands fading. Igor was unfazed by the near-threat of annihilation.

As dawn continued to break, casting long shadows over the ruined keep, the three turned their attention to the survivors and the remnants of the battlefield. The battle had been won, but its toll was undeniable—and the next steps would require all their strength and resolve.

...…

The survivors gathered in the main hall of Kaer Morhen, the air thick with exhaustion and grief. Dawn's light filtered through the shattered windows, casting pale beams on the worn stone floor. The Witchers stood in a loose circle, their battered armor and bloodied weapons.

Elgar leaned heavily on a chair at the head of the room, his bandaged side still bleeding faintly through the fabric. He took a deep breath, his voice rough as he called out, "We need a damage report. Speak plainly. We need to know what we've lost."

The Witchers exchanged grim glances before one of the senior brothers stepped forward, his face lined with sorrow.

"The west wall is gone," he began. "Breached by the Idr. The gatehouse is holding, but it'll need weeks of repairs to be defensible again. The signal tower's rubble, and we've lost most of the outer defenses."

Another Witcher spoke, his tone raw. "Sixteen of our brothers are gone. Barmin… Danek… Toren…" His voice broke, and he couldn't continue.

"They fought to the end," someone muttered from the back.

Elgar's jaw tightened, his eyes flickering over the gathered survivors. "And the pups?"

"They were butchered," said another Witcher grimly. "The chimeras cut through them like butter. Lord Igor saved what few he could, but most…" He shook his head, his voice trailing off.

A heavy silence fell over the hall, broken only by the occasional crackle of a torch or the distant wail of the wounded outside.

Alaric stood near the edge of the gathering, his one hand clenched tightly around the hilt of his sword. His mind raced, his grief sharpened into a single, piercing thought. He turned toward Igor, his voice trembling but firm.

"Igor," he said. "Where is my father?"

Igor, who had been leaning against a pillar and muttering to himself about the state of repairs, went silent.

Alaric stepped forward, his voice rising. "Where is my father, Igor?"

The hall fell deathly quiet as every eye turned toward the two. Igor didn't answer. Instead, his gaze shifted toward the far end of the hall, where a row of bodies lay beneath bloodstained cloths.

Alaric's breath caught in his throat. His boots echoed against the stone as he moved toward the shrouded forms, his steps slow and disbelieving. "No…" he whispered.

His eyes locked on the familiar blue and silver robes draped over one of the figures. His father's robes. His mind screamed at him to deny it, to turn away, but his body moved on its own. He reached out, his hand trembling as he grasped the edge of the cloth.

Before he could lift it, Igor's hand shot out, gripping his wrist. "Alaric," Igor said softly, his voice unusually grave. "Don't."

Alaric turned his gaze on Igor, his amber eyes burning with anguish. He shook off Igor's hand with a jerk. He lifted the cloth.

The sight hit him like a physical blow. His father's head, severed cleanly, was mounted grotesquely on a bloodstained pitchfork. His lifeless eyes stared forward, his expression frozen in a grimace of pain.

Alaric froze, the world narrowing to that single, horrifying image.

Grief struck him first, a visceral, crushing weight that stole his breath. Surprise followed, his mind reeling, unable to fully comprehend the barbarity of what he was seeing. Then came anger, hot and searing, coursing through his veins like molten steel.

But what settled in his chest after that was pure, unrelenting rage.

"BOOM!"

The air erupted with raw magical energy as Alaric lost control. A deafening shockwave tore through the hall, knocking torches from their mounts and sending debris skittering across the stone. The very air seemed to vibrate, heavy and oppressive, as if suffused with his fury.

Witchers staggered back, shielding their faces as the suffocating pressure bore down on them. Igor winced, muttering something about keeping his distance, while others looked on in silent fear.

Alaric's body trembled with power, his remaining hand clenched into a fist, his breathing ragged. He was barely aware of the chaos he was causing, his mind consumed by the image of his father's mutilated form.

Then, he felt arms wrap around him from behind.

"Alaric," Tissaia whispered, her voice steady despite the crackling energy around them. Her embrace was firm, grounding, her cheek pressing gently against his back. "Alaric, breathe."

The pressure eased, though the air still hummed with latent power. Alaric's head bowed as he struggled to contain the torrent of emotions threatening to overwhelm him.

"They killed him, Sky…" he whispered, his voice raw and broken. "And then they mounted his head on a pitchfork…"

His whisper trailed off, his teeth grinding together as the words ended in a guttural growl.

Tissaia's arms tightened around him, her presence anchoring him as his trembling slowed.

Alaric's voice dropped to a low, deadly murmur. "I will kill them," he said, his tone cold and unwavering. "All of them."

...…

A great man once said, "Hatred is born in order to protect love." Such is the sorrow of the human heart—for in the human heart lies a paradox—the noble yearning to protect what is beloved and the equally potent compulsion to destroy anything that threatens it.

Conflict, like the ceaseless tide, is the constant refrain of mankind, as inevitable as the turning of the seasons. It springs forth from the deep well of human ambition—whether it be the hunger for power, the thirst for vengeance, the pursuit of justice, or the dogged preservation of pride.

Men, like rivers, carve their paths toward power, justice, or survival, but when their currents meet, the waters churn red.

This righteous selfishness, though born of love. The flame of conflict burns eternal, fuelled by the desire to preserve one's own vision of peace, one's cherished dreams, and the fragile edifice of one's future.

Some conflicts are brief, brutal affairs, resolved with the swiftness of the sword and the silence of the grave. Yet others endure, haunting the halls of memory long after the vanquished have turned to dust. Such wars are stoked not by the clash of arms, but by the embers of grievance, fanned into flames by the winds of time.

Such conflicts do not end with the battle. They carve their mark on all who partake in its grim theatre. The wounds it leaves upon the flesh may heal, but the wounds upon the spirit linger, deepening into scars that time cannot erase. These enduring scars carry the weight of hatred, binding to the sins of their forebears and ensnaring them in an endless cycle of strife.

"Enduring scars are the chains of the soul, begetting the cycle of hatred— a venomous serpent consuming itself."

-[Idk someone might have quoted it before me]

And so, humanity marches onward, burdened by the weight of its history, compelled by its nature to repeat the cycles of love and hatred, creation and destruction.

-x-x-x-

A/N:-

Hey everyone,

A bit short chapter today. Took a long time to write though.

This marks the climax of the first volume. Next, we'll delve into some of Alaric's childhood memories from Kaer Morhen, followed by a couple of chapters to tie up any loose ends.

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

Wishing you all clear skies and happy reading!