Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Geralt sighed, wiping his filthy sleeve across his face. Of course his luck led him here, God had a habit of fucking up his life constantly. A random tavern in the middle of nowhere, all he had wanted was to get drunk. Was that too much to ask? Some fucking peace once in a while? 

But no, of course some fucker had to recognize his medallion and immediately start a fight. 

Sometimes he wished he was just- normal . Not burdened with some familial bullshit that comes with the territory of being born into a family of supernatural hunters. He was tired. Tired of constantly having to hide his identity, and when people found it out being instantly forced out of whatever shithole he was staying in. 

Fuck the church. 

When he finally arrived in Novigrad, he honestly wasn’t sure what to expect. He had been there before, once, but that was before the night hordes. It was hard to imagine sometimes, that there had been a time before Reiksaj’s wife had been burned by the church (again: fuck the church ) and he’d gone absolutely batshit. 

Frankly put, the place looked like a hellhole. Dead bodies everywhere, the air smelled like decay and corpses. Not exactly tourist friendly. 

Geralt approached a small butcher's stand by the side of the road, suddenly realizing he hadn’t eaten in days. He didn’t need much food, thanks to his genetics, but when he did eat he needed a lot. 

“How much will one coin get me?” he asked, acutely aware that his entire savings at the moment was two coins. He really needed to get another contract. Soon. 

The woman told him it would get him a slice of meat which would sustain him for probably two days, hopefully. He tossed the coin on the counter and grabbed the food, but not before he overheard her talking to her companion.

“Once the church gets rid of the witches-”

“Speakers…” her companion murmured.

“Whatever,” she snapped. “Once they’re gone, Satan will stop his attacks on us. I’m sure of it.”

Speakers in Novigrad, Geralt thought. That should be interesting. Speakers normally kept to themselves, except- except when a crisis happened. And hordes of monsters definitely counted as a crisis. 

But even then, for a group of Speakers to stay in one place long enough to be blamed for the very disaster they were probably trying to stop was unusual. 

Hmm.

He continued his way down the road, until he heard a scuffle in the alley behind him. 

“Please,” a voice said from the alley. It sounded like it belonged to an older man. “Just let me go back to the others, I haven’t done anything to you. We just want to help-” 

“Help?” said a second voice, this one rougher and harsher. “All you witches do is bring the Devil’s wrath upon us! Soon you’ll all be dealt with, and we may finally have some fucking peace.” 

The old man was a Speaker, then. Fuck. 

Sighing and cursing himself for going soft, Geralt walked into the alleyway. The sight he was met with was an odd one, and yet it wasn’t surprising. This was Novigrad, after all. As he had suspected, there was an old Speaker, his blue robes instantly identifying him. Two priests, one carrying a knife, were standing near him. 

“Let him go.” Geralt said. All three of them jumped and turned to look at him, the priests’ glaring at the intrusion. 

“This is no business of yours,” one of them said. “leave now and we won’t kill you.” He was shorter than the other priest, with brown hair and a knife hidden in his sleeve. Priests with knives. Interesting. 

(He really fucking hated the church)

“Last chance,” Geralt said, drawing his sword. “this could get messy. We wouldn’t want that, now would we?” 

Of course the priests had to choose the hard way, didn’t they. The one with the knife already drawn lunged at him, slashing towards his face. Geralt sidestepped easily, parrying the attack with the flick of his wrist. The priest blinked, apparently not expecting an actual fight. He lunged again, but this time Geralt was done being patient. He dodged and swiftly brought the hilt of his sword down on the priest’s head. The priest crumpled. 

Geralt looked up at the other, who was gripping the knife in his sleeve and seemed to be deciding whether to fight or flee. 

Seeing Geralt’s expression, however, he came to a decision quickly.

As he watched the priest flee, Geralt approached the old man. 

“You’re a Speaker, right?” he asked. As if there was any doubt. 

“Yes,” the man replied. “Thank you for the help. I insist that you come back with me to the others, so that I can thank you for your help, Witcher.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow, slightly impressed. “How did you- fine.”

The Speaker turned and started towards the road, stepping over the priest’s body without hesitation. Geralt followed.

Maybe he’d get some food out of this, if he had any luck.

Chapter Text

Yennefer slowly made her way through the catacombs, her footsteps echoing throughout the chamber. Hundreds of feet under Novigrad, and yet she could still feel the life above. She could sense the people in the marketplace, their life forces seemingly calling to her. 

The flame in her palm flickered, its light only reaching a few yards in front of her. It warmed her though, something she was grateful for. She hated the cold, nights spent in the back of their wagon freezing in her thin robes had led her to appreciate warmth when she could find it. 

A thud behind her made her startle and look behind her, instinctively summoning an ice dagger in her free hand. She turned, willing the flame in her palm to grow larger. As the light revealed more and more of the chamber, she realized that there were stone statues decorating it. 

Maybe the savior liked interior design?

Suddenly a glowing eye appeared maybe thirty yards away from her. She gasped, and stumbled backwards, flinging the dagger at it blindly. 

A beam of light shot towards her. Oh no. 

She awoke with a gasp, her arms coming instinctively up to protect her face from the beam. A couple seconds passed until she realized she hadn’t been incinerated, and was in fact, fine. 

“Hey,” came a voice from her left. She whipped around to face it, her hands reaching for her magic only to realize it was exhausted. 

“Who are you,” she demanded. “where is the eye? Was it a demon?” 

“It doesn’t matter who I am. And the monster was a cyclops. I killed it.”

The voice, which belonged to a man with long white hair and golden eyes responded. He was wearing leather armor which was covered in cobwebs and things that she didn’t want to identify. His hair was in a simple braid down his back, and he was wearing a necklace, with a pendant that carried an eerily familiar symbol. She couldn’t quite place it, but she knew she had seen it before. 

“I am Yennefer, by the way. Yennefer Vengerbergu.”

“I don’t care.” The man replied. She glared. He sighed. 

“Look, I’m only here to bring you back to the other Speakers so that they’ll leave this fucking place. They refused to leave without your body, so I said I’d get it.” 

That sounded like her family. 

“ You look,” her voice was sharp. “I’m here for a reason. I didn’t just decide to wander into the catacombs of the city one day. There’s a savior sleeping here somewhere. He can save Novigrad!” 

“And you can come back down here after I show the others that you’re alive.”

“I-”

“Do you really want to be responsible for their deaths?”

She blinked. Annoying though he may be, he did have a point. 

“Fine.”

They arrived at the old house where her family lived, and Yen felt herself relax. Home. Or, at least the closest thing she had to a home at the moment. She opened the door to her siblings and grandfather sitting by the fire, their faces grim. Those expressions changed fast, as her eldest sister, Tissaia, rose quickly and ran to hug her. 

“Yen! You’re alive! Thank Melitele I was so worried-” Her words were cut off by Yen grabbing her and holding her close. It struck her that she could have died down there. She would have never seen her siblings, her parents, the wagon, anything ever again. She would have been alone down there, stuck as a statue forever. 

Her dark thoughts were interrupted by her rescuer slowly walking in, hovering near the entrance. 

Her grandfather stood, and walked over to him. 

“Thank you, Witcher. We are grateful beyond words. You have brought our child back to us.”

The man- the Witcher- looked uncomfortable by the attention. 

“Yeah, well. You should leave. This place isn’t safe for you.”

“We-”

“At least hide in the catacombs. The church is coming for you tonight. I overheard the priests who attacked you talking about it.”

“Wait a minute, you were attacked?!” All eyes turned towards her.

Her grandfather sighed, his expression telling her that this wasn’t the first time he’d had this argument.

Tissaia broke in. 

“He left to help the good people of Novigrad, even knowing that we are being hunted.”

She rolled her eyes. 

“I leave for what, a week? And you decide to risk your life? Am I really the only one with any-”

“Can you have this argument later?” The Witcher’s deep voice sounded weary. “Like in the catacombs? Where you’ll be safe?”

She decided that she didn’t like the Witcher very much.

Chapter Text

Sadly, he hadn’t gotten any food yet. 

Geralt stood in the now vacated Speaker house, waiting for the Church to arrive. Unbidden, his last encounter with the angry Church mob came to mind. 

His family, trapped in their house.

Smoke

So much smoke

His lungs burned- he couldn’t see from where he was in the forest

Their screams shook him to the core

the mob screamed with them, their anger and fear and hatred almost alive, like a monster rearing up at him

He couldn’t fight it, this time

He could hear his family dying-

The door opened. 

Here they were. 

What happened next was a blur. 

He could vaguely recall drawing his sword and killing the first few, his sword fast and their blood hot. 

He ran through the crowd, who luckily parted for him, saving him the trouble of having to have another Blaviken incident. 

He eventually emerged in the courtyard, the mob behind him and the Church in front of him, when he realized he was cornered. Fuck.

And then he heard it. The night hordes. 

Fuck.

The black creatures descended upon Novigrad in swarms, shooting flames and grabbing people from the mob only to drop them. The mob screamed, and yet not all of them scattered. In fact, the appearance of the hordes seemed to enrage them further, and their screams grew louder. 

A monster flew towards him and Geralt ducked and rolled, its claws slashing his shoulder, drawing blood. 

It had apparently been decided that he would not die today, because he was suddenly surrounded by purple flames.

Yennefer Vengerbergu was standing at the top of a building behind him, her arms encased in purple flame. Even from down below where he was, he could see her eyes glowing. 

A Speaker-Magician then.

Of course she was. 

She jumped, and Geralt instinctively flinched and waited for her to be a bloodstain on the road. She wasn’t. 

How she managed to look graceful while falling down, her hands shooting fire to cushion her fall was beyond him. 

She landed beside him, and Geralt looked around.

“You didn’t tell me that you’re a Speaker-Magician.” He grumbled.

“You didn’t ask.” 

They were standing at the edge of the square, only a few hundred yards from Novigrad’s Church. They were surrounded by the rubble of the city. The mob was surrounding them, it was alive. The night hordes were ripping into it, and Geralt could see the people fighting back. 

He could hear a… rumbling sound?

He looked up and a building was collapsing on top of them. Oh fuck.

He could hear Yennefer chanting something, and he was hoping that she was going to magic them out of this. His sword wouldn’t do much good against a building.

He saw a flash of purple, heard a loud crash-

-and then he was falling in the dark.

the dark enveloped him like a lover’s embrace, beckoning him 

he was falling, but how long had he been falling? 

minutes? hours? 

falling falling falling

He could imagine his death already. Geralt of the Witchers, the last heir of House Witcher. Dying alone in a dark fall after being hit by a fucking building. That definitely sounded like something the last heir of the Witchers would do. 

Maybe it was better this way. 

Chapter Text

Yennefer was falling. She had hastily broken the stone beneath them when she had seen the building fall, knowing that the catacombs lay underneath them and they had a better chance falling than getting crushed.

She couldn’t quite see the bottom of, well, wherever they were falling, but she could sense it. She couldn’t explain it, but this place, the catacombs under Novigrad, seemed to call her. 

They didn’t have long until they hit the floor, and if she did not act quickly, they would be killed instantly. Not even a Witcher could survive that.

(when she had time she would properly freak out over the fact that she had met a real Witcher, even though the House Witcher was supposedly killed off years ago. Not now though. later .)

Using what was left of her magic reserves, she shot fire from her palms, shooting her straight at the Witcher. Grabbing him with her free arm and muttering: “Hold on tight” she slowly, slowly allowed them to float towards the ground. Her arm was shaking, unused to the weight of not only her, but the Witcher, and she had to use all of her concentration to keep it steady. 

When they eventually landed, her knees buckled under her and she fell forwards, clutching her arm. The Witcher caught her, and helped prop her up against him. 

“Thanks,” she said, her weariness threatening to take over. 

“Hmm.” Was his eloquent reply. “Geralt.”

“Excuse me?”

“That’s my name. Geralt of House Witcher.”

She shrugged off his arm after a few minutes, and stepped forwards, a small purple flame growing in her palm. They were in another cavern from the catacombs, almost like the one she had been trapped in. 

She held the flame up in front of her, and saw a large stone door. It was carved with an ancient language, and had flowers carved around the handle. She could sense something behind it, something pulling her. Out of the corner of her eye she could see something, it looked like… a lever?

“There's a lever here!” she informed her companion. He walked over.

“It could be a trap.” He said. 

“Or, it could be a way to open this door.”

She pulled the lever.

Lights erupted around them, filling the room with a brilliant glow. 

“Holy shit,” she heard the witcher exclaim. Yen agreed. 

“This, this is from Reiksaj’s castle! We have stories about the fires that do not burn.”

The door slowly creaked open.

Yennefer walked inside, Geralt trailing behind her.

The room she entered was large, and had more of the fires that did not burn. It was mostly bare, except for a few marble pillars and most oddly, a coffin in the middle of the room. 

She wondered if she was truly fulfilling the prophecy, if the savior she had been told about was really there. Novigrad, hell, the Continent, needed something to stop the hordes. They couldn’t survive much longer-

Then the coffin opened. 

She had imagined many things when she had thought about the savior. Maybe he would be straight out of a horrible romance novel, with flowing hair and pale skin and golden eyes. What a sight that might be.

Maybe he was a hulking soldier, with rippling muscles or something. 

She definitely wasn’t expecting a vampire. 

Yennefer felt Geralt tense up behind her, and heard him draw his sword. Of course. A Witcher was born to hunt creatures of the night, and their biggest prey was vampires. And yet according to the prophecy, the three of them were supposed to work together to save the Continent. 

Melitele above, she was too tired for this. 

The vampire floated up from the coffin- since when could vampires float?

He was wearing black trousers, his short brown hair falling past his eyes. Most noticeably, was the scar.

A long, red mark covering his chest, it looked like something that certainly would have killed a human. Vampires. Of course. 

“You.” His voice was strained, and it was obvious he hadn’t spoken much for a long time. Yennefer had spent many hours in courts here and there with her family however, and she could recognize a singer. Interesting.

“What are you doing here?”

She shook herself from the still statue she had become, and took a hesitant step forward. If this was to be her ally, she may as well make a good impression. 

“I am Yennefer Vengerbergu, this is Geralt-” of the House Witcher. It may be best not to divulge that information just-

“Geralt of the House Witcher.” Geralt decided to finish for her. Had she the power to summon anything more than a flame, she might have incinerated him. 

The vampire looked up at them, and swept the hair out of his face. His eyes were a piercing ice blue, and there was something unreadable in them. 

“A Witcher. And why are you here? To kill the sleeping savior for a prize?” 

Yennefer held up her hand before Geralt could make the situation worse.

“We are here because of the prophecy. The Messiah under Novigrad- you can save us from Reiksaj and his horde. He is determined to wipe out humanity, we need to stop him.”

“I see. Is that what you believe, Witcher?”

“Reiksaj wants to wipe out humanity, that’s fact.” The Witcher replied, crossing his arms. “But that isn’t what you’re asking. No. I don’t believe that you’re a savior here to rescue us from Reiksaj. You’re a vampire- who’s to say we didn’t awaken Reiksaj’s killer so much as Reiksaj himself?”

“Reiksaj,” the vampire said. He slowly descended from where he had been floating (again- since when did vampires float?) and stood. “is known to me. But I am not him.”

He flicked his fingers, and a dagger flew into his hand. 

“You’ll do.”

“We’ll… do?” The Witcher’s voice was questioning. 

“Yes.” The vampire said. He grabbed a piece of cloth- a jacket, from his coffin and shrugged it on. “My name is Julian Pankratz. I am known to the people of the Continent as Jaskier, son of Reiksaj Pankratz.”

She had definitely not been expecting that. Judging by Geralt’s expression darkening, he hadn’t either.

“I have been lying under Novigrad for ten years, healing from the wounds dealt by my father,” Jaskier continued, apparently content to ignore their stunned silence. “and it is now time for this bloodshed to end. A Speaker-Magician and a Witcher. Do you know the prophecy?”

“Yes.” Yennefer said. “The sleeping soldier will be met by a hunter and a scholar…” 

“And here we are.” 

“So what happens now?” The Witcher asked.

“I need a hunter and a scholar. I need to stop my father.”

“Why?” she asked. If he was a vampire, why didn’t he support his father? Humanity had done him no favors, after all.

Jaskier smiled. His eyes were vacant, and she suspected that he was elsewhere in his thoughts. 

“Why?” He sheathed his dagger and played with it, a familiar movement from years of use. “It’s what my mother would want.”

“So you will help us? You’ll help us kill Reiksaj and save the Continent?”

“My father has to die.” For a moment, Yennefer saw a shadow of sorrow on his face, gone in an instant. It was replaced by grim determination, and she felt herself stand taller. “We three- we can destroy him.”

“And we will.”

Chapter Text

The first day they traveled together was… odd, to say the least. Tense. Geralt was not accustomed to traveling with others, and he felt unsure of how to act. He was sure that the others felt similarly, even Yennefer, who by all accounts should have been used to this. Traveling with family was probably different, though. Not that Geralt would know. Part of this tension was due to his distrust of the vampire, Jaskier. Every time the vampire moved, every nerve in Geralt’s body screamed Kill it kill it kill it- 

It will hurt you 

His instincts, his years of training and learning from harsh experiences told him that he was making a mistake by not staking this vampire.

The only thing staying his hand, and his sword, was the something he had seen under Novigrad when their little truce had been formed. The look in the vampire’s eyes when he had talked about his mother- well, it was human . Not that Geralt knew much about humanity, but some things even the potions of Kaer Morhen couldn’t change. 

Well, that and Yennefer. He had no doubt in his mind that she would easily incinerate him should he attack the vampire unprovoked. It seemed to him that she did believe in the prophecy, maybe not with blind faith, but with some certainty that the teachings of her people were real. 

The prophecy. To him it seemed like a pile of bullshit, the same insanity that people used to justify their evil actions. Life is too easy when you act as if you don’t have a choice. 

“We should stop soon,” Yennefer’s voice broke through his thoughts. “It is almost night, and I don’t think it would be a good idea to be on the road with the hordes on the loose.”

They were a few hours away from Novigrad, following the winding Pontar river road. They had, after much deliberation (in other words, Yennefer had decided for them), decided to set off to the one place in the Continent that Geralt never wanted to see again. Kaer Morhen. 

His childhood home, and the place where all of House Witcher’s knowledge was kept. 

and the place he had seen the smoke rising from the windows, the air thick. he couldn’t breathe, his eyes stung from the smoke. the mob yelled, their voices threatening to drown him-

“Very well.” It was Jaskier who spoke. The vampire looked different, in the day. Under Novigrad his heritage had been all too apparent, his skin pale, his eyes an unnatural shade of blue, his fangs on full display. Under the slowly setting sun though, he looked almost normal. Human, even. He could easily have been a young noble of some sort, and to anyone else he was. 

But Geralt knew better. 

They set up camp by the road, and Yennefer lit a small fire. The three of them huddled by it, the chill of the night finally setting in. Well, Geralt and Yennefer felt the chill. Could vampires feel the cold? 

“We’re about a week away from Flotsam, and three weeks away from Kaer Morhen. We should stop at Flotsam, definitely. We will need supplies for the mountains.” It felt odd, to talk about returning to what was once his home. Yennefer hummed, staring into the flames. 

“Flotsam sounds good. We-I’ve been there, once. They are relatively unaffected by the hordes- well, as unaffected as is possible.” She toyed with the sleeve of her robe, shadows from the fire dancing on her face. 

Jaskier shifted from where he was sitting by the fire, his gaze shifting between Geralt and Yennefer. 

“Three weeks.” He said softly. “I have heard of Kaer Morhen before, it is your family’s ancestral home, is it not?” He directed at Geralt. 

Geralt looked away, feeling a dull pang at the reminder. It had been years, and yet he still felt the loss as if it had happened yesterday. 

“Yes.” Yes, it was. Until my family ceased to exist. Until I became the last Witcher.

Jaskier must have seen something in his expression, because he glanced at Geralt with a peculiar expression on his face.
“I apologize, I should not have brought it up.”

Geralt simply nodded, not quite knowing what to say. Yennefer seemingly took this as an invitation to change the subject, which Geralt welcomed. 

“It’s getting late. I, for one, am going to bed.” She stood, dusting off her robes. “You boys behave.” She smirked as she left.

Geralt realized that this was the first time he had been alone with Jaskier, without Yennefer acting as a buffer. Jaskier stood, and made a shitty excuse Geralt didn’t care to respond to, before laying on his own makeshift bed. Geralt stayed by the fire long after it flickered out. He certainly wasn’t planning on getting any sleep, he would be loath to leave himself vulnerable, especially with a vampire nearby. Reluctant ally or not, Geralt was not willing to risk it. Besides, someone would have to keep watch. 

As he sat there, he let his thoughts wander. 

In about three weeks’ time, they would reach Kaer Morhen. He was certain that there would be something helpful there. His education had been effective in teaching him how to kill, how to fight the supernatural, and most importantly, how to survive. It had failed to teach him how to kill genocidal vampire legends who lived in teleporting castles. 

Still, he figured that his ancestors must have had some knowledge of Reiksaj, and possibly something helpful. Hell, they had a mage on their side as well, so the magic libraries of Kaer Morhen could be useful for once. 

He thought back to his childhood at Kaer Morhen. His days spent with his brothers, play fighting and training. He had been so happy . 

But of course, happiness never lasts. 

Geralt sighed, pulling his knees up to his chest. 

There was no use dwelling on the past, especially with a future so uncertain. 

He spent the rest of the night trying to ignore the memories of his family’s screams.

Chapter Text

Triss’ footsteps echoed in the hallway, her emerald dress flowing behind her, her curly hair pulled into an elegant knot. As she finally reached the door (Melitele above, did her Lord have to design His hallways to be almost endless?), she smiled. She slipped inside quietly, closing the heavy wooden door with a soft click. She could already feel herself relaxing, the weight of the world seeming to fall off of her shoulders. 

Court was, well, not her happiest place. Being around other people in general, actually. Even if they were vampires. Maybe especially if they were vampires. Or, at least, her Lord’s generals.

But here, in her forge, with her creations- her pets, she could truly be at peace. Here, she wasn’t one of her Lord’s mysterious forgemistresses, trusted by the great Reiksaj and yet still forced to prove herself and her loyalty daily. In her haven in the depths of the castle, she wasn’t the object of ridicule by the other generals, constantly doubted for her blood. 

It was nice. 

Turning from the door, Triss undid the ties in her hair and let it fall. A soft sound came from under her work table, and her calico kitten, Prisa, came padding towards her, a soft meow ensuring that Triss gave her the attention she wanted. After scooping her little menace up, she spared a thought for the coming nights. 

Lord Reiksaj had commanded that his forgemistresses find a strategy in order to continue with the war. He had admitted, in the quiet of his chambers as the fire had burned brightly, harshly in a cruel sort of contrast to the almost resigned expression he had worn, that he no longer cared for humanity’s suffering, so long as they died.

Privately, and though it was not her place, she was conflicted. She held no love for humanity, for the cruelty of humans had forced her into isolation simply because she had dared to be born different. Yet even then, she did not wish for all humans to die. They could be ruled by vampires, kept under control, held as livestock , but still live. 

She knew that there were whispers amongst the generals, the unspoken agreement with the borderline treasonous thoughts. Triss was loyal to Reiksaj however, and her own weakness would not change that. She would stand by him, she would walk into the gates of Hell itself should he command it. 

Prisa squirmed slightly in her arms, and she let her jump out of them. She had dwelled on the matters of court enough for one day, she supposed. There was work to be done. 

⥈

Triss emerged from her haze -which always seemed to surround her when she practiced- to familiar footsteps approaching her chambers. After dropping her forgehammer on her work table, she dusted her hands off on her dress and turned to look at her door expectantly. 

As she had assumed, a second later her fellow forgemistress entered, looking distinctly displeased. Mentally, Triss sighed. It seemed that tonight was determined to be a long one. 

Renfri was, as always, dressed in trousers and a blood (the irony was not lost to Triss) red blouse, with a black vest with Reiksaj’s emblem emblazoned in gold adorning the front. Her sword was strapped to her waist, and Triss was sure she had at least four other knives on her person. Probably more than that. In addition to the various deadly poisons, and the brooch which Triss was certain she had killed someone with. 

She was gorgeous, deadly, and also likely angry. 

“Renfri,” Triss said, trying to keep her tone from sounding too exasperated. It would not do for them to argue, especially with the precarious situation currently causing them all tension. As Reiksaj’s human forgemistresses, they had to show a united front.

Not only because of their humanity.

The vampire generals of Reiksaj’s court had decided long ago that listening to two women was beneath them. It was only due to Reiksaj’s obvious regard for them, and their own constant battles for respect that the men had not already tried to undermine them. Had they attempted such a revolt, Triss and Renfri could have held their own, of course. Still, it was important to have at least a semblance of unity within the forces of the night, lest the vampires forget their owed loyalty towards Reiksaj and force him to intervene. He would not be pleased to be forced to intervene.

“What brings you here?” 

Renfri shifted, her right hand going instinctually to the hilt of her sword as it always did when she was frustrated. 

“You know as well as I that we must attack, and soon. The council-” 

“Grows restless, I am aware.” Triss finished, tapping her fingers lightly on the table behind her. “Where do you have in mind? I’m sure you didn’t come here to tell me that which I already know.” 

Though Renfri glared at her for the interruption, she tilted her head slightly in acknowledgement. 

“I propose Novigrad. I’ve been given information, which tells that recently our hordes there were driven off. I have reason to believe-” At this, she lowered her voice, leaning in slightly. “that the hordes were stopped by Jaskier.” 

Triss sucked in a surprised breath. Jaskier. Reiksaj’s disgraced heir. There were rumors, of course, of his fate. They spoke of a young man, with dark hair and bright eyes, challenging his father in the name of his mother. A challenger who left the battle with a wound fatal to even a dhampir, cast out, and locked in the caverns of a castle. 

Reiksaj had given orders to never mention the name in his presence, and the name Jaskier was never spoken in a voice higher than a whisper, reduced to the stolen conversations of the day or the hidden writings of the night. For Renfri to say, even in the confidence of the forgotten forges, which were abandoned to all but the forgemistresses, that she believed that their Lord’s son may have risen again, was dangerous. 

There was, of course, no question to Renfri’s loyalty. She had been selected by Reiksaj herself, and would do anything for him. She would have single handedly killed all of humanity at his word, or died trying. But even for her, to say the name of the lost heir was a risk. 

“Novigrad it is.” Triss replied. She could tell by the way Renfri’s eyes stared back into hers that she understood that Triss had gotten the implications. If Jaskier was truly back, he was coming for their Lord. 

They would do anything, and everything, to stop him. 

(And if he wasn’t, then they had still managed to retake Novigrad, and kill some more humans. Not a loss by any means.)