Archive of Our Own

I

The stranger came from the north without a horse, following the beaten path and keeping away from well-traveled roads leading from Ursten.

Gray clouds rolled from the coast all day, the skies heavy with the promise of rain, and the air smelt of fresh dew and ozone come morning.

Rain began to fall in fat droplets once late noontime rolled in. By the time the stranger reached the crossroads, she was already bedgraggled like a waterlogged cat, dragging her drenched cloak as she read the signpost welcoming her into town. The town roads were empty, aside from a few guards marching through, who ignored her. Mostly.

Soon she reached a two-story tavern surrounded by a roughshod fence, the earth around it pockmarked with puddles sinking her boots into the mud as she crossed it. She walked by the small stable to the side, which housed four idle horses. Their hooves began to desperately dig into the dirt, whinnying furiously when they sensed her presence, but she paid them no mind. 

The inn itself stood two-stories high. A proper lookout tower loomed above the thatched roof on its side, its structure belying the inn’s history as part of a garrison during the first war of the Northern Kingdoms. Until now, some parts of the building were scorched white, and she could only imagine how much had to be rebuilt for it to look as homely and respectable as it was now.

The stranger finally stopped when she reached the double door entrance of the inn. Above her, the sign upon the door had a crude depiction of a crossed flagon painted on the swaying plank. She pulled her cloak around herself and squared her shoulders, steeling herself at the prospect of involving herself in the business of men once more.

She opened the double doors with a slight heave and dragged her muddy boots through the threshold of the entrance. Warm air greeted her, and she shivered from the palpable change in temperature.

Her steps were silent as she walked, rainwater trickling from her boots as she made her way towards the crowded bar counter. Her shadows dancing across the walls, beyond flaring torchlights. Despite the inn’s shuddering windows and the howling wind outside, the space felt warm.

There were a few barflies sitting by the pub, dallying around the innkeeper. They stopped mid-sentence when they noticed the newcomer approach.

The barman’s face grew pale at her sight, and immediately their lively conversation broke as everyone turned to look at her. 

Sour faces greeted the stranger. Two yellow cat eyes gleamed back from underneath her hood.

She didn’t hesitate and pierced through their wall of silence with her voice.

“Greetings.”

Cold eyes watched her every move, like rays of ice piercing even the comeliest corners of the establishment.

Though, even in the company of hardened soldiers and vagabonds, her presence stood out amongst them like the red on a spider’s back. Nobody dared move a muscle.

“Anything I can help you with?” The innkeeper asked, his voice measured and cautious.

Some of the pub’s patrons aggressively shoved their noses back into their drinks after glaring at her long enough. One of them, a man wearing Redania's red uniform, dared overstay his attention and spat at the floor. “You’re not looking for any trouble, are you?” He asked. “Want us to drag it out of here, Hei?”

“Now now.” The innkeeper held out a hand. “It’s my guest, so be nice.” He turned to her with a scowl. “So whaddya want?”

“The Zerrikanian.” The stranger said.

“Aye, I’m from Zerrikania. What of it?”

“No.” The stranger said. “The Zerrikanian.”

Hei smirked, grabbing a dirty rag from the table and flipping it over his shoulder. “And what do you want from that daughter of a she-dog?”

The stranger paused, then moved to open the buckled latch of her leather side satchel. Everyone shoved their chairs away in alarm as she reached inside her bag, grabbing the pommel of their swords and knives with a death's grip. The stranger ignored the commotion and pulled out a folded, worn-out parchment. She spread it on the counter.

Hei stared at it, blinking. He pointed at the blocky signature - characters of another language - written on the corner, his hand shaking. “I’d recognize that sign anywhere.” 

“Is she here?”

“Aye,” Hei muttered: “Unfortunately for everyone in the vicinity.” 

He walked around the bar, wiping his vinegar-soaked hands dry with his dirty rag, and motioned for her to follow.

The busiest side of the pub was just behind the main bar. 

It was a larger space, decorated with a thick bear rug laid by the crackling fireplace, and had wooden beams painted with flowers and curling green leaves. Barmaids hurried about, carrying armfuls of liquor and fragrant Est Est. Some steered around tables carrying food in larger portions: steamed carrots and parsley floating in rich chicken broth, smoked lamb, and honey-glazed sweet rolls. The food especially held the stranger’s interest for a long time.

“That woman better leave my inn when she finishes whatever business she’s here for,” Hei grumbled. The stranger said nothing, but he continued to speak regardless. “That damned woman drank most of my barrels dry last week. Had to stop six barfights -- six this month alone. I’d kick her out if she wouldn’t beat me senseless first.”

The hubbub on the other side of the establishment made them stop in their tracks, and she turned to Hei with a question in her eyes. “What is she waiting for?”

“Gods strike me before I find out. Maybe she’s waiting for you.” He pointed through the crowd and grunted. “There she is, the one with the big head.”

She turned to the corner of the pub where Hei was pointing at, frowning when a couple of rowdy men blocked her view.

Damn. She’ll have to take a closer look.

II

The crowd’s eyes were focused on the fight in the middle of the gathering. 

Two calloused hands were locked together in a stalemate, urged by the audience’s fists pounding wooden tabletops, beating with a rhythm that shook the building. 

On one side of the table sat a man, his face flushed red and purple; sweat pouring from his crinkled forehead and down a desperate grimace. His teeth were clenched, grinding.

On the other side of the table was a woman, chugging a tankard of ale.

The man’s nose flared as he exhaled, a growl wooshing between gritted teeth.

“Yang! Yang! Yang!”

“Take me seriously, woman.”

It was at this point the man conveniently forgot the game’s rules and tried to lean his whole body against her arm, fighting against the thick, corded limb, and pushing all of his weight against it. But the woman barely budged, her head thrown back as she continued to finish the rest of her drink.

He groaned, furious, twisting his wrist against her grip, hoping he could snatch victory away by trying another angle.

The woman allowed him an inch.

Then, squeezing his hand in an iron grip, Yang tensed her shoulder and drove his arm into the table with a SLAM. The table quaked. Empty cups flew to the floor with a resounding clatter, and the walls shook from the crowd’s uproar.

Yang lowered her tankard from her glistening lips, eyes twinkling in amusement as she released his hand from her grip. Cardin hissed, wincing, and looked mildly perplexed when he felt blood begin to rush back into his fingertips. 

“You…” Cardin stuttered. “You cheated.”

“Whatever helps you sleep tonight, my friend.”

Yang winked and ignored him, pushing her seat back and standing up; her height now towering above everybody else. The crowd around her side of the table cheered, waving their drinks in the air. Someone tipped ale into her cup from a half-empty bottle, and Yang thanked them politely, before grinning at Cardin’s murderous look. 

“What?” She shrugged. “It’s not my fault you’re not strong enough.”

“Who’s next?” Called an elderly man, clapping his hands above the ruckus. “Who dares challenge the grand slam champion?”

Yang felt a few hands pat her back, and she smiled wantonly as she soaked in the attention. “Are Nordlings this easy to beat in bar games?”

A wave of laughter echoed around the room.

“You helped me win five more crowns, Zerrikanian.”

“You split the money with me fifty-fifty, Eyck, and I’ll honor you with a song.” Yang said.

“The man lasted longer than I expected.” Another chimed in.

Yang laughed. “You didn’t expect much then.”

“His face turned redder than a smacked arse!”

Yang took a languid sip of ale, eyes roaming above the excited faces of the tavern’s patrons. “Anyone else wish to challenge me? Give me the North’s best of the best, and I’ll leave your cups flowing with Ale for a week.”

It didn’t take long for Yang’s eyes to catch the lone person who wasn’t fawning over her, tucked against the opposite corner of the pub. Watching her in the dark. The stranger had her back against the wall, her arms crossed in front of her chest. 

Under her hood were two yellow cat eyes, watching her with a curious intensity. 

Yang felt a twitch interrupt her smile. 

Who is that?

The stranger wore all black, her attire made entirely out of leather armor and gleaming chainmail. A worn satchel rested upon her upper thigh, and several pouches hung from one side of her brown belt, revealing a person with many talents.

Yang spied black glass vials hanging from the other side of her belt. And as Yang walked closer, smelled medicinal herbs and fresh rain lingering from the stranger’s skin. 

She has undoubtedly seen a number of warriors during her travels around the Northern Realm. Rugged like the seafarer Islanders of Skellige, orderly like the pompous armies of Nilfgaard, and elegant like the Aen Seidhe guerilla fighters -- but never someone who feigned indifference like a coiled viper. Mysterious and dark, with eyes glowing like the sun beating down on a barren desert dune. 

Gods, she must be drunker than she thought.

The stranger, on the other hand, watched her -- seemingly less than impressed. 

As if Yang’s feet had a mind of their own, they began to lead her out of everyone’s center of attention, and she slowly approached the stranger’s scrutiny instead. The jaunty music and cacophony of cheers seemed to fade into the background, and the distance between them grew smaller until they were face to face with nothing but a feet apart.

Yang sipped her drink, sizing her up. “And who do we have here?”

This close, one would certainly notice Yang’s more unearthly features.

The Zerrikanian may have stood out amongst the simple peasantry, but was comparable to an overzealous peacock’s feather surrounded by pigeon down. She wore a layered tunic covering a colorful silken robe, patterned with swirls of fire which gleamed in the light; a lavender sash tied around her waist, held up by ornate silver buckles and a black stained belt. Her shirt collar was undone, nearly exposing her ample chest. She had the legs of a sailor, but the gait of nobility. 

Her violet eyes were especially unnatural. Her beauty even more so. As if the shape of a mere mortal woman had stepped out of nature’s restrictions, and molded to mock what it couldn’t achieve. She seemed to glide as she walked, graceful despite being obviously drunk. 

It only took but a moment for the stranger to understand who, exactly, she was about to deal with.

“A sorceress.” 

“Perceptive.” Yang said, not bothering to challenge the stranger’s whispered accusation. “What’s with the look, is there something on my face?” 

The stranger turned her head and seemed to stare at the floor with glassy eyes. In that moment Yang felt as if a spell had broken.

She paused, blinking rapidly as she continued to study the stranger, her curiosity piqued. “Let me guess.” Yang tapped a finger on her tankard’s lip, trying to look nonchalant despite the heavy beating of her heart. “Two swords on your back, slitted eyes, a cat’s medallion.” She took a long sip of her ale. “Very broody.”

The stranger blinked, then glared at her. "Perceptive."

“Judging from your contempt, I am guessing you and I will make fast friends.”

“What can I say,“ The stranger said. “Your personality simply exudes charm.”

“I’m not done yet, Xiao Long!” The loser of the arm-wrestling match stood up from his seat, his lips drawn into a sneer. Cardin’s platemail clinked as he walked. If it weren’t for his armor, he would have looked less than imposing despite being a head taller than Yang. He noisily pushed aside the warped table and stormed towards her in big, heavy strides. “Best two out of three. Double or nothing.”

“You won’t last another minute against me, Cardin.” Yang said, patting his unshaven cheek while keeping her eyes on the stranger in front of her. “Even if I wanted to, I have more important business to attend to right now, with someone far more interesting.” 

Cardin scoffed, pushing his mug in her line of vision, forcing her to face him. “I can’t allow myself to lose to a foreigner like you.”

“Is anyone surprised, though? I mean look at me.” Yang flexed, coaxing laughter from the crowd. 

Cardin’s face flushed crimson, and before he could diplomatially reply by punching her, the stranger held out a hand -- tracing something in the air with her fingers -- and an unearthly force burst forth from her open palm. This force threw Cardin across the room, landing him into the warped table, which broke under his weight. 

The jaunty music stopped. Everyone fell silent.

Cardin scrabbled on the floor, struggling under the burden of his embarrassment. "Freak, you're a freak!"

“She said no.” The stranger said.

Before Cardin -- or anyone -- could react, Yang held out a hand in the air, and immediately all eyes fell upon her, the silence of the crowd turning into a respectful hush as they waited for the Zerrikanian to speak. “ Vessekheal !” Yang wrapped an arm around the stranger’s shoulders, who tensed under her touch. Yang loosened her grip in silent apology, placing a hand on her shoulder instead. “In honor of my new friend , drinks are on me.” 

A few men cheered at the promise of more ale, and the local bard began to pluck another tune with her lute.

A few men wearing Cardin’s colors laughed as they helped him up, drunkenly passing a cup to soothe his flame. And gradually, one by one, the crowd left them alone with none but a few suspicious stragglers left behind, openly glaring at Yang's new friend, but keeping away as if they themselves were kings, and she a leper.

Yang turned to the stranger with a dimpled grin, and slammed her tankard on the table nearby. “Very impressive. I didn’t know you people knew magic.” She said, her words slurring even more as she spoke. “Perhaps you can teach it to me sometime, dark one?” Yang whistled and waited as Hei approached them with a full keg of ale under an arm, simpering like her personal servant. She lifted her cup, and he carefully filled her tankard, then waited for further instruction, grumbling under his breath.

“How about you?” Yang asked the stranger. “What do you people drink? Hag’s blood? Wyvern piss?”

“Beer.”

“Wyvern piss for my friend here, please.”

“Of course. Anything else,” Hei coughed. “ Sir ?”

“Have you eaten anything yet, my friend? Hei, something spicy with the beer, please. Do you like spicy food, stranger? Something sour? What’s it called? Green pepper pods in vinegar, then, Hei. Mollusc soup, and a generous side of crayfish with dill, if you please.”

“At your service.”

“Nothing else. We’ll see.” Yang waved him away. “Thank you, Hei.”

“Great.” Hei grumbled. “I’ll add it to your damn tab.”

“Good man.” Yang said, “Fast on his toes and prone to intimidation.” She didn’t notice Hei make a surly face behind her back, before stomping off to the bar. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your terrifying presence?”

“It’s unusual how you have a ‘The’ in your self-professed title, but I still don’t know who you are.” The stranger said. “Maybe we can start there?”

“Feisty.” Yang chuckled. “Twenty-two times reigning Gwent champion, master of grand slams. Like what you see?” She winked.

The stranger exhaled slowly through her nose and closed her eyes. She then pulled the contract from her side, unrolling it and shoving the wet parchment in Yang’s face. “You need a professional.” She said, her voice clipped. “And I need the crowns. I prefer to keep this as a business-only transaction, Zerrikanian. What do you need?”

“Straight and to the point. I like it!” Yang collapsed into a chair nearby. “I can work with that.”

The stranger narrowed her eyes and took a step back as Yang held out her hand. 

“Don’t worry,” Yang said, “I don’t bite.”

She stared at the offending appendage, before shaking it with a tight grip that could rival Cardin’s.

“Yang Xiao Long.” The Zerrikanian’s foreign accent became twice as thick as she spoke out her full name. “I am, what you Nordlings may call, a daerienn from the East. And who might you be?”

"Blake." The stranger said, releasing Yang’s hand and, as she did so, grabbed the other woman’s tankard from across the table. Blake looked at her dead in the eyes as she took her first sip. "Witcher."

III

The contents of a fat purse spilled on the table, golden coins glinting under the dim candlelight.

“I’ll give you a hundred more if you find it and bring it to me.”

“You need my help…” Blake paused as if her mind was having trouble thinking up the words she wanted to convey next. “To find a jar?”

“Yes.”

“Just a jar?” 

“I am an open book, my friend.” Yang relaxed in her chair, hiking her feet up on the table. Dirt and dust flew off her boots. Seeing this, Blake pulled her cup away from Yang’s feet in irritation. “What is it that you need to know?”

“Is this object cursed?”

“No.”

“Is it tied to a specter?”

“No.”

“Is it a historical artefact? An alchemist’s concoction? An item imbued with a spell?”

“Uh…” Yang’s eyes trailed over to the ceiling. “No. No. And definitely not.”

Blake sent Yang a pointed look.

“Don’t blame me for not answering most of your questions," Yang said, gulping down the last of her drink. "You weren’t asking the right one.”

Blake tightened her jaw, and the muscles in her cheek twitched. “Who are you?” She asked. “What is a Zerrikanian sorceress doing here in Velen?”

“Travelling, of course,” Yang said, crossing her arms in front of her. “Sightseeing, visiting all the tourist traps.”

“Sightseeing,” Blake said. “Here. In Velen?”

“Charming little place. I like the wheat fields. Very rustic.”

Blake closed her eyes, feeling her hands form into fists against the table. “If you’re not going to take me seriously -- ”

“A woman must display some madness from time to time, that’s all. And traveling is something I enjoy doing.” Yang said. “Besides, you’re going to get paid, aren’t you? Why do you care so much about what I’m after?”

Because you’re a sorceress. Blake thought.

Because sorceresses were dangerous.

While it was true the people of the North were oft wary towards magic-users and their ilk, the clans of the East honored their daerinn with titles, riches, and sometimes even worship. Yang’s expression lacked the usual anger and bitterness often prominent upon their Northern sorcerer’s countenance like an unpleasant aura; marring their strange pseudo-beauty. No, her expression was open, disturbingly honest.

It only made Blake more suspicious.

“You know, not all of us are in it for the power.” Yang said as if effectively reading her mind, which -- for all Blake knew -- could be the truth.

“I’ve yet to meet one who hasn’t. Foreigner or local, you people are all the same.”

“Well, it’s your lucky day. As you can see, I am not your typical sorceress.” Yang tilted her drink and lifted it in cheers. “Maybe I’ll surprise you?”

“You’ll surprise me yet when you tell me what I need to know,” Blake said. “You have until I finish my drink. And then I am leaving this table.”

“You were partially right, my friend,” Yang said, sliding her feet off. She dragged her chair up close and leaned forward. Blake winced at the sweet scent of lilac and gooseberries. “It’s what’s inside this jar that I am interested in,” Yang whispered, a devilish twinkle in her eye. “More or less.”

Catching Yang’s air of caution, Blake swept her eyes over their surroundings and noted the weary faces of the patrons who were still watching them from afar. The crowd’s earlier excitement had died down, yet others were still jubilant with music, gleeful enough that some drunken patrons were singing traveling songs at the top of their lungs.

Not enough to lighten everyone’s mood, apparently.

As Blake’s head moved underneath her black hood, studying the room with eyes that could seemingly read letters from a book a mile away, her dark hair tumbled in curling locks down her neck. Yang glimpsed a scar under a partially-kept ear, before yellow eyes caught hers again in its compelling sway; questioning, her irises expanding with sudden interest. And suddenly, it was as if Yang felt exposed.

Yang tore away from the sight and took a moment to watch the fire dance from their candle intently. Then, as if making a grim decision, reached down her sash until she procured a small pouch. She undid the knot of the pouch and slid something weighty into the palm of her large hand.

Blake’s eyebrow quirked at the sight of the bottle stopper, at first thinking it mundane, until she noticed its wooden face -- carved with a brass magic seal, glittering with self-infused magic.

She looked up and met Yang’s expectant gaze. 

Then, without another word, Blake grabbed her two swords on the table and stood up to leave.

“Wait, Master Witcher.” Yang moved to stand up from her seat as well. “Where are you going?”

“I’m sorry, but I cannot help you.”

Blake kept her head low as she hurried out of the tavern, weaving around tables and crowds of people who gave her a wide berth. 

She tugged her hood further down her face and looked up at the sky as she opened the door to the tavern.

The sun had already set.

She found the night air freeing her arrested breath, chilling her lungs as she inhaled. Blake watched the stars in the black sky, the rain broken for a few blessed moments as the cold mist swirled before her eyes. It still smelled like ozone and grass, humid and heavy, but familiar enough to calm her thundering heart to its usual crawling beat.

After spending a few more seconds gathering her bearings, Blake took her leave before the footsteps of the sorceress can catch up to her. Blake marched towards the dirt road leading her out of the village.

Hopefully out of the sorceress’ sight.

IV

Her ears were a dead giveaway to her lineage.

It stuck as one of Blake’s more noticeable features. Being a Witcher was one thing, but being a half-elf Witcher was an unfortunate combination for anyone living near places like Redania. She didn’t know what possessed her masters to produce a half-elf Witcher, but asking them now would be too late, their specters already faded from the material plane. And unlikely to be summoned unless she really wanted them to answer for their madness. She didn't feel like doing all the work.

Cat School, she thought to herself. It was because her masters were form the infamous exiles of Cat School. Killers of mortals, beyond insane, and a blight on the Witchers’ already bleak reputation.

Blake took extra miles of caution by keeping her ears covered under a cloak’s hood; growing her hair out so her wild, untamed curls covered them whenever she abandoned her cloak’s safety. It wasn’t difficult to hide this facet of her appearance, but it was an annoyance just the same. Possessing these features gave her a healthy dose of self-awareness and a caution whenever she travelled around places frequented by humans, and even elves alike. She avoided cities and towns, and stayed closer to areas around smaller villages, preferring wild forests teeming with monsters and vicious beasts. She was a master at taking paths untravelled, disappearing into the shadows, and losing eyes too keen to following her into the dark. She knew better than to guess people’s true intentions at first glance. In all her years of hunting down monsters, she learned the hard way that Dopplers weren’t the only creatures who can fool people with false appearances.

Friends were scarce, allies even more so, with her bard friend Sun Wukong being a very rare exception to the rule.

No one will be able to find her. 

No one.

The sorceress will never find her in the swamp or the cities or towns. Travelling off the roads also meant passing through the drowner-infested bogs, and she doubted the sorceress would allow her expensive silk robe to catch a few branches in the black mud. 

One good thing about being a Witcher, after decades of solitary existence: Blake knew Velen’s ever changing lands like the back of her hand. 

It would be difficult to find her when she didn’t want to be found.

V

“There you are!”

Blake nearly froze at the sound of someone’s voice and fumbling footsteps behind her. She continued to walk, her pace quickening when she realized...

How did she find me?

“Are you ignoring me? You’re ignoring me.”

“Why are you following me?” 

“To ask you why you ran off.” Yang managed to find her footing, jumping over the undergrowth, and almost tripping over an exposed root. Eventually, she fell into step alongside Blake. Yang looked flustered and out of breath, her attire now in disarray as she followed the Witcher through the underbrush. “I had the impression you were interested in what I was offering, Master Witcher.”

“And what makes you think I’m interested enough to allow you to stalk me?”

“Was the pay low for you? How’s three-hundred sound?”

“No.”

“Four hundred?”

Blake groaned, walking faster.

Yang chased after her. “Look -- ” She reached out and placed her calloused fingers on Blake’s shoulder. But with a blink, Yang found herself flat on her back, muck seeping through her silken robe, with a foot pressed to her chest, and cold steel kissing her throat.

“I will ask you again, and I expect honesty: why are you following me?” Blake ground her teeth, baring them when Yang tried to sit up. “There are other Witchers out here in Velen who can help you. Why me?”

“I recognized you, Blake of Ban Ard.” Yang said, almost breathless in the way she spoke. “You’re her, aren’t you? You’re the famous Witcher. The Black Cat.”

Blake said nothing, her emotion revealed when the fingers around her sword shook ever so slightly and grew pale.

“Hair as dark as night. Eyes brighter than the sun.” Yang sang, remembering the words from memory. “You can’t say this is a coincidence.”

“How?”

“Sun sings about you.” She said. “Sun, the Zerrikanian bard. Feainnewedd . He sang a song for me once, and it was about someone who looked a lot like you.”

Blake gritted her teeth, closing her eyes ruefully. “Sun. ”

“His songs are well known around my circles.” Yang continued. “And that song he sang to me, it was a song about how how you captured a djinn.”

“Sun’s songs are exaggerated.” Blake said. “Don’t believe in every rubbish he spouts.”

“You survived a fight with a djinn and lived to tell the tale! Answered for this contract despite not knowing what it was about. And now here we are.” Yang spread her arms wide as she spoke breathlessly. “It is destiny!”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’ve been searching for you all over the Northern Kingdoms, and gave up when you proved too elusive to follow.” Yang said. “I’d be an idiot to let you go now without trying to convince you. Am I wrong to think we can both get something out of this? Don’t you need the crowns?”

Blake’s shoulders sagged. 

It has been days since she’d had a good meal. Days since someone needed a Witcher’s service. She traveled over ten towns down for weeks and received neither call nor offer to help banish ghouls, nor even rotfiends. As much as she hated it, the world was changing, and she wondered if she could afford being picky with her trade now.

“Our battle with the djinn happened a long time ago.” She tilted her sword away, hoping Yang wouldn’t notice the crack in her voice. “At that time I had my partner with me. We almost died that day. If it weren’t for him, I probably would have.”

“Well, I’m not your partner, but I can help you.”

“You say that as if it’s simple.” Blake said. “How can I trust you to have my back? I barely even know you.”

“I’m a sorceress. I do magic.” Yang said, wiggling her fingers in the air, lighting playful sparks from the tips of her fingers. “How can you do better than a noble mage from the eastern courts?”

“You can sing praises about yourself as much as you’d like, but I can already guess what you need this djinn for, and I will tell you this now: it is not worth it.” Blake shook her head and took a few steps back, her sharp eyes pinning Yang down. Daring her to move. “Trust me.”

“Are you afraid I’ll use its power?”

“What else would you need it for?”

“A wish. Just a wish.” Yang said. “And whatever it is you’re trying to run away from, I can help you.” She held out a hand, keeping her voice soft as if speaking to a spooked wild beast. “What if I gave you the djinn’s last wish?”

“What?”

Blake sheathed her steel sword back into her scabbard, appearing engrossed on the finer details of her boot.

“And I will pay you four-hundred gold crowns aside from that -- a hundred in advance.”

“Two hundred now. And the meal.”

“Deal.”

VI

Their walk back was spent in relative silence. The Zerrikanian lead the trek to the inn as if she wasn’t half-drenched in muddy rainwater, and had leaves and branches messily stuck in her hair. The noble’s gait barely stumbled, but the casual speed of their journey allowed Blake to study her new ‘companion’.

Blake didn’t expect Yang to follow her so far, nor did she expect Yang to find her so quickly. Footprints weren’t easy to track in the bogs of the swamp, and Blake liked to think she planned her steps carefully enough to disappear into the night. She was careful. She always was. Her very nature ingrained into her practices. Feeling a cold pit in her stomach, she reached for that special pendant she kept around her neck at all times, feeling it burn a hole in her collarbone as she narrowed her eyes and glared at the back of Yang’s head.

It was possible she used magic to track Blake down. 

Possible that Yang scryed her location before following her aural signature or whatever.

Impossible.

If Yang tracked her using magic, he would have found her by now. 

Blake watched the broad back of the Zerrikanian, wondering if she had trusted her too quickly.

Only time will tell.

She stopped, grabbing a small blade by her hip. Still ahead of her, and sensing her companion stop in her tracks, Yang jerked and turned around quizzically.

“Master Witcher?”

“One moment.” She kneeled down by a healthy green brush, studying the Beggartick flowers dotting its twisting branches, and swiftly started to cut the red blooms from their stems. 

Yang released an amused noise. “I never expected Witchers could be swayed by flowers so easily.” 

Blake didn’t respond, focused on her task.

“I heard a few rumors about you Witchers. Something about being heartless. Living without emotion.” Yang said, resting her hands on her hips as she patiently waited for Blake. “And yet here you are cutting flowers for a maiden like me.”

“These flowers are good for brewing decoctions.”

“Decoc - what?”

Blake stood up gracefully, tying the flower stems together and placing the blooms in one of her belt pouches. “They’re useful if you need red dye.”

“Sentimental and stylish.” Yang chuckled. “Those songs did you no justice, Blake of Ban Ard. You certainly give quite a first impression.”

“Can’t say the same thing about you.”

VII

It won’t be easy, Blake thought.

Djinns were raw magic taken form. Powerful agents of chaos and pure elemental magic prone to bad moods and fits of rage. Despite what Sun’s song portrayed, during the ‘famous’ fight with the djinn in her past, Adam did most of the work by using his sealing magic to trap it within a bottle.

She could only hope she could trust the Zerrikanian can do the same.

Yang settled herself next to Blake’s chair with a creak. She watched Blake stir her bowl of soup, not bothering to cool her meal before taking another mouthful.

They were back at the Inn at the Crossroads, sitting in the same darkened corner away from the other folk. Hei wasn’t too pleased when he saw the bane of his existence coming back to stay another night, but was satisfied when they continued to order a full meal -- one of everything this time. And Everluce wine -- for the Witcher in question.

“This one likes to fuck with the living.” Yang said, fully relaxing in her chair. “Once it fulfils granting three wishes, it doesn’t disappear like most djinns do. More interested in maiming its past masters, you see.”

“Perfect.” Blake grunted, “Makes our job much easier.”

“Last I heard, the djinn’s previous master took it to the highest point of Undvik, Skellige.”

“Undvik?” Blake momentarily abandoned the succulent lamb on her plate to express her dismay. “Last I heard, an Ice Giant drove Undvik’s people out and decided to stay. Dangerous.”

“You know this creature?”

“It calls itself Myrhyff.” Blake said. “I know one Witcher who faced it. Didn’t survive.”

“Well, I’m sure we can handle it.”

“Your self-confidence borders on insanity, Zerrikanian.”

“Not just self-confidence . Optimism !”

Blake slowly lowered her wooden spoon, raising a dubious eyebrow at Yang.

“No,” Blake said. “We cannot defeat anything through the power of friendship, Master Xiao Long. Either we avoid Myrhyff or face him head on. In which case, I’ll need to buy more oils, supplements.”

“So serious.”

“You’re hiring me to possibly kill two creatures, Zerrikanian. What I’m serious about is getting paid double if I do.”

Yang shrugged, affixing Blake with a poised smile. “Then it is done.”

Blake hesitated when Yang agreed too readily for her condition, but nonetheless continued. “At the end of the day we’ll only have two wishes.” She whispered. “We will need to use the third wish to send this djinn back to their elemental plane permanently.”

“Brilliant, then we’re all set.” Yang said. “I know a thing or two about binding magic, so don’t worry about that.”

Blake narrowed her eyes, turning her head until she caught Yang looking back at her curiously. “I have a question for you, sorceress, and I require you to answer truthfully.”

A complete opposite from her earlier response that night, Yang leaned forward with a certain resolve. “As best as I can. Tell me.”

“Are you planning to trap this creature to siphon its power for yourself?”

“No.” Yang said. “One wish. That is all I need. I swear it”

Blake lifted her chin. “What kind?”

Yang looked away, a flash of emotion crossing her beautiful face. Tightening her jaw, she replied. “A curse undone.”

Blake nodded slowly. The base reason enough for her. She didn’t need to know about other people’s curses.

“Any other threats I should be aware of while hunting down this djinn of yours?” She asked.

Yang seemed to hesitate. She lifted a finger and began to play with the flame of the lone candle on their table, which danced like water under her skin. The Zerrikanian was strangely pensive as she spoke quietly. “Not much. This djinn used to be a part of a dragon’s hoard, you see.”

“Did you steal this bottle from a dragon?”

“Maybe.”

Blake made a small incredulous noise. “I had the impression Zerrikanians worshipped dragons.”

“Didn’t know I looked like a woman of faith, Master Witcher.” Yang chuckled. 

“And what happens if this dragon comes for its lost treasure? What then?”

“Depends.” Yang said, crossing her arms and leaning against the table. They were close now, eye to eye, strangely intimate. “What do you usually do to dragons?”

Blake stiffened in her seat, tense as the first time Yang met her. “I don’t hunt dragons.” She finally said. “Wyverns, yes. Forktails -- oversized lizards, but no. Not dragons. Not true dragons.”

“I’m surprised. From what I understand about the Witcher business, you see a creature and you kill it. Aren’t dragons monsters?”

“They are intelligent creatures often misunderstood.” Blake fell silent, narrowing her eyes. “This won’t be a problem, will it?”

“No, it’s just good to know.” Yang said. “Just a warning, Master Witcher, in case the impossible happens and this dragon appears.” The twinkle in her eyes gleamed, and she grinned, the dimples on her cheeks prominent under the glow of the candlelight. 

Blake nodded slowly, blowing out a sigh at Yang’s newest admission. “Fine, I will trust you.” She said. “For now.”

Yang's voice was hoarse by the time she finished telling the Witcher everything she knew about their djinn, and at that point many hours had passed, and the moon already reached the cusp of its journey. It wouldn’t be long until dusk came and marked the beginning of a new day.

Blake pushed aside her bowl and plate, now empty less than an hour later. “Just give me some time to prepare.”

The Witcher looked around the now empty room, contemplated her next step, then turned and regarded Yang. Her eyes blazed unnaturally. Not unlike the reflection of an early sunrise. Yang tried not to stare. “I’ll meet you in Novigrad. It might take me a while to get my things ready, but you can count on me.”

“Nonsense.” Yang struggled to stand up as well, legs swaying drunkenly underneath her. “Got nothing else better to do. Maybe I can help you speed things along?”

“Right.” Blake muttered dubiously. “Do you know anything about alchemy?”

“I can spell it.”

Blake’s lips twitched into a semi-smirk. “I thought Zerrikanian sorceresses knew everything about magic?” 

“Alchemy is a totally different beast for us, Master Witcher.”

“Maybe you can find a few things for me instead?”

“I can do that.”

It might take days to prepare the fight against this djinn. Four if they were lucky. A day’s travel to Midcopse if she hurried, where an old Herbalist’s cottage stood abandoned, but not entirely empty. Blake ought to find some useful ingredients hidden in the previous owner’s many compartments.

“I’m not against you joining me,” Blake finally said. “Unless you annoy me too much, in which case I’ll be forced to throw you under a bridge.”

“That’s fair,” Yang nodded. “You should have a night’s rest, at least. I’ll buy you a room. Don’t tell me you’re going back out into the rain?”

Witchers didn’t usually need sleep, but it was a welcome luxury in most cases. After months of roughing it out in the wild, going around Aedirn and across the borders of Cintra, Blake found she could forgive herself for sleeping most of the day away.

VIII

The herbalist’s home was an overgrown shape in the horizon by the time Blake arrived at the edge of Midcopse.

Ranogrin, celandine, and verbana grew tangled together alongside weeds in the gardens, untamed and bursting against the makeshift wooden palisade with their yellow and white blooms.

It has been a year since Blake visited the abandoned old Herbalist’s hut, and she was relieved to see its dark history had continued to keep people at bay. Barring the windows and doors shut certainly helped, and made it seem like a specter was truly haunting the grounds with its ominous presence. The remains of its old owner might as well guard its stoop.

By the time she removed the lumber obstructing the front door, afternoon had fallen; the rain plaguing her trip momentarily ceased.

The door creaked as she let herself in.

Her pupils dilated in the darkness, black vertical slits expanding as she took in the state of the hut. It was dusty and cold inside; dried brown leaves fallen from herbs and hanging pots littered the floor and remained rotting; wilted thyme and rosemary bunches were tied together, hanging near the doorway.

There was a rack of stretched sheepskin by the corner, covering a drum of oil. Some of the wooden furniture were swollen due to a gap in the thatched roof, which allowed rainwater to leak into the house.

The place smelled like earth, and stank of mildew and wet wood.

It’ll do.

She closed the door behind her, taking a brief glance outside the window, which she soon closed by covering the sill with a dusty sheet, and all the spaces with pieces of cloth, leaving her in darkness.

Next, she made her way to the center of the room, wiping the wide surface of the herbalist’s worktable, careful not to bother the clutter. A dusty mortar and pestle remained. Cloudy jars, earthenware cups, and a small knife were similarly intact.

Carefully, Blake began to place her belongings on the table as well: her small chest with its metal fittings, the vials and alcohest inside her leather bag, and the belt girded around her hip with its smaller pouches. Her alchemy equipment was enough to prepare potions while traveling on the road, but Blake figured using a controlled burner would save her precious time.

And so, with great concentration, Blake began to work.

IX

On the second day of her solitude, she didn’t expect a persistent knocking on the door. It was loud enough to startle her from her concentration while mixing potions together, and moreso: she was surprised it caught her off guard. Not many could sneak up to her.

Blake sniffed the air, and turned her head when she caught the familiar scent of lilac and gooseberries.

She probably should have seen this coming.

Blake rose from her seat by the table, and quietly snuck towards a knothole by the door. Peeking through, Blake slowly exhaled through her nose when she confirmed who it was on the other side, and reached to open it.

She was greeted by the sight of the sorceress carrying a fully-grown bear on her back.

“Oh great, I thought this was the wrong place.”

Blake blinked as if she were in a daze. “I told you to bring me animal fat.”

“Surprise!” Yang shrugged her shoulders, making the beast’s body bounce. “I got you a whole bear.”

Blake bit her tongue, aware that devolving into sarcasm would stretch out this conversation longer than necessary. “You caught a bear by yourself?”

“From the forest. It’s not my first hunt.” Yang said, hefting the large animal further up her back as she shifted the weight on her feet. 

The Zerrikanian sorceress can hunt.

“Mind if I come in, Master Witcher?”

Blake opened the door wide and stood aside from the opening, watching as Yang turned sideways so the beast could fit through. The back of its furry head bumped pitifully against the frame. Yang fumbled, cursing under her breath. With a snap of her fingers and a few muttered words, the door creaked, and like the shifting perspectives of one angle to another, Blake watched as the door frame stretched wide enough to accommodate her and the beast. It shrunk back to its original shape once the sorceress passed through.

Blake nodded to a corner by the blackened fireplace. “Next to the table, please.”

Yang carefully lowered the beast onto the rug with a hefty grunt.

“I wasn’t expecting…” You . “This.”

“Told you I can be helpful.”

“Could’ve searched for bear fat already rendered in an apothecary.” Blake muttered.

“That would have taken too much time.” Yang panted. “Midcopse didn’t have any, and the nearest apothecary is in a town that is not too fond of me at the moment, and I was in a hurry to meet you.” Yang patted the bear’s rump.

“I see.” Blake said. “You can stay, but I bid you to be quiet while I work.”

The Witcher closed the door and went back to her desk. She continued to grind nostrix leaves in the mortar, deep in thought as she watched crushed leaves stain the stone a dark green.

She didn’t know how to feel about the Zerrikanian disturbing her peace unexpectedly. Every movement she made seemed to make a sound, which grated on her nerves, that Blake worried she would scare her client away if she lost her patience. 

“We have something for supper now, too.” Yang unclasped the sheathed dagger by her hip. “And I can use the fur to make a warm coat before we head off to Skellige. Here.”

Yang pulled a strap from around her shoulder, revealing a leather pouch on her back. She placed it on the desk.

“I got those herbs and albedo you asked for. Impressed?”

“Didn’t know you were trying to impress me.”

“Me? Trying to impress a Witcher?” Yang laughed , sitting down on a wooden chair by the corner of the room. “Stranger things have happened.”

Blake had to disagree. She couldn’t imagine a noble daerinn from Zerrikania sweating through honest labor. She was certainly full of surprises.

All offers of help were waved away in favor of completing her tasks on her own, and Yang was thankfully gone for the rest of the day. Perhaps revelling in another tavern, which left Blake tending to her work; surrounded by vials of volatile liquid and the heat of the alchemy burner. 

By the time Yang came back, she was carrying the same wicker box full of vegetables and herbs, and began to brew a concoction of her own.

X

A steaming bowl of stew slid by Blake’s elbow.

She stared at the bowl. The cooked meat and potatoes a pleasant sight to see after spending hours carefully filling flasks with dimeritium slivers.

“What’s this?”

“Supper.” Yang said, lifting her chin haughtily. “My sister told me I was a good cook. Please, help yourself, Master Witcher.”

“Thank you.” Blake took the bowl in her hand, sniffing the food cautiously. Her sensitive nose picked out the ingredients in the broth, sifting out the other stronger scents of volatile liquids from her desk. She caught a hint of foreign spice, which masked the bear meat’s natural flavor, and felt her stomach rumble.

Another strange fact. The Zerrikanian sorceress can cook.

The smell of fumes were strong, earthy, like the well-used laboratory of an apothecary; concentrated alcohol stinging Yang’s nose. This situation was, Blake had to admit: strangely disarming. 

The Witcher’s vest and leather armor were all laid out on the previous owner’s old, dusty bed. This left Blake only wearing her undershirt, half closed below her collarbone, and her shirtsleeves pushed up to her elbow. Her long hair was knotted behind her head in a careless bun, unfortunately revealing her pointed ears as she worked tirelessly over the bubbling concoction. 

She doubted Yang would refuse The Black Cat’s service just because she was a half-elf.

“Enlighten me, then, Master Witcher.” Yang dragged her chair by the fireplace, and sat by Blake’s work table. She gestured at the mess of allspice roots, and mixture of oils on the table. “Is this what Witchers do before you fight monsters?”

“It’s what anyone sensible would do.” Blake took the bowl in both her hands and sipped the hot stew. She sighed. It was good. “Everyone would prepare for a fight, even you, would you not?”

“Your profession isn’t so forgiving.” Yang smiled ruefully. “I doubt I can say the same.”

“I’m inclined to disagree. At least my profession is straightforward.” Blake said, stirring a piece of potato in her bowl with her wooden spoon. “We know what to expect, so we prepare for it. I can’t say the same for the wolves in your court, who are just as dangerous, if not even more so.”

“For a foreigner, you seem to know much about Zerrikanian politics.” 

“Can’t be much different from Northern politics.”

“True.”

Blake pensively drank the broth from her soup, before asking: “Have you met other Witchers before me, Zerrikanian?”

“I have met one or two of you, yes.” Yang said. “Strange, though. You were the only one who didn’t try to kill me at first sight.”

Blake allowed herself to laugh at Yang’s admission. It surprised her.

“I had the impression I would find many Witchers in the North.” Yang relaxed in her seat, crossing her arms, and looked partway near dozing. “But for a well-known faction, your members seem to be lacking.”

“Witchers are a dying breed, Zerrikanian.” Blake said. “There are only a few of us left, and not many humans are willing to allow children to become Witchers.”

“How exactly do children become Witchers?”

“If I elaborated, I’d have to kill you.”

Yang chuckled.

“Many have died from those trials, and few survive to become…” Blake chewed on her next words, wondering if she was saying too much, then motioned to herself. “This.”

Yang shook her head, grinning as she gestured towards Blake as well. “And what is wrong with ‘this’?”

“I’m a mutant, Zerrikanian.” Blake said, trying to sound nonchalant as she sipped another mouthful of stew before responding. “An unnatural abomination. No different from the monsters that we slay.”

That’s what people said, anyway.

“You save others, Master Witcher.” Yang said. “That’s more than what the local rabble can say.”

“Money is a powerful incentive.”

“Is that you talking, or are you telling me those backwater stories about Witchers being greedy beasts true?”

“Some rumors have a grain truth in them, yes.”

Yang pointed at the cat medallion around Blake’s neck. “I heard some rumors about the infamous Cat School. Are any of those stories true, then?”

“Maybe.” Blake’s response was clipped and cold. 

Yang nodded, pulling away when she felt the tension between them finally snap. 

It wasn’t like her to prod too much.

“Well,” Yang stood up, pushing her chair back and stretching out her legs. “I’ll leave you to your meal.”

Blake looked away, and hummed in response. 

“I am here, Master Witcher, if you need me.”

XI

By the time Yang awoke, she could hear the men standing by the round entrance of the cave, mumbling amongst themselves in hushed whispers of distress. She yawned, stretching her back muscles as she listened to the fervent hissing which disturbed her sleep. 

“ -- won’t be coming back.” The tallest man, a meaty shepherd from the local town, growled under his breath. “She’s been gone for over an hour and a half.”

“We should wait a bit more.“ 

“Bollocks with it, there’s no chance she’s coming back now.” The shepherd spat. “That cockatrice made quick work of her yet, I bet you.”

Yang raised an eyebrow at the sound of noisy shuffling coming from the men, along with the choked noises of disagreement from whom she surmised was the alderman of the village. 

Interesting.

She stretched her arms and looked down from her perch from above the tree, bright green leaves concealing her from their sight, and watched as the shepherd slipped a large hand in Blake’s satchel. He pulled out a glass flask, stoppered with cork and wax, and filled with an alluring green liquid which bubbled as he shook the flask carelessly. One of Blake’s decoctions, Yang gathered, poisonous to humans. She was tempted to allow him to sate his curiosity, but guessed the Witcher would be displeased by wasting perfectly good potions. 

He swirled the bright green liquid around, and she could hear the grin in the fool’s voice as he spoke. “Absinthe. The best kind.”

“Try it.” A thin man with a scruffy beard said next to him, moving to grab the glass flask. The shepherd pulled it out of his reach. “See if you can handle it better than the Witcher.”

“Put that back, before the Witcher comes back and takes your head.” The alderman said, though he hesitated on physically pulling the larger man away from the Witcher’s things.

Yang closed her eyes, and sighed.

“Yes.” 

As if reappearing from thin air, the Zerrikanian approached them from behind and cut through the befuddled group. Eyes grew wide as they looked around, blinking, wondering where she came from. Yang crossed her arms over her chest, and faced them squarely. “I suggest you put that back, gentlemen, or my friend will be displeased.”

“What’s it to you?” The thin man asked, who nonetheless took a few steps back upon seeing the blade hanging by Yang’s hip. “We were just looking.”

Yang clicked her tongue. “You should know better than lie to people like me, boy.”

“And who the hell are you?” The shepherd groused.

She smiled kindly. “Her employer.” 

“Too bad. She’s not getting your job done, then.” The shepherd snapped, but didn’t let go of the flask. Instead, he tried to ferret it away, whisking it around his back while he spoke. “She’s been gone for more than an hour, and we’re wasting our time here waiting for her.”

Yang raised her eyebrows and pointedly stared at his poor sleight of hand. 

The shepherd curled his lips in annoyance and, kneeling, placed the flask on the ground, slowly. “There, happy?”

“Much.”

“The rest of her things haven’t been touched.” The alderman said, holding up his hands. “There’s no need for violence, gentlemen.”

“You underestimate the Master Witcher, my friends.” Yang said. “If you are intent on stealing her belongings, I say: why don’t we make this more interesting?”

“And what’s that?” The shepherd asked.

“A deal.”

“Master Xiao Long -- “ The alderman started, but Yang held out a hand to silence him.

“We wait,” She said. “For thirty minutes, and if she fails to appear, I will pay each of you five thousand crowns.” The young man and the shepherd stiffened their backs in poorly concealed attention. “But if she does come back,” Yang met the shepherd’s eyes, and the man could swear its violet shade turned redder than coals within the blink of an eye. “My friends, then I take your heads.” She gripped the pommel of her Ofiri sword, tapping the golden hilt with a deft finger. “Do we have a deal?”

“I want no part in this.” The alderman shook his head, gaping in horror when the shepherd hesitated, then took Yang’s hand and confidently shook it. “I will pay her sum, I just want no part in this.”

“And you?” 

“Yeah.” The thin young man shared a look with the shepherd before nodding his head. “Deal.”

“Perfect.” Yang turned her head towards the dark entrance of the cave. She perked her ears up, and her smile grew wide. “And perfect timing!”

A misshapen carcass flew out of the shadows, landing by the alderman’s feet, who squealed in shock. It rolled on the ground, its purple flesh twitching as blood sprang anew, staining the dusting of sand on its fleshy surface. Its sickly-green shade of scaly skin and feathers, once stretched over muscle and sinew, now sagged from the ghastly wound which split the creature in half.

Before the others could react, the body’s other half followed, broken wings and blood-speckled beak agape, and a harrowing plume of feathers flew loose in the air. 

“Your cockatrice.” A muted voice echoed from inside the cavern. There was a grunt, and the sound of skin smacking stone. A hand appeared clinging the jagged edge of the cavern cliff, the owner of which pulled herself up and back into the light. Blake reappeared sans her cloak. She jumped up the edge swiftly and headed out of the dark cavern, feet upsetting rubble around the entrance as she dragged her boots. Blake wiped the blood off her cheek and groaned in disgust. Futile as it was, since the woman was drenched in it from head to toe. “Nothing else remains. You can be sure of that. I checked.”

The shepherd and the young man grew pale as Blake regarded them impassively. “Your payment?” 

She caught sight of a flash of green on the dusty ground, and once finding the flask by the shepherd’s feet, pinned them with her eyes. 

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “Unless there is something else that I must know about?”

The men snapped out of their daze and moved to escape, but before they could take another step, the three of them stopped mid-run, frozen stiffer than stone, like trees rooted into the ground. 

“You’ve arrived just in time, Master Witcher.” Yang said, pushing herself from the edge of the cavern wall and settled herself next to Blake. “The two men and I made a deal. But, since you are here, perhaps you can sway my blade?”

“A deal?”

“Either they steal your things, or I cut off their heads.”

“I see.”

“The alderman will still pay you, of course.” 

“Of course.” 

Yang waved a hand and freed the alderman from her enchantment. “Aren’t you, alderman?”

“Yes!” He shouted, a little too loudly, stumbling forward. “Yes, I will pay you. But please, spare these two idiots.”

“Shall I?” Yang asked Blake.

“Spare them your blade or mine?”

“Depends. Would you like to take the head of one, and I the other?”

“Shame.” Blake mused. “I was hoping to clean only my silver blade tonight.”

The alderman grabbed the coin purse by his hip and threw it at the Witcher’s feet, “Here. Now leave us be.”

Blake glared at the alderman and grabbed the coins, along with the flask the shepherd had taken from her. She opened the purse, quickly counting the sum with a well-practiced eye. 

“Well?” Yang asked, “Does the payment suffice, Master Witcher?”

“It does.” Blake hefted the pouch in her hand and tied it to her belt, sending another glare to the three. “Let them go.”

“Very well.”

The alderman began to shake as Yang slowly approached, her face crinkling in amusement.

“ Cáelm , alderman.” Yang held out a hand. “You three can go. But,” She smirked, a too familiar twinkle gleaming in her eyes. “The spell they are in will fade in an hour or two. They can stand to wait here a little bit longer, don’t you think?”

“I must thank you.”

Yang gasped dramatically, a hand pressed to her chest. “A Witcher thanking me? A mere sorceress?”

Blake glared at her.

“Of course, Master Witcher.” She laughed. “I couldn’t stand to see a bunch of humans leave, steal your things, and stiff you out of your hard-earned payment.”

“I’m used to it.” Blake grumbled.

Yang cocked her head in surprise. “People have done that to you before?”

“Yes.” Blake said. “And worse.”

“Worse?”

“Others have tried to kill me instead.”

Blake cupped another handful of water from the stream and continued her attempt to clean her face. The cockatrice’s blood slowly washed away, revealing her flesh changed to an extremely ashen pallor, contrasting the black, poisoned veins underneath her skin. They gave her the appearance of a woman near death, and Yang was fascinated to see the change one decoction could make. She idly wondered what would have happened if the shepherd drank the green flask after all...

“People are capable of such things when they have no hope.” Blake said.

“You sound like you sympathize.”

“I do. Sometimes.”

Yang raised an eyebrow, snapping a twig between her fingers. The boulder she was sitting on was warm, but she resisted laying down on the flat rock, in favor of watching Blake struggle to clean her jerkin.

“I wasn’t expecting the Witcher to sympathize with a bunch of low-brow peasants.”

“Well,” Blake grinned. “As you can see, I am not your typical Witcher.”

“Hah.” Yang smiled at the familiar words. “I am starting to think you have the tougher job between us.” She said. “At least us wolves get paid.”

“I was lucky.”

“Lucky that you had me?”

Blake sent Yang a look, splashing water in her pretty face. She felt a rare mirth bubble up in her throat when the Zerrikanian spluttered water indignantly.

“Lucky because that was the first job I had in a while.”

“Well,” Yang smiled, combing her fingers through damp yellow hair. “It was a pleasure to be of service to you, Master Witcher.”

XII

Blake woke up with a startled gasp. 

She curled into herself, clutching her middle where the pain flared like fire under her skin, then fell back into the pallet.

“Easy.” A gentle hand guided her shoulder, the person’s voice unfamiliar to her.

“Adam -- ?”

“Easy there, Witcher.” 

She inhaled and held her breath, allowing a lifetime of training to kick in. Like calming a torrential sea. Blake focused on her pain until it fell away into a manageable throb, and her thoughts cleared as she managed to center her mind back into the present. 

She remembered the griffin, spying its looming shadow from underneath a dappled canopy. She remembered chasing after the beast, which took flight and disappeared on the hillside. 

Adam had tried to stop her from jumping into the fight lead by a young knight and two other warriors, and… Blake hadn’t listened. 

Blake struggled to open her eyes, and saw a blond head bowed over her bandaged wound. The young knight meekly pulled her undershirt down when he noticed her watching him, and stuttered, his lips pale. “You’re still recovering. Didn’t open the wound, thank goodness.”

“Where… ?”

“We’re by Ismena river, near Ellander.” He replied. “We didn’t go anywhere far from where the griffins attacked us. Just a ways in. My name is Jaune.” He bowed. “I am the guileless fool you saved, the one who almost got carried away by one of the beasts.”

Blake’s stifled a hiss, but managed to desperately ask: “Where is Adam?”

“Your companion left to find something for your medicine. Celandine, I think.”

“Swallow.” Blake whispered, feeling her fevered cheeks grow warm. “It will help me heal faster.”

“You’ll be all right, just a deep gash from a talon or two.” Sir Jaune assured. He motioned to her bandaged side, abashed. “I did my best. Sutures are clean, and the swelling didn’t get any worse. Slight discoloration, but I had herbs for those. I guess you Witchers do recover quickly.”

Blake bit her lower lip and tried to sit up, flinching when Sir Jaune grabbed her shoulder and squeezed. “Please lie back down. You might reopen your wound.”

“How long has he been gone?”

“An hour or two.”

Blake closed her eyes tightly, and sighed.

Adam must be furious.

“I’m sure he’ll be back soon.” Sir Jaune said again, seeing the troubled look on her face.

“What possessed you to challenge a mated pair of griffins, knight errant?” Blake asked, seething, furious under the strain of her wound. Her sudden switch in countenance startled the knight errant. He wilted under her glare. “With an archgriffin’s nest , no less. You were lucky we caught you in time.”

“You’re right, I am sorry.” Sir Jaune rubbed the back of his neck, meekly looking away. “I thought a griffin’s head would be a decent way to propose to a lady.”

Blake shook her head, failing to keep a groan from her voice. “You came to Temeria for a griffin’s head?”

“No, not really.” Sir Jaune puffed up his chest, proudly displaying the sigil of his house: a star with golden rays stretched upon his white vest. From the look of his gear, it shone brand new; the feather in his helm barely ruffled, and the sigil of his house unblemished. “I am a knight errant from Toussaint, of the Pomerol House of Arc.” He grinned rather bashfully. “I also came here to sell wine.”

Blake groaned again, laying her head down heavily on the pallet. “Toussaint.” She whispered. “Of course you’re from Toussaint.”

“You saved us.” Sir Jaune said, “And for that I am thankful.”

“You can thank me by paying me for my services, sir knight.” Blake said. Adam was already displeased, the least she could do was provide a positive outcome somehow. Two dead griffins were good enough for a hundred gold crowns-- 

The knight hesitated. “Unfortunately…”

“Unfortunately?”

Sir Jaune looked up, scratching the back of his head. “I don’t have enough florens to pay for a Witcher’s service.”

Blake felt her breath spent, hitting the back of her head against the pallet she was laying upon.

“But… the Law of Surprise.”

Blake opened her eyes, levelling him with a questioning glare. 

“I may not have enough money, but I am an honorable man, who will leave no good deed unpaid.” Sir Jaune said, squaring his shoulders. “What if I paid you back through the Law of Surprise?”

XIII

The days went by quickly as the pair travelled across Velen.

Blake was surprised she barely heard a single complaint from the sorceress. A noble, no less, who was probably used to staying in lavish inns and riding the finest horses, rather than roughing it out in the wild with an ill-tempered Witcher. Yang kept her humor and wits about her, despite everything, and spent their nights playing music with a carved flute she hid in her sleeve, singing songs from her land as Blake read the few notes that she had about djinns in her journal.

“I was honored to play a song with the great bard Sun during one of his performances.” Yang said one night, laying the still ringing flute on her lap. “I think that boy is enamoured by you.”

Blake chuckled, the sound not reflecting in her eyes. “What gave you that idea?”

“He sang a song about your beauty so perfectly, I dreamt about you in great detail that night.” Yang said, before playing her instrument again: “He wasn’t wrong, Master Witcher.” 

She wondered if sorceresses from Zerrikania were anything like Yang.

At mornings, Yang would disappear to hunt for game, carrying back hare tied by the legs and berries, insistent on Blake having her first meal before they travel. 

After eating breakfast, they spent the rest of the day walking on foot, heading North. They -- or rather, Yang -- would talk about nonsense for most of the trip. Blake would tolerate it. 

For the next five days, they settled upon a routine until, finally, they reached the Farcorners. 

Late noon had already passed, and as they drew closer to the busy district, Blake began to get tight lipped. Keeping to herself for the most part, and refusing to respond to Yang’s many questions.

Her presence surely called upon itself. Children ran away, crying at the sight of her, roosters crowed, horses panicked, and cats hissed and ran as she passed. It was difficult, keeping her head low when animals sensed her very nature; and when they reached the Seven Cats Inn, she holed herself up in the corner, as usual, while Yang roused the rabble with her exuberance and charm. 

The Zerrikanian soon ordered everyone drinks, and for Blake: a whole feast. Roasted fowl rubbed with fragrant herbs, garlic swirled in oil, and more Everluce. It baffled Blake to have an employer who was willing to spend so much for her comfort, but she wasn’t one to complain. Blake watched Yang challenge the crowd to feats of strength as she ate, and she had to admit… it was entertainment.

“Don’t wait up for me, Master Witcher.” Yang said, holding a girl in each arm who tittered as she smiled at them. “You deserve some sleep in a proper bed. Meanwhile, I have some entertaining to do.”

Blake pressed her ears against the door to her room, before opening it and peeking through. 

She was surprised to find a large wooden tub filled with steaming hot water surrounded by candlelight, and raised an eyebrow when she realized Yang must have ordered hot a water bath for her as well. 

She could get used to this.

The room itself wasn’t particularly spacious, but it was enough for one person to stay in for a few days alone. The bed was narrow, but looked comfortable, and there was a long wooden table next to the closed window overlooking the inn’s yard.

Blake closed the door behind her, took off her cloak with a relieved sigh, and folded the damp clothing on a stool by the tub. The satchel she carried was heavy with her equipment, and she carefully laid her leather bag on the bed. 

Blake slipped off her black vest, her leather belt next, and then her muddy boots. She placed her two swords on the table as well, and the rest of her clothing soon followed. 

She cleaned herself thoroughly, not knowing if she would have another chance to wash the dirt crusted on her skin after this. And an hour later, before the candles fully dimmed, the water had turned frigid to stay in any longer. Blake dressed herself in her undershirt and trousers after her bath, feeling satisfied to get back to work despite the late hour.

Contrary to popular belief, Witchers benefited much from reading and studying books. At least, for Blake, that was the truth.

Her journal consisted years of her knowledge culminated in her travels, her previous experiences helping her greatly many times in the past; from the pesta near Lake Wyndamer, to the cursed werewolf in Hindarsfjall. Not one fight was always the same, and most of the time there were elements outside of her control that complicated matters further. Fate, Blake thought, was often full of shit that way. 

There was a page she often skipped, while studying her journal. Tonight was no different, her fingers expertly finding the folded crease where she drew his face over and over again. 

By the time she passed the fourth candlemark, Blake realized she had only read three pages, and her keen senses had kept themselves affixed to whispers of the Zerrikanian’s presence. The sounds of merriment and drinking downstairs failed to relent this late at night, and she could still smell the strange perfume. Like a strong memory on the verge of resurfacing. Lilac and gooseberries. Yang Xiao Long was, as always, in the middle of a storm of her own making. 

Frustrated, Blake closed the book with a snap, and turned to look at her bed with reluctance. 

Maybe she needed some sleep after all. 

“I’m starting to think you have a preference for travelling places the hard way, Master Witcher.” Yang said, looking none the worse for wear despite barely catching any sleep last night. The streets were dark, and the moon was fading away into the horizon. Blake was relieved to see the district was mostly asleep as they entered Novigrad’s Southern gate, tired Redanian guards welcoming them in with no fuss at the sight of the Zerrikanian in tow. 

“No horses, no caravans, no carts, and now -- no teleportation magic?”

“Horses are afraid of me, no one wants to service a Witcher or have them in their caravan, and I’ve seen what happens when teleportation magic goes wrong.” Blake said. “I’m not keen on losing any of my limbs because of a mishap, Zerrikanian.”

“You underestimate me, Master Witcher.” Yang said, pouting. “I won’t force you to go through a portal, but I’ll have you know, I never get my spells wrong.”

“I trust your expertise enough to face this djinn with me.”

“And should that be enough?”

“You sound offended.”

“Disappointed, not offended.” Yang said, smiling at her gently. “Besides, ell’ea, aren’t we supposed to be partners?”

“We are, but don’t push your luck so much, Zerrikanian.”

Yang laughed, clutching her heart. “You cut me again, Black Cat.”

Around this time, not many townspeople were awake to roam the streets of harbor bay, but some sailors, captains, and the harbormaster were early risers. It didn’t take long for Yang to find a willing boat captain who was more than happy to entertain passengers after being paid a hefty sum. 

XIV

The waves crashed against the hull of the ship, ocean salt spraying the figurehead of a buxom mermaid propped at the curved helm. 

Blake lowered her crossbow and dispassionately watched as another siren fell from limp the skies, dropping into the sea lifelessly; blood staining the shining, dark blue surface as the stain disappeared into the depths. 

“Didn’t tell me you were a good shot, Master Witcher.” The sound of boots approached Blake from behind, and she glanced at Yang briefly in greeting, before loading crossbow again, this time aiming for the siren fleeing west. 

“It’s best not to let them get too close.” Black said, patiently waiting to line another shot. “When you get caught in their song, they stun you. And the song calls out for others to join the hunting flock.”

Yang nodded, fixated as she watched the Witcher focus on her final kill.

“I thought you were going to help the captain set the sails?” Blake asked.

“Oh, you know me, just because I offered doesn’t mean I know how to do it.”

Blake released the trigger, sending the crossbow bolt flying, hitting the siren squarely in the back. They heard a terrible squeal echo into the sky, leathery wings flapping uselessly as the creature fell like many of her sisters back into the sea.

Blake shouldered her crossbow and smirked at Yang, who watched the sinking creature with both eyebrows raised. “Unlike you, I don’t have this weapon just for show, Zerrikanian.”

Yang laughed, then waved at the captain, who crowed from the wheel: “Knew it would be handy to have a Witcher on deck!”

“You saved me fifty crowns due to our safe passage to Skellige.” Yang said, leaning her waist against the polished guardrail. “And they say Witchers give people more trouble than they’re worth.”

Blake didn’t respond, and holstered her crossbow on her back, eyes sweeping across the horizon for more sirens coming their way. They have spent a few days at sea, travelling to Skellige, and Blake didn’t want to admit she was slowly running out of crossbow bolts. The air did become colder as they travelled, and she was glad Yang was kind enough to cloak her with the thick fur of the bear she hunted many days ago.

Another curious fact. The sorceress can sew.

However, she was glad they were nearing their destination, slowly but surely. The isle of Skellige having appeared in their horizon just a few hours ago. Come nighttime, they would arrive by the docks, take a smaller ship to Undvik, and their hunt would begin.

“I imagine you’ll be glad to get rid of me soon.” Blake said, only half-jesting, “You’re a generous employer.”

Yang’s eyes twinkled in amusement, and she bowed her head gracefully with her hand on her chest. “It has been my pleasure to pamper you, Master Witcher. You have been a wonderful asset.” 

“You are, perhaps, a bit too generous.”

Not noticing the dry tone of Blake’s voice, Yang grinned. “Generosity is becoming of Zerrikanian nobility.”

Blake studied her companion; studied her face well, as Yang closed her eyes and seemed to enjoy the wind caressing her fine features. Blake looked away, leaning against the guardrail herself. The sunset was beautiful.

XV

As expected, Skellige winds were freezing cold at nighttime, adding much to the misery Blake felt as she watched Yang exchange coins with the captain. 

The captain counted the crowns in his hand, visibly pleased. 

“Pleasure doing business with ye.” He said, shoving the money in his pouch. He tipped his cap, bald head gleaming under the torchlight. “If ye need my services once again, Master Xiao Long, I will be here for over a fortnight.”

“I will make sure to call on you, my friend.”

Blake didn’t wait for Yang’s company, leaving her to converse with the captain alone. She crossed the pier, ducking under platforms carrying wooden crates aloft. Her eyes glanced at the seaboard, at the wooden frames of boats under construction, and the docked Skellige ships with their curved bow and tied up sails. While the harbor was almost empty, with only a few fishermen hauling their late night catch for a final time, Blake could sense a crowd of men off towards the harbor’s square.

“Odd.” Blake muttered to herself, no doubt capturing Yang’s attention as she appeared next to her. “I can hear people in the square.”

“And that is odd how?”

Blake shook her head, walking up the rise and up the stairs leading to the dockyard, where a rise of buildings faced the sea; torches casting the empty port aglow.

She could hear music playing off in the distance, from what she could guess sounded like a makeshift band all things considered, and as she drew closer: shouts of glee as people’s long shadows danced around an open fire. 

Some of the townspeople were drinking and feasting behind the shipyard, and from what Blake gathered, might have been a celebration of something personal. Or, Blake thought, knowing Skellige Islanders -- were just drinking to pass the night. 

Yang’s eyes brightened, the bonfire almost making them glow. “Looks like we arrived at the perfect time, Master Witcher.”

“What do you mean?” Blake raised an eyebrow. “We haven’t been invited.”

Yang turned to her, amused. “Don’t you know? I am always invited.”

Her level of confidence was astounding, even for the Witcher, who watched as Yang approached the men like old friends, with her arms wide open. She said something in Zerrikanian, her accented voice rising above the sounds of merriment. The men all turned to the newcomer, and when Blake expected them to drive Yang away, was surprised to see the men cheer her presence with a resounding ‘Hail!’. 

Well, Blake grinned, she should have known the folks of Skellige would warm up to Yang fast.

One of the women passed Yang a drink, who bowed and said something to make the lady laugh. Blake could almost imagine the wink she sent the woman, who left with a red face. 

She scoffed.

Yang turned to look at Blake, who was still hidden in the shadows of a ship’s bow, and motioned for her to join them. With a long suffering sigh, Blake obliged.

It has been years since Blake placed herself in the presence of crowds as much as she had while travelling with Yang. And while the prospect of being treated like an outsider made her dread following her employer everywhere, the fact that Yang managed to assuage crowds with her words alone almost felt like a shield.

“She is my hired sword.” Yang told a few inquiring men, beer damp on their bears, passing Blake a drink. “This world is simply too dangerous for someone as delicate as myself.”

Luckily, the men were either too drunk or joyous to notice the unnatural glow in Blake’s eyes as they invited her to sit among them.

It didn’t take five minutes for Blake to plant herself away from the crowd, sitting on the grass closest to the shoreline view where she sat alone and watched the sea. 

She grew tired watching her employer go around and mingle with the people in celebration, introducing herself and making them laugh. Blake watched her dance for a while, to the sound of a joyous rhythm of drums and flute, but managed to tear her eyes away when Yang began to dance with the woman from before. 

Blake watched the moon. She watched the shadows, and kept mindful of every movement she could see in her peripheral. Tense, as always, coiled like a serpent -- seemingly in meditation, for the untrainted eye, but never at rest.

It felt like she was waiting.

Blake murmured a curse at herself, crossing her arms over her legs as she felt her lips tighten into a tense line.

“Witcher! There you are!” Yang said, her words slurred as she approached the Blake from behind. 

Blake kept herself from rolling her eyes. 

She was already drunk. As usual. But for once, she felt relief that Yang was loud enough to announce her presence and didn't sneak up on her.

“We should find a place to sleep for the night.” Blake said, willing to keep her voice from betraying any emotion.

“Already covered.” Yang said, sitting next to her on the grass heavily. She hiccuped, raising her cup at Blake. “If you wish to go on ahead of me and rest, please go ahead. My friend Ada -- the woman waving to me right now -- is the most gracious tavern keeper who just gave us two rooms.”

“That’s very kind of her.”

“The building over there -- “ 

“It’s fine.” Blake’s words came out more tersely than she intended, she almost flinched.

Yang nodded, lowering her cup. “My apologies if I invited you to the feast without asking if you wished to join.”

“It’s not that.” Blake said, softening her expression. “It’s nothing.”

“Is it?”

“I will stay here and wait for you.” Blake said, after a momentary silence, raising an eyebrow. “After all, I am your hired sword, ‘delicate’ master. Nevermind that Ofiri blade you keep at your hip.” 

Yang laughed, wrapping her hand over the pommel of her sword’s hilt. “You expect too much of me, Master Witcher.”

“I can only conclude someone with an elegant blade would be skilled enough to use it.” 

“I can say the same thing about you.”

Blake knotted her eyebrows. “About me?”

“You, hiding over here, all alone despite being the most charming person on the Isle.”

Blake pulled away, her eyes wide, then laughed. For the first time, perhaps, in a very long time, a gleeful sound erupting from her core -- if not a bit self deprecating. Yang blinked at the sight and felt her mouth go dry. 

“What makes you think I possess the kind of charm that you have, Master Xiao Long?”

Yang blinked rapidly, then grinned, finishing her drink. She watched the challenging expression on Blake’s face barely waver. “Do you not trust me?”

Blake hesitated. “No.”

“While we are two very different people, I cannot deny you have a certain air about you.”

Blake grunted, not bothering to hide her disbelief. “Do tell?”

“Short, dark, and brooding.”

Blake raised an eyebrow.

“Let me tell you a secret, Master Witcher.” Yang whispered conspiratorially, placing her empty cup next to her. She squinted at her hands for a second, gathering her frayed thoughts. “I carry this sword around like I carry myself. I may not be a good swordsman, but I am capable of pretending to be one. And with my height and physique, it often succeeds.”

“You’re very presumptuous about your ‘height’ and ‘physique’.” 

“Don’t you think I look the part?” Yang asked, puffing out her chest. Blake crossed her arms and snorted. 

“And what if this deceit of yours fail to work?”

“I am a sorceress.” Yang said, smiling as she snapped her fingers. “I do magic. It’s what I do.”

“Fair enough.” 

“We all do what we can,” Yang nodded to herself, swaying slightly with the music. “With what we have.” 

“A Witcher doesn’t have much to go for when it comes to getting people on our side.”

“You mean you’ve never managed to successfully steal someone’s heart with your mystery and dark beauty?”

Blake’s smile dropped, and she looked away. “Once.” Her voice pierced the tense air,  almost a whisper. “A long time ago.”

The silence between them grew quite unbearable, until finally Yang looked away and shifted in her seated position.

“I apologize if I overstepped.” She said, smiling sadly. “It seems that’s all I do around you.”

Blake’s shoulders fell. Fidgeting with the creases of her glove she sighed and watched cold air rise from her lips. “I’m not an easy person to get along with.”

“I beg to differ.” Blake blinked, and looked back at Yang incredulously. “You’ve been a wonderful travel companion so far, Master Witcher.”

Blake smiled, her eyes growing soft. “You too.” She said, and she surprised herself when she realized she meant it.

“You’re just saying that to be nice.”

“Well I don’t usually do nice.”

A few words hung in the air, heavy between the both of them, but never spoken out loud. 

“The Law of Surprise.” Blake murmured to herself, not realizing she had said those words without thinking until she noticed Yang perk her head up with interest.

“The Law of Surprise.” She repeated. “Know anything about it?”

“Yes.” Yang said, unsure, yet slowly nodded her head as if an idea of it gradually formed. She shifted on the ground, crossing her legs before her. “Isn’t that some sort of payment for saving someone else’s life?”

“I’m not sure why it just came to me,” Blake shrugged. “But I was wondering if Zerrikania had something similar.”

“I think it’s rare.” Yang said, unsure. “Not something we practiced in my culture, but it happened only in famous stories.”

“Stories?”

Yang winced. “Usually tragedies. It is a practice spanning ages, from what I remember, I do understand the gravity of such promises made.”

“Do you think it should?”

“Should what?”

“Fulfil promises made?”

Blake pushed her hood down, and Yang tried not to watch the sight of her hair tumbling in dark locks across her shoulders again. Truly, the Zerrikanian thought, Sun’s songs did not do the real thing justice. 

“I saved a knight errant once,” Blake said. “Who offered me the Law of Surprise.”

“And you didn’t take it?”

“I did.” Blake said, breathing in the salt of the air. The smell which enabled her faded memories to come back and haunt her like an ill-begotten specter. “Surprisingly, I did. I don’t know what came over me, but I took it.”

“What was the promise?”

Blake paused for a while, silence stretching between them like the shifting tides of a sea. “ Something you find at home yet don’t expect. ”

Yang nodded, worrying her lower lip with her teeth. “And you’re wondering what you might have received from it?”

“Every day.” Blake turned to look at Yang, lifting her chin. “But at the same time, I don’t want to know.”

“The Law of Surprise is something beyond what humanity can control, Master Witcher.” Yang said. “You are bound by destiny to that thing with which you are promised.”

“That’s the problem I have with it, Zerrikanian.” Blake turned, her expression wistful and sad that it made Yang’s heart ache. “Destiny.” 

As if realizing she had spoken too much, Blake winced, and folded in on herself, her eyes trailing to the tips of her boots.

Yang, sensing her companion’s discomfort, looked away.  She cleared her throat. “I -- “ Blinking, Yang perked her head up when she heard the music behind them swell into a faster tempo, and Yang felt a tentative smile come back full force. She elbowed the Witcher and motioned to the bonfire behind them, new dancers coming in pairs and laughing merrily as they began to dance around the fire. 

“Do you wish to join?”

“Are you asking me to dance with you, Zerrikanian?”

“Well,” Yang cleared her throat. “Yes.”

Blake’s lips twitched to a grin barely imperceptible in the dark. “Maybe next time.”

XVI

Their vessel rocked to and fro as another wave rolled beneath them, the clouds in the sky gray and dreary. Out here, far into the sea, the cold wind bit at Blake’s flush cheeks. 

Blake, sitting at the helm, kept silent during the duration of their trip from Kaer Trolde harbor to Undvik. She barely spoke at all, less than usually, and moved only to adjust the sails and tug the ropes of the mast when the wind blew stronger. No amount of conversation starters could snap the Witcher out of her deep thoughts.

So they stayed quiet, for the most part, both searching the turquoise waters for shadows of sirens or ekhidnas.

Yang decided to break the silence herself.

“I met a fellow traveller, five years ago.” Yang started, studying the callouses on her palms. She paused, and glanced at Blake, to see if she was listening. The Witcher was still intent on keeping to herself. Nonetheless, Yang continued. “He called himself the Merchant of Mirrors.”

Yang’s mind immediately summoned the image of an unassuming man with a gracious smile, but tamped out the image as if remembering would pull the lingering ghost into reality. Yang felt a shiver crawl down her spine, and her grip around the edge of the boat tightened.

“I wasn’t a particularly nice person back then.” Yang continued. “Looking back at it now, how I used to be, it fills me with shame.”

“Can’t imagine.”

“Believe me,” Yang chuckled humorlessly, “I was reckless and ill tempered. Young. Judged humanity wrongly. In my fury, I lashed out at him, not knowing the kind of power he possessed.”

Yang leaned against the edge of the boat, stretching her legs and crossing them at the ankles. She languidly watched the clouds roll above them.

“And so it goes. I continue to search.”

“What is your curse?” Blake asked, finally breaking which persisted after Yang’s confession. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

“I have not always been like this, did you know?” Yang smiled, and laughed, the sound hollow in her chest. “I was... different.”

A breeze flowed between them, and Blake felt the cold air prick her lungs as she inhaled deeply. The horizon was vast; an endless blue stretching forever. She felt herself relax, her hands steering the tiller gripping gently.

“He was a sorcerer.” 

Yang cocked her head in curiosity, noting the different tone of their usual hesitant conversations.

“He was a childhood friend.” Blake said, her biting her trembling lower lip. “I was young, still in training, when we met.”

Blake stopped speaking for a while. Yang didn’t press further.

“Sun’s song didn’t mention the whole story.” Blake continued, her voice soft, almost disappearing into the howling wind. “The djinn didn’t come to us, we sought it out for its power. I trusted him, so much that I helped him capture this djinn. He changed. Made a wish that we…” Her eyes darkened, and she was glad Yang could still look her in the eyes. She reached into her leather chestplate and showed Yang a mage’s pendant she kept hidden, which gleamed alongside her cat’s medallion. “He said it was our destiny.”

Yang’s eyes widened in recognition. “That’s -- “

“A gift. From a friend. It keeps him from finding me.” Blake said, looking away. “If you were wondering why I can’t use magic portals to travel around, this is your answer.”

“If you used one…” Yang’s face fell. “He’ll find you.” 

Blake nodded. “So I run.” She tucked the pendant back against the skin of her chest, yellow eyes staring into nothing, as if staving away memories which remained. “I run, because every time I stop, I feel his eyes following me everywhere.”

XVII

Once their boat entered the fjord, craggy cliffs rose above sea level and dwarfed them with their enormity. Around them, beached ships and splintered wood littered the shoreline.

In the middle of Undvik isle, the mountain peak called their names; a strange swirl of dark clouds crowning the top like a dark shadow marring the snow.

Yang helped her pull their boat into shore, resting it by an oversized boulder, and together they faced the remains of beached ships stuck from the low tide, and sharp gray rocks littering the damp sand, creating small puddles of glistening seawater. 

Blake lifted her nose and sniffed the air, trying to sense if the dreaded ice giant was anywhere within their proximity. Her shoulders relaxed when she sensed nothing. Heard nothing. They were alone, for now.

She began to walk further into the coast. “The isle is large enough that we might not even meet this giant. We should be quick.”

“It’s good to know we can see our destination any time.” Yang said, pointing to the mountain peak rising from the middle of the isle.

Blake kneeled once they reached a large gray rock, it sides covered in moss, and laid her bag across from her before silently rifling through its contents. Yang stood back and watched, curious, but patient.

She grabbed two flasks which shone from a brighter liquid, and with well-practiced knots tied hung the flasks by her hip. 

Blake then grabbed a number of rounder flasks in both her hands, and carefully placed them in her leather pouch. 

The trek to the mountains proved to be a task easier than they expected, the lands already tilled and roads already paved, despite all paths leading to abandoned villages. The frost giant did good work destroying what was left of Undvik’s remaining village.

Soon they faced a gorge dwarved by peaks rising like two spires from the ground, the rocks almost black and covered in slippery frost, and whenever they made a sound, it carried over across the walls in sharp echoes that Blake had to pause and gesture for Yang to be quieter while tromping on her boots.

Sometimes Blake would stop, sharp eyes narrowing as she studied their surroundings, before continuing her quiet stride, her senses sharper than a razor’s edge.

The path eventually lead to the base of the mountain, crossing the forest of white birch trees and undulating hills. Abandoned houses dotted the roadsides, ransacked and aligned like silent specters, watching them.

It was a rough climb, with Blake barrely losing her breath as they followed the winding path up the base of the mountain. The air getting colder and thinner as they progressed, but they were lucky enough to have travelled all the way to their destination without facing Myrhyff.

They were also quite lucky the people of Undvik carved a path up the expanse of the mountain, and eventually the cavern entrance Yang lead her to seemed to belong to a small mining colony. Looking from the entrance, slit eyes adjusting to the darkness, Blake saw what remained of a cart abandoned in the middle of the tunnel leading inward.

“I expected you to be in higher spirits, Master Witcher.” Yang teased, elbowing her side. “After this, you won’t have to follow me around anymore.”

“Yes.”

Blake furrowed her eyebrows as she entered the yawning cave, wondering why her stomach swooped low and heavy at the thought of never seeing her strange companion again.

XVII I

The yawning entrance pulled them through a straightfoward tunnel, leading them higher, until they reappeared from the other side of the connected pathway closer to the peak. 

The Witcher stayed silent during their climb, occassionally pausing their ascent to allow her keen senses to study their surroundings. Nothing greeted them further, nothing reached them from where they came, and as they crossed over the lip of the crude opening, Blake wrapped the bear hide tighter around herself and carefully stepped onto the frozen ledge jutting from the mountainside. 

Nothing.

Blake shared a determined look with Yang. 

“I will summon it.” Yang said, her mind set as she walked and peered over the edge, the wind rustling her robes and yellow hair. 

During their travels together, Blake never saw Yang depend much on her magic. But at that moment, the medallion around her neck grew warm and began to tug from some invisible force, vibrating in a constant rhythm like the swell of a tide. She watched as Yang closed her eyes and held out her hands before her. 

Blake watched as fire licked at Yang’s fingertips, her neutral face pinched as she pulled the very forces of reality to her whim. 

“I am your true master.” Yang shouted, her voice booming above the howling wind. “And you will come to me.”

The clouds roiling above the peak of the mountain grew larger, but when Blake edged closer to Yang’s unyielding form, she noticed it wasn’t growing in size -- it was coming closer. Approaching them slowly as it came alive, lightning lashing from its center, swirling like a storm’s eye.

The air swelled, and the scent of ozone became thick enough to feel, grazing the tips of her fingers like flowing water. 

Blake shook her head, set her jaw, and unsheathed her silver sword. 

She was ready.

XIX

Sir Jaune Arc forgot about his promise to the Witcher by the time he reached Toussaint on horseback forty days later. 

Not much because of neglect, but because that was just the kind of man Sir Arc was. After forty days with his head in the clouds, dreaming of glory yet amassing not a drop of it, he decided his trip back to home Toussaint might help heal his broken heart. 

His companions already went their own way, one back to Zerrikania and the other back to Skellige, and it didn’t take long for Sir Arc to feel the biting tide of loneliness, that he began to speak to his horse.

Sir Arc felt only a bittersweet kind of relief once his booted feet touched Toussaint soil. 

He gripped the sides of his helm and pulled it over his head, blond hair tussled and his face red from the heat. 

For the second time that day, he inhaled and savored the sweet scent of the forest, a richness in the soil, the pleasant warmth in the air -- a feeling which crowed in his heart that he was finally back in Toussaint. 

He missed his mother’s cooking the most.

“Come on.” Sir Arc ran a gloved hand down his horse’s thick neck, soothing her as he lead his remaining companion to a glistening river through the thicket.

Sir Arc smiled when the horse began to drink, and kneeled before the river, cupping cool water with his hand. 

He froze in confusion when he saw an opposite ripple in the water, fully distorting the reflection of the orange sky on its glassy surface, and heard his horse rear back and neigh in distress, but he barely got up from his knees to calm her down when something shifted in his periphery. A movement behind the trees, from the opposite side of the river bend, and a pair of serpentine eyes drawing closer, away from the shade.

Sir Arc would later tell his family that he had stood up and armed his sword at the sight of the beast, but the truth was that he sat, frozen, as a large head pushed through the trees and revealed itself with a ground-shaking growl. 

Its horns were a glorious display on its head, neck graceful as it curved and bent its snout low to dip into the water for a drink. 

Sir Arc felt his hand twitch, mindful of the sword sheathed by his hip, and wondered if it would be brave or stupid of him to arm it immediately. 

The man and beast stared at each other for a while, and Sir Arc thought he saw -- in a mind half-mad with fear -- that it might have nodded its head politely in greeting. Might have. A detail which he left out from his story, doubting it had really happened.

The creature edged its body closer to the river, its claws crunching the gravel of the river bank as it lifted its head. At full height, the monster towered over Sir Arc, blocking out the last rays of the sun. Its scales shone in the light, gleaming like the shine of a knight’s armor under the sun, its beauty more prominent as it spread its leathery wings apart. A strange display of arrogance, from a what was supposed to be a mindless beast. 

“ Gold .” Sir Arc gasped. “Gold dragon.”

Sir Arc stood up on his legs, shaking like a newborn foal, reaching for his sword, but when he turned back the dragon was gone.

Somewhere, a flock of birds flew overhead, and the river rapids flowed as if nothing had stirred its waters a moment ago. 

XX

The bottle felt warm in her hand. 

Yang turned it in her palm and exhaled, eyes catching the crack on the bottle stopper which split the brass magic seal apart. She ran her thumb over the uneven surface of the broken spell, and didn’t know if the fluttering in her chest was because of disappointment or relief.

She traded a look with Blake, the Witcher’s expression unreadable under the mess of hair splayed over her face, sticking from the sweat and dust gathering on her skin. 

“We can find it again.” Her voice sounded distant in her own ears. Yang stood up on her legs, shaking, hand swiping down her dirtied, torn robe. “And I’ll remake the magic seal.” She winced, fully admitting -- to herself, and to her companion -- that this was entirely her fault. 

The black clouds in the sky dissipated a minute ago, leaving the two remaining souls alone recovering from the aftershocks of a fight with a pissed off elemental.

“This was a waste of time.”

Yang’s head snapped up at Blake’s icy admission, her words leaving her colder than Skellige weather. Blake sheathed her silver sword back in her bladrick, the muscles of her jaws shifting as she avoided the expression on Yang’s face. 

“I’m sorry.”

“I failed.”

They both admitted their same crushing guilt at the same time. The look they shared next was almost comical, it brought a wry grin to Yang’s face. 

With unsure steps, she crossed the line between her and Blake, holding out a hand which invited more than demanded for her to take it, sparing no mercy on Yang’s rapidly beating heart.

"Let's go?"

After a moment of awkward shuffling, Blake took her hand and shook it with a grim nod. Her glove felt warm.

Destiny .

“Looks like you’re stuck with me for a while, Master Witcher.” 

Blake smiled, smacking her hand with a huff. She turned away, wincing at her wounded side, and began to limp back to the narrow tunnel where they came.

“Lucky me.”