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Geralt and his navigator set sail on a foggy day in late autumn. It felt like the boat was gliding through clouds over the mist-shrouded water, and the fog was so thick that Geralt couldn’t see what was behind, or what lay ahead. The captain seemed confident about navigating through the fog, but Geralt felt uneasy about sailing into the unknown.
In another life, Geralt might have insisted they return to the mainland and wait for clearer weather. But slaves weren’t allowed to have opinions, and so Geralt tilted his head back against a crate and closed his eyes.
He dozed then, drifting through strange dreams that swirled together with white mist and the rhythmic lap of waves against the hull.
“We’ve arrived,” said the navigator. Geralt cracked an eye open. A moment later he felt the bottom of the sailboat scrape against the rocky shore. The fog hadn’t abated, so Geralt couldn’t see much more of his new home beyond a narrow strip of dark wet sand and a small grove of cedar trees that vanished into the mist.
He knew the island was called Malus, and that he was supposed to work here alone as a caretaker. Or, more accurately, a game warden: Malus was infested with monsters. Geralt had been charged with clearing them out.
“The estate’s been abandoned for a long time,” the boat captain said conversationally as he helped Geralt unload crates of building supplies and provisions onto the beach. “Used to be the old Emperor’s summer retreat, but it hasn’t been used in…gods, decades, by now. If it’s still standing, the house will need quite a bit of work. Hope you’re as handy with tools as you are with a sword, White Wolf.”
Geralt grunted. It wasn’t surprising that the captain knew he was—had been—a Witcher. He was surprised to be addressed by his old Wolf sobriquet: people who knew about his past tended to refer to him as Butcher, if they called him anything at all.
“I’m Cronus, by the way,” the captain said. He even offered his arm to Geralt, which made Geralt stare at him in surprise. Free men didn’t shake hands with slaves. He set down the grain sacks he’d been carrying and tentatively reached out to clasp the man’s arm just below the elbow. They shook briefly. Geralt couldn’t meet Cronus’ eyes.
“Geralt,” he said quietly. He hadn't said his name in years.
“Well, I am pleased to meet you,” Cronus said cheerfully, bending to pick up the bags Geralt had dropped. He grunted in surprise at the weight, and in the end slung only one sack up onto his shoulder. “This’ll take us a few trips. Let’s go up and see the house.”
Geralt picked up the other sack and made sure to grab the long roll of cloth containing his two swords from the bottom of the sailboat. He itched to feel a blade in his hand again. He couldn’t even remember the time he’d last touched a weapon. Years, certainly, although he didn’t know exactly how long.
He followed Cronus along the overgrown path that led up from the beach to the ridge above. The Emperor’s sandstone manor sat high on the hill facing the sea. It was surprisingly small and plain-looking for a royal summer retreat, and as Cronus had said, it was in poor condition. Years of brutal winter winds had torn some of the shingles off the roof and stripped the paint off the shutters. The stone walls had withstood the elements, but Geralt suspected the roof had probably leaked, which meant there'd likely be mould and water damage. Small rodents and other creatures had probably made nests inside, too.
There was a walled garden behind the house, along with a stable and a few other outbuildings: the privy, a cold-storage shed for meat, a drying house, and even a small workshop with a forge. That would be useful: Geralt could manufacture nails, door hinges, and other hardware required for repairs to the house.
He tried not to look at the stable, or think of the forge at Kaer Morhen. All of that belonged to another life entirely.
“Caretaker’s shack is closer to the woods,” Cronus told him, dropping his sack of grain. It landed with a dull thud in the courtyard. “You’ll have the whole place to yourself until spring. Rest of the staff’ll start arriving then to help set up for the summer. I’d focus on cleaning and repairing what you can. Make sure the chimneys work, especially the one in the kitchen, and get the servant quarters ready. They’ll send over real carpenters and stonemasons and whoever else is needed once the staff is settled. Any questions?”
Geralt shook his head. He didn’t bother to ask about what sort of monsters inhabited the island: sirens and harpies, at the very least, and probably a variety of draconids. Malus was too small to support much wildlife: the creatures that ate meat would have to be able to fly or swim to the mainland for larger prey.
His task seemed daunting. The house needed a great deal of work, and without his potions or a mount, it would be difficult to clear the island of monsters. Not that he could say so to Cronus. The sailboat captain was simply repeating the orders he’d been given by the Emperor’s men.
“I could use a hand bringing up the rest of the supplies,” Geralt admitted.
“Aye, of course,” Cronus said, clapping Geralt on the shoulder. He couldn’t help the way he flinched away from the touch, though Cronus was kind enough not to mention it.
They spent the rest of the morning hauling the provisions up from the beach. Cronus offered to explore the manor house together and advise on repairs, but Geralt shook his head. He’d make his own assessment tomorrow. For now, he was more interested in the caretaker’s hut. A smaller structure would be easier to fix up and insulate against the bitter winds of winter. Once he had a dry, warm-ish place to sleep, he could tackle the larger manor.
“I’ll be back with more supplies next week,” Cronus told him. “Don’t try to do too much. You’ll have your hands full enough with the creatures. Long as the basic repairs are done by spring, no one’ll trouble you.”
He hesitated again, staring at the scars that lined Geralt’s arms, the heavy slave collar on his neck. “This might be a good place for you. As long as you don’t mind the solitude.”
Geralt shrugged. He was alone anyway. The last of his kind. What did it matter if he wintered alone on this deserted island? “Next week, then.” He turned away from Cronus. He heard the man mutter something, but it was lost to the wind.
He headed back up the path to the house, contemplating the long, lonely winter ahead.