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Winter in Kaedwen was a silent tyrant, clutching the land in its icy grip. Even the fir trees seemed to cower under the weight of the snow, and the rivers, once alive, froze into silent, glassy paths. But on this day, the shortest of the year, there was a strange energy in the air. The winter solstice had arrived, a moment when the darkness reached its peak, and the light promised to return. This night was spent with the family and loved ones, preferably in a warm, sheltered home.
But Geralt was not granted this. He’d intended to return to Kaer Morhen five weeks ago for this time of year, drinking mulled wine with his brethren and swapping stories about the year on the Path. But the Witcher's work disrupted his plan as always, delaying his journey to the Blue Mountains for so long that now it was impossible to cross the Killer on foot. Also, he’d crossed Kaedwen’s southern border four days ago and it would take weeks to reach Kaer Morhen. The Witcher needed someone to create a portal for him, and he was on his way to that person.
He guided his mare Roach along the frost-covered path. He knew that winter solstice was not only characterised by natural forces. Across the Northern Kingdoms, people were lighting lights – candles, torches, sparklers – in the hope of driving away the darkness. But as the light grew stronger, so did the old shadows, those beings that were fuelled by the darkness.
When he reached the village, Geralt felt it immediately: a mixture of fear and hope permeated the air. Small fires were burning in the square in front of the inn, and children held sparklers in their hands. Their twinkling lights were reflected in the snow-covered streets.
But it wasn't just the magic of the solstice that gave the Witcher pause. It was a familiar sound – a lute that seemed to produce a cheerful melody with playful ease.
‘Jaskier,’ Geralt murmured, shaking his head. How was it that the bard always seemed to appear at the most unexpected times?
The bard sat on a barrel and told the villagers one of his usual stories – full of embellishments and dramatic twists that made even the most cynical hearts smile.
‘Ah, Geralt!’ Jaskier cried out upon spotting him, his voice full of cheerful warmth. ‘Just in time for the great celebration of the solstice! Or rather, to save it, if the rumours are to be believed.’
~~~
Inside the inn, the warmth of the hearth contrasted with the chill of the world outside. Villagers gathered around the mage Jacek, their voices trembling as they spoke of the creature they called Mrok – the shadow that stalked the land. The atmosphere was thick with a sense of fear, but Jaskier seemed unfazed, scribbling in his notebook as if every word he wrote was destined for a song.
The sorcerer Jacek sought solitude in the middle of nowhere to concentrate on his studies. Also, he was a healer and therefore a respected resident.
The creature wasn’t new, but its presence had become a legend, one that resurfaced each solstice. ‘The solstice is a time of threshold,’ Jacek said, filling his pipe. ‘A time when the boundaries between worlds grow thin. The Mrok feeds on the darkness, only appearing on the longest night, taking those who dare to stare into its depths.’
‘What do you know of it?’ Geralt asked, his voice low but carrying authority, his gaze scanning the faces of those around him.
‘They say it is a shadow that doesn’t tolerate light,’ said a young woman who was handing sparklers to the children, her voice trembling. Jacek nodded in confirmation. ‘We need your help, Witcher. I’m not quite suited for this kind of monster slaying.’
Jaskier, ever the curious one, leaned over and whispered, ‘A creature that fears light? How very fitting for a solstice adventure.’ His gaze lingered on Geralt, the mischievous glint in his eyes a familiar spark.
Geralt gave him a cool look. ‘You stay here.’
Jaskier pouted, but before he could protest further, Geralt turned to Jacek. ‘I’ll take the contract. But... I don’t need coin.’
The room quieted at Geralt’s words, the innkeeper’s frown deepening.
‘Instead, I’ll take another payment,’ Geralt continued. ‘From you, Jacek.’
Without hesitation, the mage agreed. ‘Granted. If it’s within my power.’
‘I need a portal for me, my companion, and my horse. Can you do that?’
~~~
The cave where the Mrok lived was deep in the forest, hidden under the old, moss-covered roots of a huge oak tree. It was a place where the darkness was so thick that not even the snow dared to touch it.
‘It doesn't look very inviting,’ Jaskier muttered, who had persisted in following Geralt's instructions. Same as always.
‘Stop talking and have the sparklers ready,’ Geralt replied dryly.
The darkness in the cave was not natural. It was dense and heavy, like a living creature displacing the air. Geralt drew his silver blade and gulped down one of his potions, so he was able to see in the darkness.
‘Geralt,’ Jaskier whispered, ’I think I've seen something.’
‘Silence,’ Geralt demanded and for once the poet obeyed, his heart pounding in his chest, the sound of his breath the only thing he could hear.
A fleeting whisper broke the silence, faint yet sharp, like the edge of a knife slicing through the stillness. Geralt’s breath fogged in the icy air, his cat-like eyes scanning the impenetrable gloom. Then it appeared—a formless entity, its shifting silhouette pulsing and cracking, as if its very existence strained against the natural order. It was the Mrok, a manifestation of cursed darkness, probably older than any man or monster in these woods.
The Witcher’s silver sword gleamed faintly in the oppressive dark as he moved forward, every step deliberate. The Mrok reacted instantly, its form distorting into jagged tendrils of shadow that lashed out like serpents. Geralt dodged, his movements precise, his senses sharp as ever. He slashed, the blade cutting through the air with a whistle, striking the creature—but to no avail. The Mrok splintered, retreating into itself and reforming with an eerie, fluid grace.
A voice, smooth but tight with fear, broke through behind him. ‘This is... not ideal,’ Jaskier muttered, gripping a sparkler like a talisman.
‘More light!’ Geralt shouted, his voice commanding but strained as he parried another shadowy strike.
Jaskier hesitated for half a heartbeat, then hurled his lit sparkler toward the Mrok. The bright sparks burst into the cave, casting erratic flickers of light across the stone walls. The spectre – because that’s what this monster was in Geralt’s opinion – recoiled violently, its shriek echoing like the sound of glass shattering underfoot. The light didn’t just wound it—it seemed to unmake its essence, unravelling parts of its shadowy form.
Encouraged, Geralt pressed forward, slashing again and again. But the Mrok fought back with desperate fury, its tendrils multiplying and weaving a deadly web around him. Each strike from Geralt’s sword met with resistance that sent jolts up his arm.
‘More!’ the Witcher barked, his boots skidding slightly on the damp stone floor as he dodged a tendril that struck like a whip, shattering a stalagmite behind him.
Jaskier fumbled with the flint in his shaking hands, murmuring a string of increasingly colourful curses. ‘You’re very demanding, Geralt!’ he managed as the spark finally caught. He lit another sparkler, the flame trembling as much as his fingers, and threw it with surprising accuracy. The sparks spun through the air, exploding into a radiant glow that illuminated the spectre fully for the first time.
Its true form was chaotic – its core a writhing mass of jagged, fractured black, like shattered obsidian caught in a storm. Every spark from the sparklers pierced it, and with each flicker of light, the creature’s screams grew more distorted, more fractured.
Geralt seized the moment. He thrust his free hand forward, casting Igni with practiced precision. Flames roared to life, searing through the shadows. The Mrok convulsed violently, parts of its form disintegrating into ash. But it wasn’t done yet.
The darkness surged, lashing out with a desperate, coordinated assault. Geralt countered with Yrden, summoning a glowing magical trap beneath his feet. The Mrok slammed into the barrier, its tendrils disintegrating as they touched the glowing glyphs.
‘Now, Jaskier!’ Geralt shouted; his voice edged with urgency.
Jaskier didn’t hesitate. He lit another sparkler and hurled it as hard as he could. The sparks arced beautifully through the air, landing at the very centre of the Mrok’s mass. The creature froze, its form trembling and fraying.
With one final, precise swing of his silver blade, Geralt struck the spectre's core. His sword hummed with power as it cleaved through, the motion almost slow in its perfection. The Mrok split into two halves, each collapsing into formless shadow before dissolving entirely into ash.
The cave fell silent. The oppressive weight of the darkness lifted, leaving behind only the faint crackle of Jaskier’s final sparkler. Geralt sheathed his blade, his sharp gaze sweeping the cavern to ensure no remnants of the Mrok lingered.
Jaskier exhaled a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. ‘You know, for something made of pure shadow, that thing had quite the dramatic flair.’
‘Less flair, more danger,’ Geralt replied curtly, though a faint glint of approval crossed his expression.
Jaskier picked up one of the spent sparklers, examining its charred remains. ‘Well, I dare say, this little miracle of light just saved our skins. Remind me to write a song about this.’
The Witcher didn’t respond, his focus already shifting to the cave’s exit. But as they walked back toward the village, the faint smile tugging at his lips suggested he wouldn’t mind hearing that song after all.
~~~
They came back to the inn around midnight. The villagers had gathered around their fires, exchanging relieved smiles, but Geralt and Jaskier made their way toward Jacek, who had returned to his seat by the hearth.
Jacek’s face softened as they approached. ‘I see you’re alive. I’m relieved. The village is safe then?’
Geralt gave a brief nod, but it was Jaskier who spoke up. ‘Oh, yes, it was majestic. I’m sure we’ll be in the bard’s hall of fame soon with the tale I’ll spin around the Mrok. The way Geralt slashed through that darkness – practically poetry.’
Geralt shot him a sidelong glance. ‘We’re not here for songs.’
Jacek chuckled softly, rising from his seat. ‘For the agreed payment... As soon as you are ready, I cast a portal for you, your companion and your horse to Vengerberg.’
Geralt gave a nod and smiled. ‘We are.’ He ignored Jaskier’s half-hearted attempt at interrupting him.
Under many thanks from the residents of the village Jacek walked them to the stables where Roach was awaiting them. He murmured a few words under his breath. The air grew still, and before them, the faint shimmer of a portal began to materialize.
‘Done,’ Jacek said. ‘Blissful solstice, Witcher. Bard.’
Geralt didn’t waste another moment. He turned toward the portal, Jaskier eagerly following, and Roach – always dutiful – followed them both through without hesitation.
There, waiting for them, stood Yennefer. The marketplace was empty except for the guards patrolling but they magically ignored the portal and the people standing before it. The sorceress’ dark hair swirled around her, the faintest smile playing on her lips as she took in Geralt’s presence.
‘Took you long enough,’ she teased, her voice both playful and laced with an undercurrent of warmth. ‘It’s been months since I last saw you. And, as usual, you brought our bard along.’ She glanced at Jaskier, a mischievous glint in her eye.
Jaskier bowed dramatically. ‘Ah, Yennefer, my divine, deadly witch! You always appear when we need you most.’
Geralt looked at her with a soft smile, his expression unreadable but warm.
Yennefer turned her gaze to both men, her violet eyes softening. ‘I trust the coming hours will be more peaceful than your last?’
Geralt nodded, his voice a quiet rumble. ‘Yes. For tonight, we’ll just enjoy the warmth.’
Jaskier stepped closer, a playful grin on his lips. ‘And perhaps some mulled wine to make the night even warmer?’
Yennefer’s eyes gleamed with a mix of affection and mischief as she looked between them. ‘Tomorrow, we’ll discuss our trip to Kaer Morhen. But tonight...’ She turned to Geralt, her gaze lingering a little longer, ‘...tonight we drink.’
Geralt just nodded, his lips curling into the faintest of smiles as they walked toward the warmth of Yennefer’s house, the snow falling gently around them.