The sky was thick with dark clouds. The air was hot and damp—a sign that a heavy rain was coming.
But inside the temple, everything went on as usual. Every path winding through the ancient buildings was as busy as ever. Countless gray-robed priestesses sowed seeds, fed chickens, taught children…
That thriving energy instantly swept away the gloom and agitation brought by the overcast sky and muggy air.
The Temple of Melitele had clearly anticipated their return. Not long after they emerged from the remote back hills, Lysa and a few priestesses came to greet them.
After a brief check on Bond, Iron Shield, and Furi, the priestesses quickly took over their care.
While the elderly healer tended to Iron Shield and Furi, Lysa's eyes nervously scanned Allen from head to toe. Not seeing any injuries on him, she finally let out a sigh of relief.
Then she glanced curiously at the dazed-looking Evenson and asked: "Allen, who's he?"
"No need to worry about him," Allen replied. "Lysa, I left in a hurry yesterday. How's Hughes doing?"
"Hughes' surgery went very well yesterday. The Arch-Priestess said he should wake up today."
"That's good."
Even though they had expected it, hearing confirmation that Hughes was safe still brought visible relief to Allen and the other witchers.
Danthe glanced at Lysa. After whispering something to Vesemir, his expression turned solemn.
"So you're Lysa?" He looked at the young priestess. "Allen and Vesemir told me—if not for you, Hughes…"
Danthe paused, closed his eyes, and said seriously: "I, Danthe, owe you a great debt."
Lysa waved her hands in a panic. "No, no, I was just lucky to be there. If it hadn't been me, someone else would've saved Hughes..."
Danthe shook his head. "That's not how this works—"
"Enough, Danthe," Vesemir cut them off. "We're all family here. Just keep it in your heart. Any more talk will make it feel distant."
"Family?" Danthe blinked.
Acquaintance, one of us, family… the words changed depending on how close you were. He noticed the mischievous grin on Vesemir's face, then saw Lysa lower her head, her cheeks flushed red on one side.
Realization dawned. He turned to the center of attention—Allen.
"Ah… so that's how it is." Danthe's tone stretched with teasing implication. "Well then, no need to stand on ceremony."
Erni, Klar, and the others joined in with loud "Ohhh\~"s, like a flock of geese starting to honk.
"Quiet, all of you!" Allen scolded. "The medics are still treating the wounded—"
Before he could finish...
"It's fine, you're not disturbing us. Go on!"
The old granny treating Furi turned her head with a grin, the laugh lines on her face showing she was thoroughly enjoying the show. The other priestesses also nodded in agreement. "Yes, yes, it's fine! Doesn't bother us at all!"
Allen's words halted mid-sentence. Judging by how smoothly they were working with their hands, they really could do it with their eyes closed.
Before he could figure out how to stop this escalating mess—
"Of course we're family, Master Danthe. No need to be so formal," Lysa suddenly raised her head and joined in.
Allen spun around sharply to look at her.
The young priestess lowered her eyes shyly but smiled uneasily. When she saw Allen's gaze, she winked at him, as if telling him not to worry, then added:
"My life was saved by Allen. And Lady Vera was the one who sent me to the temple. Of course we're family—there's no need to talk about debts."
"Otherwise…"
"How could I ever repay a life-saving grace?"
The group went silent for a few seconds—until some tactless witcher blurted out: "A life saved, a life devoted?"
It was a common line in knightly romances popular on the Northern Continent—a classic "hero saves the beauty" scenario.
The young priestess, who had just mustered the courage to help Allen out, turned her head sharply, glanced at him—and when she realized the implications of that phrase, let out a soft "Ah!" and buried her face so deeply it looked like she was trying to sink into the floor.
"Alright, enough. Back to business," Allen glared at Clay, who was awkwardly trying to hide in the crowd. "Lysa, is Arch-Priestess Ianna at the temple? We need to speak with her."
"She's in the receiving hall."
Lysa acted as if nothing had happened—but the blush blooming across her pale neck betrayed her completely.
But Vesemir and Danthe were both seasoned veterans. They knew the situation had already reached its peak, and if they kept teasing, something might actually happen—so they chose not to expose it any further.
"The receiving hall? The temple has guests?" Allen was a little surprised.
"Lady Tissaia de Vries from Aretuza," Lysa replied. "She arrived just before you did. The Arch-Priestess and Nenneke are hosting her now."
"Do you know why she's here?"
"No idea," Lysa shook her head. "Right after Lady Tissaia de Vries arrived, Good Girl swooped down from the sky. The Arch-Priestess sent me to meet you."
"Should I go ask now?"
"No need." Allen exchanged a glance with Vesemir—they both suspected this visit likely had to do with the spy Tissaia had sent to Aedirn reporting back.
But Tissaia being here at the temple was also a relief. At least they wouldn't have to make another trip to the duke's castle in Ellander to show their sincerity.
After thinking for a moment, Vesemir said, "Then we'll leave Bond, Iron Shield, and Furi in your care…"
He hadn't even finished his sentence when—
From a nearby path, the figure of Nenneke appeared.
"Allen, Vesemir, come with me… and this is?" Nenneke's gaze briefly paused on Evenson before turning to Danthe.
"Danthe, witcher master of the School of the Wolf," Vesemir introduced simply.
Nenneke and Danthe exchanged formal bows and brief greetings.
"Lady Nenneke, is it the Arch-Priestess who wishes to see us?" Allen asked.
"No," Nenneke shook her head. "It's Tissaia de Vries from Aretuza. She wishes to speak with you."
Allen and Vesemir both blinked and looked at each other in surprise. They had just been talking about Tissaia—and now she was looking for them?
But…
What would Tissaia de Vries need from them?
"Allen, Master Vesemir, Master Danthe, you three should go," Lysa said. "Leave things here to me, Cirilla, and Lady Elaine."
"Thanks a lot!"
Allen nodded, left instructions for the young witchers to lend a hand, then followed Vesemir and Danthe after Nenneke, heading toward the temple entrance.
"You're still staring, girl? They're long gone already!"
The voice from behind snapped Lysa back to reality. She turned around and saw Cirilla smirking at her, while the other young witchers were sneaking glances and whispering among themselves.
"If you miss him so much, why not go with him?"
"I—I don't miss him!!" Lysa quickly pulled her gaze from the empty path. "Besides, I have to help you guys!"
"Help with what?" Elaine laughed and shook her head. "Cirilla, what exactly do we need Lysa's help for—changing bandages, stopping bleeding, hauling herbs, or praying for divine healing?"
Cirilla laughed so hard at Elaine's words that even the wrinkles on her face deepened with amusement. She chuckled for a long while before finally composing herself, and then began to list things off in an overly serious tone: "Changing bandages and stopping bleeding? Nah, the two of us are enough for that. As for hauling herbs, those strong young lads can handle that—definitely no need there either. And divine magic?" She snorted. "Lysa? Let's not even go there. Even healing minor wounds is a struggle for her…"
"Oh—wait, I've got it!" Cirilla deliberately dragged out the words with a theatrical flourish. "Lysa does have one irreplaceable, very important role here!"
"What is it? What big role?" Elaine asked, equally dramatic and playing along.
Cirilla's eyes crinkled with delight. "Why, of course—it's to supervise us two old crones… on behalf of our big hero, Sir Allen!"
"Cirilla ma'am! Elaine ma'am!"
Lysa puffed up like an angry little goldfish, her cheeks ballooned in indignation. Her teeth bit down on her lower lip hard enough to leave a pale crescent mark, and she stomped her little foot several times in frustration.
"All right, all right! We won't say another word!"
Lysa's voice was anything but threatening, yet Cirilla and Elaine still laughed as they apologized profusely with teasing grins.
After the jokes died down—
"Okay," Cirilla waved her over, "didn't you ask me before how to stitch a wedge-shaped wound?"
"Come here and watch closely—I'll show you how to do it properly."
Tempted beyond resistance, Lysa reluctantly—though obediently—walked over and knelt beside Cirilla.
"Wedge-shaped wounds are very common," Cirilla began to explain. "Mhm… one of the most frequent injuries we see among witchers…"
"Cirilla ma'am!" Lysa huffed, a little annoyed by the teasing tone.
"Fine, fine! I'm getting to the point." Cirilla chuckled gently, a grandmotherly kindness in her smile. "Because of the wide surface cut, how you disinfect and stitch the wound will seriously affect how well it heals. Watch carefully."
"The fine needle goes in from the inner edge of the gold thread, then loop outward slightly… and then through like this… and again, like this…"
"You need to be precise, fast, and firm. Don't worry about hurting them—hesitation causes more damage. That's the only way to ensure proper healing…"
Elaine also stood nearby, adding little tips and pointing out small mistakes to help.
After some time, once Lysa had fully understood the steps, Cirilla found another wound on Furi and guided Lysa to stitch it herself.
"Good, good—just like that." Cirilla nodded approvingly.
Lysa wiped the sweat from her brow, satisfied as she looked down at the result. The stitching wasn't perfect, but neat enough for a first attempt. She was just about to ask what the next step was when—
"Lysa," Cirilla suddenly whispered in her ear, "It's not just stitching—you need to be precise, fast, and firm in everything you do."
Lysa paused and tilted her head, noticing that Cirilla's eyes had none of their usual mischief. They were serious—deep, and full of meaning.
"Cirilla ma'am?"
Cirilla took off her gloves and gently patted Lysa's hair.
"Especially when it comes to feelings, Lysa."
"When you've chosen the wound you want to heal—don't get distracted by others. If you hesitate, if you don't go all in, the wound will bleed… it won't heal… and someone with more experience, someone more precise, faster, and bolder than you, will take your place."
"Lysa," the old woman's eyes seemed to peer into her soul, "do you want to be replaced?"
Do I… want to be replaced?
Lysa stared blankly at the freshly stitched wound in front of her, her thoughts drifting to the image of a golden-haired girl.
She imagined the two of them—herself and Allen—standing in a sunlit plaza, gazing into each other's eyes, embracing as they danced.
She saw herself crowned with flowers and laurel, parading in a decorated cart to cheers and blessings…
How many times—
How many times had she dreamed of this, only to picture herself in the role of "that girl," laughing and twirling in Allen's arms, kissing him deeply…
She had even dreamed of the warmth of his body, so searing it felt like it would melt her. But when she woke, it was always just her. Her warmth. Her reality.
"But… but I wasn't the one who first chose that wound," Lysa whispered, avoiding Cirilla's eyes. "So… so does it still count?"
She wasn't the first?
Cirilla blinked, cursing the lucky brat under her breath, and carefully asked, "Have they confirmed their relationship?"
Lysa thought for a moment, then shook her head. "I don't think so…"
After a pause, she added helplessly, "Allen… I don't know why, but it's like he… doesn't seem to have any thoughts about that now…"
A witcher from the Wolf School… not having those kinds of thoughts?
You sure?
Cirilla went silent for a few seconds before speaking again, "Then it's fine. If it's not official, you're not breaking the Lady's teachings."
"Lysa, who comes first doesn't matter. What matters is who stays till the end."
"And if there's already someone else in the picture, all the more reason for you to be bold!"
"Just like I said earlier…"
"Do you want to be replaced?"
"No! Absolutely not!" Lysa replied with absolute conviction.
Just the thought of that scene playing out made her chest feel like it was crushed under a massive block of ice—so heavy she could barely breathe.
"That's more like it."
Cirilla and Elaine exchanged a knowing glance and nodded in satisfaction.
Meanwhile, not far off, a group of young witchers—had been eavesdropping with perked ears, while pretending to focus elsewhere. Their faces were contorted in expressions so conflicted they seemed to form their own silent dialogue:"What do we do? Lady Mary's about to get blindsided!"
"Ugh\~ Why did Lady Mary insist on staying behind in Kaer Morhen? If she had come along, none of this would've happened!"
"Honestly, Priestess Lysa isn't bad either. She saved Hughes, she's pretty, gentle, and she knows both healing and divine magic…"
"Klar, you traitor!" ×6
"Lysa's great, sure—but did you forget how many times Lady Mary's saved us from Master Aristo's lectures?"
"Wait! Why do we even have to choose just one? I mean, nobles have lovers, right? And the Captain is a noble now, so shouldn't he be allowed to have both?"
The logic was impeccable—flawlessly structured in three steps.
Their "expression-based" discussion fell into silence.
"…This… this might actually be a good idea. But when we get back, we've gotta tell Lady Mary!"
"Exactly! Loyalty!"
"Loyalty!" ×6
------------------------
Lysa, however, hadn't noticed that seven rival "spies" were already preparing to tattle.
She bit her lower lip, a phrase echoing in her heart:
"To save a life is to claim a soul."
That's right…
Since he saved my life, my life has belonged to him ever since.
I was the one who came first!
...
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