"It's time to go, Starry Eyes.
We can't waste any more time. Our only hope is to run—quickly—to the right place and the right time."
Ihuarraquax neighed urgently, pressing her to hurry.
Though there were no tracks of the Wild Hunt here, the land itself felt wrong. The grass grew lush and green, yet the soil beneath was lifeless—so barren that not even a single earthworm stirred.
It made the unicorn uneasy.
"No! I'm not leaving!" Ciri pulled on Kelpie's reins and walked toward the witcher who still stood motionless. "I have more important things to do, Ihuarraquax."
She remembered winters at Kaer Morhen before Geralt, Eskel, and Lambert returned—when Vesemir, with his graying hair, worked alone to repair the ruined keep.
If she could change the fate of the Wolf School—if she could undo its destruction—perhaps, when she finally returned, Kaer Morhen would be full of life and voices again.
Vesemir would surely be overjoyed.
Ciri had never thought about the paradox of time…
If the past could truly be changed, then why was the present always fixed?
The future her—master of Elder Blood, wielder of its matured power—let the child she once was suffer. Let her be hunted across Nilfgaard's northern border. Let her be bullied by the Aen Elle elves of Tir ná Lia.
And when her Elder Blood had finally awakened, when she had the ability—why didn't she go back to save her stern yet loving grandmother, or her parents who died at sea, or the Rats, Giselle, Aethelle, Reef, Iskra, Kayleigh, and Mistle, executed in Jealousy Village?
She had never asked herself this.
She was only a child—driven from her home, hunted by the most terrifying monsters in the world: the Wild Hunt. How could she know?
Or perhaps, deep down, she already sensed it, but refused to abandon the fragile hope that she could still change something.
She longed for a miracle.
"I am the Lady of the Worlds. I am heir to the Elder Blood. I am the descendant of Lara Dorren, daughter of Shiadhal. I can change the fate of the Wolf School!"
The girl clenched her fists and hardened her resolve as she walked closer to the witcher.
But then she stumbled on her very first problem—how could she convince this blue-eyed, beautiful boy named Allen that she, lacking the telltale cat's eyes, was also a member of the Wolf School?
How could she make him believe that the School, now at the height of its power—she didn't need to ask, she could guess it—would one day be crippled by a man-made catastrophe?
After all, if before her arranged marriage, someone had told her that her grandmother—so powerful, so unstoppable—would die in war by leaping from a castle tower…
She never would have believed it.
She would have punched that prophet squarely in the face and had her grandmother cut off his head.
And so—
She walked step by step until she stood before the witcher, yet said nothing.
She didn't even stop to wonder about something glaringly obvious: why was this witcher boy, barely fourteen or fifteen, not the least bit surprised by her, by her questions just moments ago, or even by Ihuarraquax?
But then, another thought struck her.
"Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon… how do you know my name?" Ciri asked curiously.
Allen was silent for a moment. He looked around before answering, "Because before I came here, I heard your name…"
He then described the vision he had experienced when he first stumbled into that endless ocean, becoming a seagull, seeing a swallow fighting through storm and wave.
His words left Ciri—and Ihuarraquax, who had stepped closer, watching carefully—stunned.
"…At that time, I only felt I was a seagull, about to be dashed into the abyss by wind and wave. Out of instinct, I cried a name that echoed across the heavens."
Allen finished his short account and looked at the girl.
He had, in truth, played a small trick.
That voice, resonating with heaven and earth, had called out not her true name, but Swallow—"Zireael" in the Elder Speech. It was one of Ciri's epithets, used by the People of the Alder, not her real name.
So it wasn't a lie.
"Someone… out at sea… called my name?" the girl whispered, stunned. Instinctively, her eyes turned to Ihuarraquax.
The unicorn of the School of the Manticore shook its glowing horn, snorted, and tossed its head.
"Starry Eyes, he's telling the truth."
The girl turned back, her face showing a trace of disappointment.
"So… you don't know how to return?"
"I really don't," Allen nodded. "But I can feel some kind of pull from the outside world—it's getting stronger. I think when that pull reaches its peak, I'll be forced to leave this place. So…"
He paused, staring into the girl's emerald eyes.
"If you have something to ask, or something you want to say, do it quickly."
In truth, upon realizing that the Ciri standing before him—Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon—was only just awakening, still unable to control her Elder Blood, Allen felt as lost as she did. He had no idea what words could possibly help.
What could he say?
Her mother Pavetta was already dead, her grandmother Calanthe too. The close friends of the Rats, her companions… all gone. After fleeing Jealousy Village, she had reached the swamps of Pereplut, where the hermit Vysogota nursed her back from the brink of death—but he too would not last.
Almost everyone worth saving in her life at this point was already dead. And she had just barely escaped from the most dangerous place of all—Tir ná Lia, the capital of the Aen Elle.
Her darkest days had already passed.
Later, when she learned to wield the Elder Blood and travel through time and worlds, there were troubles, yes, but nothing compared to what had come before.
And Allen himself didn't know how one was supposed to master Elder Blood.
In time, she would return to her witcher world, straight into the trap at Stygga Castle, where Vilgefortz captured her. Geralt's "search party" would follow closely behind, rescuing her.
But even then, many of them died—Angoulême, Cahir, Milva, and Regis the vampire all fell in that battle. Could such deaths be undone, just by Allen dropping a few hints to Ciri now? Impossible.
That battle had shifted a hundred times in the blink of an eye—no foresight could have altered its outcome.
And later, the infamous Rivian Pogrom where Geralt and Yennefer fell… what looked like an event worth changing had in fact already been changed. In the "original" timeline they had both been saved, which led into the three Witcher games.
And in the end—The Witcher 3 brought a conclusion close to perfect. The Wild Hunt's king was defeated, the White Frost ended, and Geralt lived happily with Yennefer—or Triss, or Shani.
Only Vesemir's death remained. But even that was decades later, and in the heat of battle he had chosen to sacrifice himself for Ciri.
How could Allen possibly alter that ending with mere words?
Tell her to ally with her father, the Emperor of Nilfgaard? Send armies against the Wild Hunt?
Maybe Yennefer would agree, but Geralt, Vesemir, Eskel—never. Even Ciri herself would never accept such a path that endangered innocents.
More likely, if she learned Vesemir would die because of her, she would surrender herself willingly to the Hunt.
Doing more often means doing worse—better to do nothing at all.
Of course, all of this assumed her world was the original one, separate from Allen's Continent.
But if her past and his future were part of the same world… then there was even less need to say anything.
After all, he had crossed worlds to come here—if Vesemir still died to Imlerith's blade, what was the point of his journey?
So in the end, Allen truly had no words to give this girl.
If only this Ciri were the one from after the trilogy of games… Allen sighed inwardly.
Ciri, however, was struck by something else entirely—how calm he was.
Not like a boy of fourteen at all.
She thought of Jarre, the sixteen-year-old scribe she first met at the Temple of Melitele, blushing, tongue-tied in her presence. But this boy… this beautiful boy with blue eyes looked at her as though he already knew everything.
In his gaze she even caught a flicker of… pity.
But why?
Why should he pity me?
She felt it absurd.
The one who deserved pity most of all was him.
A witcher of the Wolf School, one who never even left his name behind.
Wait!
The girl frowned, instantly sensing something strange.
Someone who had never met her before, who knew nothing of her—how could he pity her?
"You know me."
It was not a question, but a statement.
"I've seen a you, in a void of dreams," Allen nodded. "There were many words, images, and stories about you there. So yes—I know you."
The girl blinked, startled.
This was not how she had pictured the conversation going.
"Prophecy?" she couldn't help but ask.
Allen thought for a moment, then nodded. "Something like that."
The absurdity of it all weighed heavier on her.
Anyone might be a prophet—but a witcher? The very men whom Yennefer's mother once mocked as brutes swinging metal sticks blindly? Could such a thing really be?
If it had been someone of the Griffin School, skilled in magic, that would have been easier to believe.
But the Wolf School? She knew them too well.
Yet when she looked at the boy's face, there was no sign of a lie. She tilted her head toward Ihuarraquax.
The unicorn blinked, its sharp horn shining with white-hot magical light.
He's not lying, Starry Eyes. He's telling the truth.
But…
But what?
We really need to leave now. I… I feel something is wrong.
Hearing the unicorn's telepathic warning, the girl's gaze swept warily around.
All she saw was the ocean of grass, whipped and tossed about by the wind—no sign of life nearby, and a strange, unsettling stillness in the sound of the gale.
Finding no immediate threat, she turned her attention back to the boy.
"What do you know about me?" she asked. It wasn't that she doubted Ihuarraquax—the unicorn was born with the gift of seeing through lies.
It was just so hard to accept. A witcher—a boy of fourteen or fifteen, no less—being some kind of prophet?
Normally, prophets were old men with long, floor-sweeping beards, dressed in shabby gray robes.
"I know you were born in Cintra, blessed with a gift beyond ordinary measure. And because of that gift, you've been the target of countless desires…"
"Of course, not all seek you for your gift. Some covet your bloodline itself, for you are the Princess of Cintra, the Princess of Brugge and Duchess of Sodden, heir of Inis Ard Skellig and Inis An Skellig, Suzerain of Attre and Abb Yarra…"
"…You've just escaped from an elven fortress, and you're trying to return to your world…"
"I think that's more than enough. Better to save the rest of our time for something that actually matters, don't you agree?"
The girl listened, her expression dazed, disbelief written across her face.
When Allen finished, she took an eager step closer, eyes shining like emeralds, suddenly only an arm's length away.
"Enough! Enough!" she cried out in delight. "You actually know all that! But shouldn't I only be Princess of Cintra? Where did all those other titles come from?"
"Never mind, it doesn't matter!"
"Allen, does the Wolf School really have a tradition of prophecy? Why have I never heard Vesemir or Geralt mention it?"
"Are all the Wolf apprentices like you now?"
"Kaer Mor—"
"Stop!" Her barrage of questions made Allen's head ache. He cut her off quickly. "First, those titles are all real—some from vassal states in wartime, some from claims your grandfather made."
"Second, I am who I am. In some fields, my talents surpass those of other witchers of the Wolf."
"Third, I'm not an apprentice. I'm a witcher—a master of the Wolf School."
"And finally…"
Allen's face hardened, his voice sharp. "Finally, none of that matters. You're wasting time!"
Perhaps it was because she had spent so long trapped in Tir ná Lia, or because the surroundings here seemed deceptively safe…
But meeting a witcher—especially one of the Wolf School—had made Ciri strangely excited, even attached.
No—attached wasn't strong enough. At their distance—barely two fists apart—it felt like dependency.
Her pale skin, the scar across her left eye, even the soft down on her face—Allen saw it all so clearly that he instinctively stepped back half a pace.
He had to steel his tone, to cool her down.
"S-sorry…" The girl was startled by his coldness and quickly apologized. But after only two sentences, she suddenly parted her lips in surprise.
"But wait—how old are you? You're not just a full witcher—you're already a master?"
"Ahem—" Allen coughed twice.
"Sorry… sorry," she stammered, seeing his face grow darker. At last, she remembered her original reason for approaching him. She straightened her small face, turned serious, and said solemnly: "Allen, do you know?"
Allen's expression also turned grave. He thought the Elder Blood was about to reveal some great secret.
But then—
With all the gravity she could muster, the girl declared: "The Wolf School… is about to perish!"
"Allen, only we can save—"
Before she could finish—
The unicorn Ihuarraquax suddenly reared up, neighing shrilly in alarm.
At the same time, in both Allen and Ciri's minds rang the voice of a child: "Starry Eyes, be careful!"
"Something's coming!"
...
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