"Druids do not reject others stepping onto the Path of Nature. You can directly seek guidance—any druid of the Mayena Druid Circle would gladly accept a new member."
"As for Jerome Moreau's mother, Lydia…"
Vera asked with some confusion: "Jerome Moreau's mother used to be a druid of the Mayena Druid Circle? What was special about her?"
Allen, while recalling and choosing his words, said: "I'm not sure if Jerome Moreau's mother was a druid, but she was indeed very special."
"She was a priestess of the Hill Folk's former Goddess of the Seasons—Gwendolyn, the Maiden of Spring."
"The Maiden of Spring, Gwendolyn…" Vera muttered with a frown, "I feel like I've heard that name before…"
Jerome Moreau's half-elf traits were very obvious. It was not surprising that his mother was one of the Hill Folk.
And the gods of the Hill Folk had fallen long, long ago.
That was a story from ages before Vera was born.
In fact, in archaeology, history, and magical history, the dividing line between elves and ancient elves was precisely the large-scale fall of the Elven Gods.
Even so, there were still many Hill Folk who continued to worship those divine names long buried beneath the dense clouds of history, attempting to call the gods back, to restore the ancient glory of the Hill Folk.
What puzzled Vera was that she actually had an impression of a deity that had already fallen.
Allen spoke softly: "Vilgefortz once said that the Great Seer Ithlinne was also a priestess of the Maiden of Spring, Gwendolyn."
"Ithlinne…" Vera froze for a moment, looking at Allen, her expression somewhat dazed.
Ding-ling ding-ling
The cool autumn morning wind of the Mayena Druid Circle gently swayed the wind chimes hanging from the roof. The ancient wooden hut, brown like the roots of an old tree, made one feel as if they had instantly returned to a time long past.
If there was an elf in this world who had influenced the two people in the room the most—
It was not Francesca Findabair, nor even Ida Emean, who had witnessed Vera and Sol's union during the Witcher Order era and sent a message bird…
It was Ithlinne!
Ithlinne Aegli aep Aevenien—the elf who, hundreds and thousands of years ago, prophesied the coming of the Child of Destiny, directly changing the fates of Vera, Sol, and Allen.
Vera had, countless times in sleepless nights, wondered how fate would have unfolded if that prophecy had never existed.
She would have watched him grow in the vineyard-covered estate of Toussaint, watched him babble his first words, watched him swing a wooden sword as he learned fencing from his father, falling again and again, only to stand up again and again; watched him fall for some noble girl next door, taught him not to flirt with the maids of the estate…
Instead of standing on a cold castle balcony, looking down at the small figure beaten raw by the harsh training posts, his body covered with bruises, struck again and again by the cold, unyielding witchers of the Wolf School…
But Allen diverted the topic at that moment: "Do you remember the Songstone I gave to Mary some time ago, and that Breath-Song of the Maiden of Spring?"
Vera, snapping out of her dazed memories, no longer saw the mischievous boy running under grape trellises, nor the timid apprentice afraid of scolding.
The one lying on the bed—the small figure once held in her arms—had already grown into a witcher with sapphire beast-eyes and scars covering his whole body.
He was like his father: walking the hardest path at the youngest age. Yet he was also completely unlike his father.
At this age, Sol had been a boy full of fantasies and recklessness… while Allen had long since become far too mature for a child…
"Vera?" Allen called softly.
Vera pulled herself from those fantasies that could never again become reality. After recalling Allen's question, she forced a faint smile and said: "The Breath-Song of the Maiden of Spring—you mean that strange magic that calmed the chaos magic inside Yennefer…"
"Wait! The Maiden of Spring?"
Returning fully to herself, Vera finally sensed the anomaly.
"That's right," Allen nodded lightly. "The Breath-Song of the Maiden of Spring is divine magic—a divine art granted by Gwendolyn, the Maiden of Spring."
"But…" After freezing for a moment, Vera's disbelief grew, "But divine arts rely on the existence of the deity. The gods have already fallen—how can divine magic still work?"
"Could it be that the Maiden of Spring, Gwendolyn, did not fall but only feigned death?"
"No, that's impossible. Mary is a human sorceress. She can't be a priestess of an elven deity—she's not even a shallow believer. How could she cast divine magic?"
Vera was completely confused by Allen.
She wanted to deny Allen's ideas with her professional knowledge, but Mary had indeed used the Breath-Song of the Maiden of Spring of Spring—and its effect had been extremely good.
So good that if presented publicly, both Mary and Allen could have risen to fame in the Brotherhood of Sorcerers at once—not just politically, but academically as well.
"Wait! Is it because of that stone?"
Vera's intuition was sharp; she immediately thought of the stone Mary had held during spellcasting.
"That's right. It's called a Songstone," Allen said plainly. "The Breath-Song of the Maiden of Spring can only be cast through a Songstone."
Vera's shock puzzled Allen. He remembered that he had explained the principles of the Breath-Song of the Maiden of Spring to Mary in full detail.
Was Vera too busy with her second mutation, or had Mary deliberately concealed something?
Allen did not dwell on it.
"But you're also right," he continued softly. "The Maiden of Spring, Gwendolyn, very likely has not completely fallen—at least there is still a chance for revival…"
Vera's shock was written clearly on her face. Only after a long moment did she recover from the impact of those words.
Allen waited until she had digested everything, then briefly explained that the Songstone and the divine song originated from the soul of Lydia, the devoted believer sealed in the colossus that oversaw Jerome Moreau.
As always, Vera did not question how Allen extracted a complete Songstone and divine magic from a fractured soul, nor how he knew that a long-fallen deity still had a chance of resurrection.
After sighing over Lydia's tragic fate and praising the Songstone several times, Vera lowered her head in thought: "If I remember correctly, Jerome Moreau was forced into the second mutation seventy or eighty years ago by Tomas Moreau?"
"Tomas Moreau began planning in 1102," Allen nodded. "Around 1110, the 'experiment failed.' Lydia should have already met her end around then."
Vera considered it carefully and said: "Although the Druid Circle has never been as hostile toward elves as the outside world, sixty or seventy years ago, for various reasons, was the period when the Northern Kingdoms were most hostile toward non-humans—especially elves…"
"Even if Lydia hid in the Mayena Druid Circle, she would still have needed to conceal herself…"
"The Grand Master surely knows everything about the Circle, but he is rarely lucid…"
"Perhaps you can ask Zebi Ortega. He is the Grand Druid whose sacred form is the Raven. He sought his sacred form ninety years ago and became a Grand Druid—close enough in timeline."
"Most importantly, he is the only half-elf Grand Druid in the Mayena Druid Circle."
"If Lydia lived in Mayena, she could never have escaped his notice."
"Ida has a good relationship with him. I'll go find her shortly and ask her to introduce you. Didn't you want to learn the Druid meditation methods?"
"Use that as your reason…"
"The Grand Druids of the Mayena Druid Circle are all kind elders, especially fond of diligent learners. Once you become familiar with him, you can find a chance to bring up Lydia…"
In just a few words, Allen had been arranged perfectly.
A witcher who had just endured a difficult battle almost felt himself growing indulgent toward the feeling of not needing to think at all—of having someone arrange everything for him.
"Thank you, Vera." Allen showed a particularly sincere smile.
Vera smiled and gently shook her head, though it was unclear what she meant by it.
After the two talked for a while about Zebi Ortega's preferences, temperament, and habits, Vera suddenly fell silent. A trace of worry appeared on her face, as if she wanted to say something but hesitated.
"What is it, Vera?" Allen noticed the mage's unusual expression.
"Even if the Spring Maiden Gwyndolyn has fallen, she was once a deity of a foreign race," Vera lowered her eyes and sighed softly. "Whatever it is you wish to obtain from Her… you must be careful. Extremely careful…"
"I will," Allen could only nod in response.
Vera said no more. She opened the ancient, heavy parchment tome in her hands and officially began the lesson:
"Yesterday, I taught you the final set of shallow-magic vocabulary in Elder Speech. Today we will learn the rhythm of Elder Speech…"
-----------------------------------
Vera's teaching was, as always, patient—clear and thorough.
Because Elder Speech concerned the memory crystals of the Long-lived, and the path to transcendence once attributes reached their limit, Allen listened even more intently.
But as he listened, Vera's face gradually blurred into a mass of flesh and blood.
Eyeballs, bone fragments, flesh all melded together—gruesome and tragic.
This was the after-effect of the prophecy he had awakened from several days ago.
Whenever someone who appeared in the prophecy spent enough time in contact with him, the horrific manner of their death shown in the prophecy would, without warning, replace their real appearance before his eyes.
Completely uncontrollable.
This was a heart-demon, Allen thought as he faced the blood-blurred image that still spoke to him with Vera's soft, cool voice.
[Name: Unstable Prophetic Power]
…
[Passive Effect: In a relaxed state, you may occasionally glimpse flashes from the future—intuitive warnings of crises related to yourself.]
[Note: Remember! Prophecy is both a gift and a curse!]
Prophecy is both a gift and a curse!
A curse…
Yes. It truly was a curse.
After gaining the Unstable Prophetic Power, Allen searched through every occult text in Kaer Morhen's library related to prophecy, and all shared the same definition—
Prophecy is a fragment snatched from the future, something destined to occur without deviation.
In other words, once a prophet "dreams" a prophecy, no matter how much effort or intervention is made, the scene shown in the prophecy will inevitably happen at some moment in the future.
It was not like Allen relying on memories of his past life—such as how the Wolf School would suffer devastating losses during Kaer Morhen's defense—those were guesses, not true prophecy.
Those were not fragments seized from the river of fate.
But when Allen awoke from that long and terrifying prophecy, the moment the "Unstable Prophetic Power" flickered on his panel, an overwhelming intuition sounded its alarm—
The King of the Wild Hunt would inevitably lead a massive army to invade a city in the Northern Continent…
Allen himself would inevitably appear accompanied by silver-white knights…
Vera, Vesemir, Mary, Francesca Findabair… they would inevitably die in the tragic manner shown in the prophecy—sometime in the future, right before his eyes…
This overwhelming premonition nearly drove Allen mad.
Even though he followed the Northern Continent's conventional approach to prophecy—alter everything outside the prophesied scene, while never touching the core event—and had succeeded: after Aen Elle's Eredin Bréacc Glas pierced him with his longsword, he did not die but instead turned the tables.
But Vera, Vesemir, Mary, Francesca Findabair… they would still die.
Their manner of death was far too brutal to be faked.
The nightmares that repeated endlessly night after night, and the hallucinations before his eyes, were all after-effects—or just as the note on the "Unstable Prophetic Power" said…
They were a curse.
Of course, Allen was never someone who waited hopelessly for fate.
After one night of gloom, he quickly began thinking of countermeasures. First, improving his own strength; second, weakening Eredin Bréacc Glas…
Learning Elder Speech and druid meditation were part of this. Elder Speech, of course, was tied to the transcendence path discovered by the Alder Folk. And the druid meditation—because of that strange "dream" he had after absorbing the "Leshen's essence."
He constantly sensed that he had obtained great power in that mysterious forest, but had not yet "taken" it out.
Perhaps druid meditation was the key to accessing it.
As for investigating Lydia, Jerome Moreaus mother—this was another method of weakening Eredin Bréacc Glas.
The Spring Maiden Gwyndolyn was a deity of the Ancient Elves—the ancient Hill Folk. Even if today's Alder People no longer recognized her, it did not mean She knew nothing.
No—Elder Folk and Aen Elle parting ways had been a monumental event. As the main goddess of the Aen Seidhe, the Spring Maiden Gwyndolyn could not possibly be ignorant.
Allen hoped to learn from Her the weaknesses of Eredin Bréacc Glas, and even those of the Alder People…
It would be difficult, but not impossible—not with the Spring Maiden's state.
"Elder Speech is the language of elves and also the language of magic. After mastering shallow-magic vocabulary, any short phrase with order, layering, and rhythmic fluctuation can be understood through perception…"
"This is why, even though the Ancient Elven dialect differs drastically from today's Elder Speech, archaeologists can still interpret artifacts found in Ancient Elven ruins."
"If you're interested, you can ask Vilgefortz…"
As Allen pondered, Vera's blood-blurred face, in a moment of dizziness, reverted back into that beautiful red-haired sorceress.
"Now try translating this sentence…"
'Duettaeánn aef cirrán Cáerme Gláeddyv. Yná esseáth.'
Allen frowned slightly, recalling what he had learned in recent days, and stirred his perception: "Sword… destiny… you…"
"The Sword of Destiny has two edges. You are one of them…"
"That's right." Vera nodded softly, approving Allen's translation, then glanced outside the window.
Unknowingly, a long time had passed, and the night sky was full of stars.
"That's all for today. Get some good rest." With a snap of her fingers, Vera closed the heavy parchment tome. After Allen gave his habitual thanks, she—as always—changed his dressing, then turned to leave.
But when she reached the doorway, her steps suddenly halted.
"You will definitely represent the Wolf School and attend the Brotherhood of Sorcerers' summons." It was a statement, not a question—her cool, steady voice full of certainty.
Allen froze for a moment, quickly searching for words in his mind.
But at that moment, Vera merely sighed, then walked out of the room.
Only a single sentence lingered behind her—half muttering, half questioning—fading slowly like a whisper carried off by the wind chimes.
"Allen… what exactly are you in such a hurry for…"
........
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