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The godswood remained as tranquil as ever. Towering tree trunks upheld a vast canopy of leaves, their varied hues forming a sea of foliage that hovered three meters above the ground.
This secluded place lay near the ancient Wolf's Den, a site the people of White Harbor avoided at all costs. It was likely that Clay's arrival marked the first presence of a visitor in this primeval woodland today.
The last time he had stood beneath these trees was before his journey to the Twins. Back then, he had shared a bottle of cheap, memory-laden ale with Ser Bartimus, commander of the White Sea Guard.
Now, Ser Bartimus had long since departed, having returned to his own lands. But Clay had come back once more to commune with the power of the Old Gods, whose presence still lingered in the North.
With his keen senses, Clay swiftly navigated through the outer edges of the sacred grove. Soon, he reached its heart, where an ancient heart tree stood in solemn majesty. At its roots lay a still pond, its surface undisturbed, mirroring the image he held in his memory.
Stepping carefully around the water, Clay arrived at the base of the heart tree. Overhead, its deep purple-red leaves swayed gently, rustling against one another with a soft, whispering sound.
The scene was serene, almost mesmerizing, an untouched fragment of an older world. Yet Clay knew well that this ancient heart tree, worn by the passage of time, was not merely a tree. It was an eye, a lingering remnant of the Three-Eyed Raven.
The last time the Three-Eyed Raven departed from this place, it left behind an abundance of magic. At the time, Clay had no chance to claim it, for he had set out on his journey south without delay. But now, at long last, the moment had come to accept this gift.
Pressing his palm gently against the heart tree's cold, rough bark, Clay activated his Witcher system with a mere thought. His vision adjusted as he called up his mana pool, preparing to draw power from the heart tree for the second time.
Unlike the first time, when the sheer influx of raw magic had nearly torn his body apart, he now had full control over the flow.
Though his system did not display a strict upper limit for his mana pool, Clay understood that his body had its own constraints.
The magic of the Three-Eyed Raven and the Old Gods was chaotic, a convergence of many different forces. To Clay, it felt as though countless energies were fused into one. He could not wield this magic directly; it had to pass through his system's filtration process before becoming usable.
Had he attempted to use it in its raw form, Clay had no doubt that drinking the Decoration of the Grasses under such conditions would be fatal. Even if ten of him were present to assist, it would not be enough to save Christan's life.
According to the Three-Eyed Raven's teachings, different magical systems were fundamentally incompatible. To magical beings, foreign magic was the deadliest of poisons, one without any known cure.
Clay suspected that without his Witcher system acting as an intermediary, he would have no means of utilizing the power of the Old Gods at all.
As the magic flowed steadily into him, the numbers on his system interface began to change. His previous reserve of only eighty points of magic gradually climbed. This time, he aimed to stockpile at least two hundred points.
With a ten percent increase in his success rate, he could allocate less magic to ensuring the transformation's success and instead focus on preserving Christian's life.
Aside from the exemption from fertility issues and the feline-like eyes, which were just a few among the many side effects of the mutation, accumulating over two hundred points of magic would be more than enough for him to create two fully-fledged Witchers.
For now, he had complete freedom in how he used the Three-Eyed Raven's magic. There was no need to draw too much at once. He still remembered the agonizing sensation from his last experience at the heart tree in Winterfell, when his body had swollen to the brink of bursting with uncontrolled magic.
The energy surged into him in waves. Clay knew that the Three-Eyed Raven could sense his actions. In a way, what he was doing now was no different from plucking feathers from its body. Of course, it would feel it.
---
Beyond the Wall, deep within a hidden cavern—
Entwined with countless vines, resembling nothing more than a withered husk, the Three-Eyed Raven slowly opened its singular blood-red eye. Its stiff neck twisted with difficulty as it turned its gaze toward the South.
"Why is it that when my power enters your body, I can no longer perceive it?"
The whisper echoed through the cavern, laced with doubt and apprehension.
"The more secrets you harbor, the more you fill me with fear. Even my master knows not the true force behind you. It unsettles me greatly... O Agent of the Other God…"
The murmured words wove through the dimly lit chamber, carrying a weight of deep suspicion and unease.
For countless years, the Three-Eyed Raven had observed the Northern lands, keeping watch over the anomalous ones who walked its soil. Yet even now, it had found no answers. What was this force? It longed to understand.
---
Half an hour passed before Clay finally withdrew his hand from the ancient tree's gnarled surface.
His reservoir now held two hundred and twenty points of magic, more than enough for his needs.
"Well, that's that. Time to head back. If I stay away from White Harbor much longer, who knows how many people will start panicking," Clay muttered with a smirk. "Tch, for over ten years, I was never this important."
With a self-deprecating chuckle, he turned and retraced his steps. Thanks to his Witcher senses, he could clearly track his own footprints, ensuring he would not lose his way.
Most relied on their sense of direction to navigate. A Witcher with poor directional sense, however, could always depend on their own footprints to guide them home.
As he emerged from the Godswood, he spotted his horse grazing leisurely where he had left it.
It was not White Harbor's honesty that kept it safe. Rather, it was the merman crest embroidered on the saddle and bridle, an unmistakable emblem that warded off any would-be thieves.
Swinging into the saddle, Clay ran a hand along the steed's mane before giving a light nudge with his heels. The warhorse, long trained in his command, immediately broke into a gallop, carrying him towards New Castle.
---
For Christian, what happened next was beyond anything he could have anticipated. One moment, he was following Young Lord Clay's orders. The next, he found himself standing within the heart of House Manderly's stronghold, the Sea God's Tower, face to face with Lord Wyman Manderly himself.
The moment the old lord understood Christian's purpose, realization dawned upon him. He knew, then, that this young man was the first chosen by his grandson.
Though he was unsure why Clay had chosen only one candidate so far, Lord Wyman had absolute faith in his grandson's judgment.
"Take him below," the old lord instructed the guards. "Near the armory, there is a room painted red. You know the place."
The guard nodded in acknowledgment.
Turning his gaze to Christen, Lord Wyman's round face broke into a warm smile.
"Boy, go with my men. Wait there for a while. Clay should return soon to see you."
Christen, still confused, nodded hesitantly. He had no idea why he had been brought here, and his mind was filled with questions. But Lord Wyman, having long mastered the art of reading people, understood his unspoken doubts all too well.
Even so, this was something Clay needed to explain himself. After all, Christen was his personal guard, and some matters were best left for Clay to handle. A leader had to shape his own men, and Wyman knew he could not always step in on his grandson's behalf.
For Clay, this principle was undeniable. His personal guards were destined to face trials far beyond those of any ordinary noble retinue. If they were not marked by his influence, if they did not carry his imprint, then they would be unfit for the path that lay ahead.
Riding swiftly through the city, Clay finally returned to the courtyard. Handing off his horse to a stable hand, he turned toward his next destination.
Lord Wyman had prepared a chamber for him, the Witcher's transformation room.
Now, with his magic reserves brimming and the necessary decoctions in hand, everything was in place.
All that remained was the final transformation.
..
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[Chapter End's]
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