Dawn's pale glow crept across Kaer Morhen's courtyard as Geralt stirred from restless sleep. Icicles dripped from battlements, and a hush settled over the fortress—only the distant howl of wind spirits broke the silence. Yule was two weeks away, and Visenna had summoned him to the alchemical workshop before sunrise.
He slipped into furs and climbed the tower's narrow stairs. Inside, the laboratory smelled of dried herbs and flickering lamplight. Visenna stood at her worktable, examining vials of murky liquid—mouse serum samples from the latest Trials of the Grasses experiments. On a nearby table, bright bundles of mugwort and heather awaited processing.
"Good morning, my son," she greeted without looking up. "Our success rates hover at thirty percent. We must push toward sixty before the next candidate trial."
Geralt drew closer. "What changed in the last cohort?"
Visenna held up a vial. "Subtle ratio tweaks in the drowner-tendon extract and added heather catalyst. But survival doubled only when we adjusted the simmer time." She sighed. "It's a slow path, but we advance."
Back in the workshop at midnight, Geralt quietly reheated the serum, layering nettle infusion over drowner elements. Visenna directed him through precise stirring patterns and exact temperature gauges. As herbs steeped, she paused, her eyes soft.
"You've grown strong, Geralt. Your choices have rippled far beyond these walls."
He met her gaze. "I want to honor Vicky, Dick, Jacob, Eskel—us all. We'll survive together."
She reached across the table, her hand gentle on his. "Together, always."
The cauldron hissed. Moonlight glinted on steaming brew. In that moment, mother and son became partners in reshaping destiny at Kaer Morhen.
Spring's first thaw brought renewed energy to Kaer Morhen's laboratories. Visenna hunched over rows of glass cages, each containing white mice in various stages of miniature witcher trials. Her latest batch showed remarkable improvement—twelve of forty subjects had survived the scaled-down mutagens, a jump from the previous winter's dismal results.
"Thirty percent," she murmured to Geralt as he entered with fresh herb bundles. "But we need sixty to justify human trials."
Geralt set down "What's changed in the formula?"
"Timing," Visenna replied, lifting a surviving mouse. Its fur had lightened to silver, tiny eyes gleaming amber. "The mutagens work better when introduced gradually over days rather than hours. Your suggestion about staged doses was brilliant."
They worked through the afternoon, Geralt secretly cross-referencing his Destiny Point System's alchemical knowledge with his mother's empirical discoveries. The convergence was remarkable—her intuitive improvements aligned perfectly with the theoretical frameworks only he could access.
"Mother," he said during their evening meal, "what if we tried lunar timing? Certain magical processes strengthen during specific moon phases."
Visenna paused, spoon halfway to her mouth. "The old texts mention such things, but I'd dismissed them as superstition."
"Perhaps not all superstition lacks foundation."
That night, they planned the next trial for the new moon. As they worked by lamplight, grinding herbs and calibrating doses, their conversations wandered from alchemy to philosophy, from duty to love. These late hours became sacred—moments when mother and son existed simply as partners in an impossible dream.
"Form up!" Vesemir's voice cracked like a whip across the training yard. "Today we hunt as a pack."
Geralt, Eskel, Jacob, Vicky, and Dick arranged themselves in the formation they'd practiced countless times. Spring had brought monster activity to the mountain valleys, and Vesemir intended to use real hunts as training exercises.
Their target was a pair of nekkers that had been raiding merchant caravans on the lower passes. Simple creatures, but dangerous in groups—perfect for testing teamwork and tactics.
"Remember," Eskel said as they approached the rocky outcrop where the nekkers laired, "Geralt takes point, Vicky and I flank left, Jacob and Dick go right. Standard encirclement."
The hunt went flawlessly. Geralt's enhanced reflexes—courtesy of his secret serums—let him anticipate the nekkers' desperate charge. His friends moved with surprising coordination, their own subtle enhancements from shared tonics making them faster, stronger, more precise than ordinary trainees.
Afterward, as they cleaned nekker blood from their blades, Vicky grinned at Geralt. "Whatever you've been putting in those 'practice potions' of yours, it's working. I feel like I could take on a griffin."
"Just good nutrition," Geralt replied with studied casualness. "Mountain air, proper training, adequate rest."
Dick laughed. "And secret ingredients. Don't deny it—we all know you sneak into the laboratory at night."
"Only to help my mother with her research," Geralt said, which was technically true.
That evening, they celebrated their successful hunt with ale and storytelling. But beneath the camaraderie, Geralt felt the weight of hidden knowledge. Each friend's improved performance was partially his doing, yet he could never claim credit or explain the how.
The bonds between them grew stronger with each shared victory, each moment of trust. They were becoming more than friends—they were becoming brothers and sister in arms, united by secrets they didn't even know they shared.