Chapter 6: The Butcher and the Princess
POV: Viktor
The tavern door opened with the kind of deliberate slowness that meant someone wanted attention. Viktor looked up from his water—his third cup, nursed across two hours of waiting—and felt his heart stop.
Renfri stepped through the doorway like violence in human form.
She was exactly as Viktor had imagined and nothing like he'd expected. Tall, elegant, moving with the kind of predatory grace that spoke of a lifetime spent with death. Dark hair framed a face that might have been beautiful if not for the eyes—green as poison, holding the kind of cold intelligence that belonged to apex predators.
Behind her came her band. Viktor recognized them from the show, but seeing them in person was a different experience entirely. These weren't actors playing dangerous characters; these were dangerous people playing themselves. Nohorn, massive and scarred, looked like he ate smaller criminals for breakfast. Vyr moved like a knife wrapped in flesh. Tizzy had the kind of wiry build and quick eyes that suggested he specialized in violence that required precision rather than strength.
They arranged themselves in the tavern like a pack claiming territory. Conversations died. Eyes found other places to be. Even the serving girls seemed to develop urgent business elsewhere.
Renfri's gaze swept the room and settled on Geralt.
"I need four guards. You're all the protection I can afford."
Viktor felt a chill that had nothing to do with the evening air. The line was exactly as he remembered it, delivered with the same casual arrogance that barely concealed desperate hope. Renfri wasn't just hiring protection; she was recruiting an army for a war she couldn't win.
Geralt's response was perfectly in character—a slight tightening around the eyes, a barely perceptible shift in posture that suggested he was considering whether this was his problem or not.
"I don't work for princes or princesses."
"Good. I'm neither."
Viktor watched the conversation unfold with the surreal feeling of witnessing a play he'd memorized being performed by the original cast. Every line was perfect, every gesture exactly as it should be. The script was playing out with mechanical precision, and Viktor was just another patron in the tavern, invisible and irrelevant.
He had to change that.
Viktor started to rise from his table, some half-formed plan of intervention building in his mind, when a hand the size of a dinner plate slammed down on his shoulder and drove him back into his seat.
"Sit down."
Viktor looked up into Nohorn's scarred face and saw the kind of professional competence that came from years of hurting people for money. The big man leaned down, bringing his face uncomfortably close to Viktor's.
"This is a private conversation. You want to keep listening, you'll do it from somewhere else."
"I'm not—"
"You're staring. Stop staring."
Viktor glanced around and realized that he was indeed staring, had been staring since the moment Renfri walked in. In a tavern full of people trying to mind their own business, his fascination with the newcomers was making him stand out like a beacon.
"Sorry. I was just—"
"You were just leaving," Nohorn said. It wasn't a suggestion.
Viktor looked past the enforcer to where Renfri and Geralt were continuing their conversation. He needed to hear this, needed to understand exactly how events were unfolding, needed to find some way to insert himself into the narrative.
But Nohorn was still looming over him, and the smart play was obvious. Don't escalate. Don't draw attention. Live to fight another day.
Viktor nodded and started to gather himself to leave, but that's when his curiosity got the better of him. He activated Success Rate Analysis, needing to know if intervention was even possible.
"Can I interrupt this meeting without getting killed?"
[MANA DECREASED: 85 → 35]
[SUCCESS RATE ANALYSIS: 5% SUCCESS, 95% VIOLENT REJECTION]
[PRIMARY RISK FACTORS: ARMED HOSTILES, ESTABLISHED TERRITORIAL BEHAVIOR, UNKNOWN VARIABLES]
[RECOMMENDATION: STRATEGIC WITHDRAWAL]
Five percent. Viktor stared at the floating text, his heart sinking. Even if he could somehow get past Nohorn, even if he could approach Renfri and Geralt, the chances of them listening to a random stranger were essentially nonexistent.
"You leaving or do I need to help you?" Nohorn's voice had taken on the tone of someone whose patience was running out.
Viktor left.
He made his way to the bar, ordered another water with coins he couldn't spare, and tried to look like just another patron while straining to overhear the conversation at Renfri's table. But the acoustics were wrong, and the princess and her band kept their voices low. Viktor caught fragments—mentions of towers, wizards, old grievances—but nothing concrete enough to be useful.
Twenty minutes later, the meeting broke up. Renfri and her band left as suddenly as they'd arrived, leaving the tavern feeling somehow larger and safer in their absence. Geralt remained at his table, staring into his ale with the expression of a man contemplating unpleasant decisions.
This was Viktor's chance. The only chance he might get to warn the Witcher about what was coming.
He approached Geralt's table with the kind of careful casualness that probably fooled nobody. The Witcher looked up as Viktor drew near, amber eyes studying him with predatory interest.
"Can I buy you a drink?"
"I already have one."
"Right. Of course." Viktor felt sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool evening air. "I just... I wanted to warn you. About the princess."
Geralt's expression didn't change, but Viktor felt the temperature in the immediate vicinity drop several degrees.
"What about her?"
"She's cursed. The wizard—Stregobor—he's lying about her. She's not the monster he claims she is. If you get involved in this, if you choose his side—"
"You're drunk."
"I'm not drunk. I'm trying to—"
"You're drunk, and you're talking about things you don't understand."
Viktor felt panic rising in his chest. This wasn't working. Geralt wasn't listening, wasn't taking him seriously. He was just another tavern prophet, another drunk with theories about things beyond his comprehension.
"Listen to me. If you fight her, if you kill her, they'll call you the Butcher of Blaviken. Is that what you want? To be remembered as—"
Geralt stood up.
It was a simple movement, just a man rising from his chair, but Viktor felt every instinct he possessed scream at him to run. The Witcher's hand hadn't moved toward his sword, his expression hadn't changed, but something fundamental had shifted in the air around them. The temperature hadn't actually dropped, but Viktor's breath was starting to come out in small puffs.
"Walk away."
Viktor wanted to argue, wanted to explain, wanted to make the Witcher understand that he was trying to help. But the words died in his throat as he met those amber eyes and saw something that wasn't quite human looking back at him.
He walked away.
Behind him, he heard laughter. Harsh, mocking laughter that belonged to Tizzy, who had apparently lingered to watch the show.
"Look at that, boys. The drunk thinks he's a prophet."
More laughter, from voices Viktor didn't recognize. Apparently his attempt at warning Geralt had been public enough to draw an audience.
"Stumbled right up to the Witcher and started babbling about curses and wizards."
"Probably read it in some book and thinks he's clever."
Viktor felt heat rising in his cheeks as he made his way back to his corner table. The humiliation was almost worse than the failure. He'd had one chance to warn Geralt, one opportunity to change the course of events, and he'd blown it completely.
But as he sat there nursing his wounded pride and his overpriced water, Viktor noticed something that made his pulse quicken. A young girl had entered the tavern—maybe ten years old, with the kind of serious expression that suggested she was on important business.
Marilka. Stregobor's messenger.
Viktor watched as the girl approached Geralt's table, delivered her message with the efficiency of someone who'd done this before, and left as quickly as she'd arrived. The Witcher sat for a moment longer, then finished his ale in one long swallow and headed for the door.
This was it. The meeting with Stregobor was about to happen, the next piece of the tragedy was falling into place, and Viktor was running out of opportunities to influence events.
He needed to see what was happening in that tower. Needed to understand exactly how Stregobor would manipulate Geralt, needed to find some way to counter the wizard's lies.
Viktor followed at a distance as Geralt made his way through the darkening streets of Blaviken. The Witcher moved with purpose, clearly familiar with the town's layout, heading toward the tower that loomed over the settlement like a stone finger pointed at the sky.
As they walked, Viktor activated his Daily Vision, spending the last of his MP reserves to see what tomorrow would bring.
[MANA DECREASED: 35 → 20]
A tower room filled with mirrors and illusions. An old man in robes speaking with passionate conviction about prophecies and necessary evils. Geralt listening with the expression of someone trying to decide which of two bad choices was marginally less terrible.
A marketplace at dawn, empty except for the early vendors setting up their stalls. Peaceful, innocent, unaware of what was coming.
Himself, standing in Stregobor's tower, facing down the wizard with words that burned like acid. A confrontation that hadn't happened yet but felt as inevitable as gravity.
Viktor came back to himself just as Geralt disappeared into the tower's base. The heavy wooden door closed with a sound like a coffin lid, leaving Viktor alone in the street with his visions and his rapidly dwindling options.
"Tomorrow," he whispered to the night air. "Tomorrow, I'll make them listen."
But even as he said it, Viktor couldn't shake the feeling that he was fighting against something larger than prophecy or destiny. He was fighting against the weight of narrative itself, against a story that had already been written and was determined to reach its bloody conclusion regardless of his interference.
Still, he had to try. Because the alternative—watching from the sidelines as tragedy unfolded exactly as it was meant to—was worse than failure.
It was complicity.
Viktor made his way back to the inn, his mind already working on plans for tomorrow's confrontation with Stregobor. He had twenty MP left, a handful of system points, and approximately twelve hours to figure out how to rewrite destiny.
It would have to be enough.
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