Year 1515 — Outskirts of Cintra
Crack!
Drip… drip…
Yennefer tightened her cloak, trying to shield the infant in her arms from the merciless downpour.
On any other night, the raven haired sorceress could have conjured a shield of magic to keep the rain away — but tonight wasn't any other night. Her mana reserves were spent. Opening a portal to reach this place had already drained her dry. The single potion in her satchel might not even restore her enough to portal back.
She pressed on through the forest, boots sinking into the mud as thunder rolled above. The trees groaned, their twisted shadows dancing with each flash of lightning — until at last, a small, tattered brick house came into view, its windows dim, its roof barely intact.
Her pace quickened. She climbed the short path and knocked hard on the warped wooden door, clutching the child tighter as the rain battered down.
Before she could knock again, the door creaked open.
"Yen? What in the gods' name are you doing here in the middle of the night?"
A familiar gruff voice came from the darkness.
Her breath trembled. "Geralt… I—I know we're not on speaking terms… but I need your help."
CRACK!
Another flash of lightning illuminated the man's face — white long hair, stern face, golden catlike eyes narrowing as they fell upon the child in her arms.
"What's wrong?" he asked, his voice low, cautious.
"This baby… I want you to keep him. Please." Yennefer's voice trembled as she looked down at the small bundle in her arms. The baby stirred, his tiny eyelids fluttering open, and she quickly moved to hand him over.
"What?" His brow furrowed, disbelief flashing across his face. "Yen, what are you saying? You're leaving a child with me?"
"Just keep him with you… please. Don't ask any questions, Geralt," she said weakly, pushing the baby into his arms.
Geralt's grip instinctively tightened around the fragile weight. "Whose child is this? Is he yours?" His voice hardened, the question he didn't want to ask slipping out. "Who's the father?"
The infant blinked up at him curiously, utterly unbothered by the rain, the thunder, or the storm brewing between the two adults.
"No questions… please," Yennefer whispered, her tone faint and frayed. "I'm too exhausted already… just—keep him safe."
Her trembling hand reached into her pouch. She pulled out a mana potion, uncorked it, and swallowed it in one breath. It barely steadied her.
Geralt looked down at the baby, now half asleep against his arm. "When will you come back for him?" he asked quietly.
Yennefer hesitated. Her eyes softened, guilt flickering within their violet depths. "…He needs a name, doesn't he?"
She looked down at the child one last time. "Aren," she murmured. "His name will be Aren."
Before Geralt could respond, a violet shimmer split the air — a portal tearing open. Without another glance, Yennefer stepped through it and vanished.
Geralt stood silent for a long moment. Rain hammered the roof; thunder rolled across the forest. He exhaled slowly, looked down at the now-sleeping infant, and muttered,
"Guess it's just us then."
He turned, shut the door, and walked back inside.
-----
10 Years Later
Year 1525 — Near Winterfell, Northern Lands
"Why are you laughing? I'm serious, Vesemir — I want to become a Witcher!"
The boy's voice cracked slightly as he folded his hands in protest. His black hair clung to his forehead, his violet eyes glinting with stubborn resolve.
Vesemir let out a deep, hearty laugh. "Hah! No one — and I mean no one — in this bloody Westeros wants to become a Witcher, boy." He set his jar of ale aside and looked over his shoulder. "You hearing this, Geralt? Even after what happened last night, Aren here still wants to walk our cursed path."
"It's because of what happened last night that I've decided," Aren said, his voice hardening. "A single stinking Drowner nearly ended me. If you hadn't shown up, I'd be dead already. I can't keep living like this — all helpless. I need to learn how to protect myself from the monsters that roam these lands."
Geralt gave a faint grunt, not looking up from his ale.
"Please, Vesemir," Aren pressed, desperation creeping into his tone. "If I don't learn, I'll die out there. I'm tired of feeling weak — tired of being the prey. I want to become the hunter!"
Vesemir's laughter faded. He sighed, leaning back in his chair. "You've got spirit, boy… but you need to understand — all the Witcher schools are gone. Kaer Morhen, our home, lies in ruins. This grumpy bastard here," he jerked a thumb toward Geralt, "was the last Witcher ever made. It's not that we don't want to help you — it's that we can't."
Aren's jaw tightened. Then his eyes brightened with an idea. "Then just train me. Teach me to fight. To track. To survive. I don't care if I can't drink your potions — I just want to learn how not to die."
Vesemir raised a brow and glanced at Geralt.
Geralt downed the rest of his ale, stood, and headed for the door.
Aren's hope flickered — until Geralt paused at the threshold.
"Wake up before sunrise," he said without turning around. "And don't complain about the snow."
Aren's face lit up. "Yes! Thank you, Geralt!" he shouted, punching the air.
Vesemir chuckled, clapping a heavy hand on the boy's shoulder. "Eat up and get some rest, lad. Tomorrow, you'll wish that Drowner had finished the job."
"Eh?" Aren blinked, suddenly unsure if he should still feel this happy about training.
-----
5 Years Later
Year 1530 — Outskirts of Gors Velen, Western Coast
"Khaa!"
"Ugh, so ugly…" Aren muttered, stumbling back from the claws that nearly tore his face off.
The creature hissed, baring needle-sharp teeth. Barely four feet tall, its green-gray skin hung loose and leathery, slick with mud. Standing on crooked legs, a filthy scrap of cloth around its waist, it looked almost comical—until it lunged.
In a blink, the Nekker closed the distance, its eyes flashing red.
"You filthy Nekker—piece of shit!" Aren growled, diving to the side escaping the blow. His boots slipped in the muck as he gripped his silver sword tighter, shifted his weight, and spun. The blade cut through the air in a clean arc, slicing across the creature's back.
"KHAA!!"
The Nekker shrieked, stumbling before leaping at him again.
"How tough is your damn hide?" Aren gritted his teeth, rolling away and springing up. The ground was a mess—slick and sucking at his boots—but he charged anyway.
"AGHhh!" He shouted as his blade connected, severing one of the creature's arms. The Nekker staggered, screeching in pain. Aren didn't hesitate—he swung again, pouring every ounce of strength into the blow.
The sword cleaved through bone and muscle. The Nekker split from shoulder to hip with a wet, tearing sound.
"Ugh. Disgusting." Aren grimaced as its black blood splattered across his leather jacket.
From behind him came a teasing voice.
"Ha! So much for your five years of Witcher training, Aren."
He turned, scowling at the smirking girl leaning casually on her blade. Her ashen-gray hair caught the faint light as she nudged a dead Nekker with her boot — its body riddled with cuts and a gaping hole in its skull.
"You must've gotten a lucky shot, Ciri," Aren said, wiping the slime from his jacket as he walked toward her.
"Lucky-schmucky," she shot back, resting her silver sword on her shoulder with a smug grin. "Admit it—I'm better than you, even though I've only trained for a year! Give me four more, and you'll be calling me teach—"
Aren's violet eyes widened.
"Ciri!"
Without thinking, he threw his hand forward, fingers drawing a triangular sign in the air.
"Aard!"
BOOM!
A shockwave erupted from his palm, blasting the burrowing Nekker away just as it leapt for Ciri's face. She stumbled back, eyes wide, then snarled.
"Thanks," she muttered—and immediately charged after the creature, sword flashing.
But before Aren could breathe, the mud beneath him trembled. Instinct screamed. He jumped back, flipping his stance and shaping another triangle but starting from another edge with his left hand.
"Igni!"
Whoosh!
A burst of orange flame roared from his palm, engulfing the Nekker that had clawed up from below. Its screech tore through the forest air.
Without hesitation, Aren dropped his hand, gripped his sword with both and dashed forward.
The flaming monster lunged blindly—
—and Aren met it head-on, slicing upward from waist to neck.
The fire sputtered, the creature staggered. He twisted his grip, drove the blade straight into its skull—
Putch!
Even impaled, the Nekker twitched violently. Aren yanked his sword free and brought it down in one final, brutal strike—splitting it clean in two.
"Haa…" He exhaled, chest heaving, scanning the churned mud for movement. Then he sprinted toward Ciri, who was still locked in combat.
"Ugh—these little shits are too quick—on their feet!" Ciri grunted, swinging in frustration before finally landing a clean decapitating blow. The Nekker's body slumped to the ground.
Both of them stood panting in the clearing, slick with mud and monster blood.
"Where did you learn such a vulgar tongue… princess?" Aren asked, a smirk tugging at his lips.
"Oh, shut it," Ciri shot back, rolling her eyes. She turned, brushing a lock of wet hair from her face. "Hey, Geralt! How did we do?"
"You both need to take this more seriously," came a gruff voice from the trees. Geralt stepped out from behind a trunk, crossbow in hand, his expression unreadable. "You can't keep getting distracted—especially you, Ciri."
Ciri looked down, sighing. "I'm sorry."
Geralt walked past them, boots crunching against the wet dirt. "Just as you hunt monsters, they hunt you. One lapse in focus, and you'll end up monster chow."
Then his gaze flicked toward Aren. "And you—you rely too much on power. Your strikes are heavy but slow. Until you fix that, you'll always be slower than her."
"Yes, I'll work on that," Aren said, nodding seriously, though his eyes followed the green-and-brown sphere in Geralt's hand. He recognized it instantly—a Grapeshot bomb.
Geralt stopped beside a circular pit where a few human bones lay scattered. Without hesitation, he tossed the bomb inside, raised his hand, and traced a sharp triangle in the air.
"Igni."
BOOM!
The explosion rattled the ground as the pit collapsed in on itself.
"I wanted to destroy its nest," Ciri muttered with a pout.
"Stop whining and take out all the usable hearts, eyes, and claws," Geralt said, walking away.
"Ugh, I hate this part. Why doesn't Vesemir do it himself if he wants to make those damn potions?" Ciri muttered, pulling a knife from her boot and kneeling beside the Nekker's corpse.
Aren sighed and knelt beside another. "Well… even after all this time, I can't say I like it either."
A while later, the three of them were walking back through the misty forest, the sound of a stream growing louder as their tattered house came into view.
Ciri looked up, eyes hopeful. "We could've gone to the city today. I heard some peddlers say there's a festival."
"You know why we can't, Ciri," Geralt said flatly, not breaking stride.
"…Yeah, yeah. Same as this whole year," she muttered under her breath, pouting. "People are still hunting you. It wouldn't be safe. Still sucks, though."
Aren glanced at her, feeling a bit sorry. Personally, he doubted that a festival in some backwater town would have been anything impressive anyway.
"Shh." Geralt suddenly stopped, raising his crossbow toward the roof of the house.
Aren's hand shot to his sword. "What is it?" he whispered. Then, squinting, "Wait… is that an owl?"
The brown owl hooted softly before dropping something at the front door and taking off, wings flapping hard against the evening air.
Geralt kept his crossbow trained on it until it disappeared beyond the trees.
"Wait here," he ordered gruffly, approaching the door. He crouched down, picked up the object, and frowned. "It's just… a letter."
"Oh! Is it from Triss?" Ciri said eagerly, hurrying to his side. "She did say she'd bring me new clothes next time she portals to us!"
"No. It's not." Geralt handed her the envelope.
"This emblem…" she muttered, frowning as she broke the wax seal. "It's from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Apparently, I've been accepted to study there—but I didn't even apply."
"Congratulations, Ciri," Aren said with a small, complicated smile.
"There's one for you too," Geralt said, tossing another letter his way.
"Huh?" Aren caught it, staring at the same emblem and his name written in elegant ink. He hesitated, then broke the seal. "It's real…" he whispered, voice trembling. "I—I've been accepted too. But… how? I don't even have magic."
Without realizing it, tears slipped down his cheeks.
"Oh, big boy—are you crying?" Ciri teased, grinning. "Are you that happy to be accepted to a school?"
"Shut up…" Aren muttered, turning his back to her, quickly wiping his tears.
She couldn't possibly understand. How could she? The warm memories of a world long gone—his old life back on Earth—were rushing back all at once. His cozy bed. His parents' laughter. The time he first opened a Harry Potter book as a kid and wished, just once, that he could live in that magical world.
Everything he had kept buried came rushing back all at once.
A shaky laugh escaped him as he stared at the letter in his hands.
In a rough, gruff imitation, he muttered under his breath, "You're a wizard, Aren."
The words only made him laugh harder — laughter tangled with tears that wouldn't stop.
Ciri looked at Geralt, utterly lost. "What's wrong with him?"
Geralt just sighed, shaking his head as he turned toward the house. "Everything," he muttered, pushing open the door.
He paused for a moment at the threshold, glancing back at the boy still laughing and crying while reading the letter.
"Looks like what you feared came true after all," he murmured, almost to himself, before closing the door behind him.