Chapter 27: SONGS SPREADING
Three months on the road changed everything.
We traveled through Temeria, into Redania, skirting the edges of kingdoms where my name had begun to precede me. "Toss a Coin" had become inescapable—I heard it in every inn, every market, every village we passed through. Children sang the chorus in the streets. Merchants hummed it while loading carts. Sailors used it as a working song to coordinate their rowing.
My other compositions followed. "The Striga's Redemption" spread more slowly, a ballad about curses and second chances that didn't have the same infectious melody. "Edge of the World" gained traction among travelers, its story of elves and mercy resonating with people who'd heard too many tales of violence.
I could feel the belief piling up. Every voice that sang my songs, every heart that remembered my melodies—they fed something inside me. The reservoir I'd built through three years of careful work was overflowing now, pressure building toward a threshold I didn't quite understand.
The Burning South took months to spread. These songs are moving faster.
I thought about the Kowalczyk family, the refugees who'd given me my first true story. Their tragedy had launched my career, though they'd never know it. I wondered where they were now, whether they'd survived, whether they'd heard their own tale sung back to them by strangers.
That was almost four years ago. A different lifetime.
Geralt noticed my distraction but didn't comment. He'd grown used to my silences, my tendency to drift into composition while walking. Our dynamic had settled into something comfortable—not quite friendship, but more than mere partnership.
He knew about my abilities now. Not everything, but enough. When we entered hostile taverns, he watched my performances with new understanding, noting how crowds relaxed under my influence. Twice he'd asked me to heal minor injuries—a cut from a fight, a burn from cooking fire—and seemed unsurprised when the wounds closed faster than natural.
Trust. Or at least, the beginning of it.
The threshold broke in Oxenfurt.
We'd stopped for supplies, and I'd been convinced to perform at the Academy's tavern—the same Red Boar where I'd first discovered my powers, all those years ago. The crowd was larger now, drawn by my reputation, and they knew my songs better than I did.
When I played "Toss a Coin," the entire room sang along without prompting.
Something snapped into place.
The sensation was impossible to describe—like a door opening inside my skull, revealing rooms I hadn't known existed. Power cascaded through me, sharper and clearer than anything I'd experienced before. I could feel every person in the tavern as a distinct emotional signature. I could sense the buildings beyond, the streets outside, a hundred meters of human consciousness suddenly within reach.
One thousand believers. Stage 3.
I stumbled through the final chorus, voice cracking, fingers fumbling on strings I'd mastered years ago. The crowd cheered, thinking my emotion was artistic passion. I managed a bow, collected my coins, and retreated to a corner booth where Geralt waited with two ales.
"Something happened." Not a question.
"I'm fine."
"You're pale. Your hands are shaking."
I wrapped them around the mug to hide it. "Just overwhelmed. It's been a while since I performed at the Academy."
He didn't believe me—I could see it in his eyes—but he let it go. That was Geralt's way. He'd wait until I was ready to explain, or until circumstances forced the issue.
I need to understand what this means before I tell him anything.
Over the following days, I experimented in private. Away from Geralt, away from witnesses, I tested what Stage 3 had given me.
The results were intoxicating.
I sang a verse about fire, and flames danced above my palm—harmless, illusory, but visible. Real enough to cast shadows. I tried frost, and crystals formed on nearby surfaces, melting moments later but undeniably present.
Limited reality manifestation. My songs are becoming... physical.
The Shield Ballad produced a shimmer in the air—not solid, exactly, but resistant. When I threw a stone at it, the stone slowed, deflected slightly. Protection, of a sort.
My buffs had strengthened too. I tested Battle Hymn on myself and felt the enhancement flow inward—half as effective as when I used it on others, but still noticeable. I could run faster, react quicker, endure longer.
And monsters. I reached toward the forest edge near our camp, extending my awareness, and felt something out there—a leshen, ancient and territorial. My influence brushed against its consciousness, and for a moment, just a moment, it hesitated.
I can affect powerful monsters now. Not easily. But it's possible.
The power was terrifying in its scope. Three years ago, I'd been a confused transmigrator with a spark of ability. Now I was something else—something the world might not have seen before.
Legendary Bard. That's what the powers document called Stage 3. A bard whose songs shape reality.
I practiced until my fingers bled, testing limits, pushing boundaries. Each experiment revealed new possibilities and new dangers. The exhaustion after intensive use was worse now—not just tired, but drained in ways that felt fundamental.
Power has costs. It always has.
Geralt watched me with increasing concern. He knew something had changed, even if he couldn't identify what. I caught him studying my performances, noting differences in crowd reactions, trying to map what he observed against what I'd told him.
Soon I'll have to explain. But not yet. Not until I understand it myself.
We continued south, toward Cintra and the events I knew were coming. The fall of a kingdom. The birth of a destiny. Ciri, whose story would intersect with ours in ways that would change everything.
But that was months away. For now, I had a new stage of power to master and secrets to keep from a Witcher who trusted me.
I extinguished a candle with a whispered verse, watching the smoke curl in the darkness. The flame had died at my command, snuffed by a song that shouldn't have been possible.
What else can I do now?
The question hung in the air, unanswered and urgent.
Outside our camp, the road to Cintra waited.
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