A month ago, if someone had told the boy he'd be staying in Vergen for a long time, Victor would've shouted at them for talking nonsense. Yet without realizing it, he'd been there a full month already—three whole weeks of proper recuperation.
He was still sleeping at Angoulême's place. When the first payment from the goods came in, he'd wanted to move out, but the girl tore into him so loudly that he gave up.
While he was getting his strength back, he picked up his morning runs again. Every day after breakfast he'd jog a full loop around Vergen's mountain city, then drink down a big jug of milk, and after that spar with Angoulême—perfect recovery training.
She'd never received any formal sword instruction, but her feral instincts and fighting experience were absurdly rich. Honestly, it fit someone who could ride with Geralt across half the world searching for a missing girl, then brawl through mercenary bloodbaths without blinking. Victor got a lot of "nutrients" from crossing blades with her—meaning, in plain terms, he couldn't beat her.
As for her past, Victor got the whole story by day three with a few bottles of wine. Of course, that also had something to do with the fact she wasn't trying to hide it.
The short version: she was an illegitimate noble daughter of Cintra, sent to be fostered by farmers. When Nilfgaard invaded, she was sent to a temple—except the "temple" was really a "trade school" for children. Because she was a bit older, she had terrible "business," and after being abused she snapped at thirteen: she and a handful of other kids set the place on fire, hacked down the madam, and took to the roads as outlaws, forming a hansa. Then at seventeen she was caught by Nilfgaardians and nearly executed—only to be saved from the gallows by Geralt, by sheer chance. From that moment on, she gave her loyalty completely…
It was exactly the kind of story that made your mood sink the moment you heard it.
In any case, for her, her family, her belonging, her sense of safety—everything—was the hansa… though now it ought to be called the Phantom Troupe.
Right after hearing her story, Victor had briefly regretted something: the first "operation" of the group she'd poured so much into had been selling virility medicine. It felt a bit… undignified. Angoulême, however, didn't care at all. Every day after sparring she'd cheerfully go in and out of the herbalist under the troupe's banner, handling deliveries and restocking. Yes—every time she delivered, she made a point of introducing herself as Angoulême Corion of the Phantom Troupe, as if she were terrified someone might not know.
Afternoons were reading time. A troupe member couldn't be illiterate. Victor pulled rank as the Captain and declared it a new rule—refuse, and you're out. That "ultimate weapon" crushed Angoulême's rebellion on the spot, and the wild girl could only swallow it.
Nights were for drinking. Vergen was the sort of place where sixty percent of the population were nonhumans, and more than half were dwarves. With Zoltan vouching for him, Angoulême's half-year living there as company, and Victor's habit of throwing money around like it meant nothing, he quickly became one of the taverns' favorite patrons.
But he never got drunk. Every night, before nine, he went home—stirred the day's product, drank a cup of hot milk, did half an hour of stretching, and slept a solid six hours.
The rich man's life of selling virility tonics was just that plain and unflashy.
A month slipped by like an arrow.
…
Early May. Night. Angoulême's living room.
"This is really for me?!" The girl's round brown eyes were huge, her brows bouncing with life. In front of her sat a full set of brand-new leather armor plated with iron—and a Mahakam steel sword.
She didn't hesitate. She grabbed the sword first and inspected it closely. It was razor-sharp, more than three feet long, yet weighed under two pounds. The twelve-inch grip was crisscross-wrapped in strips of lizard leather. The matching scabbard was plain, without any ornamentation, but the throat and the fittings were black steel. The craftsmanship was meticulous.
"This sword just looks powerful!" Angoulême turned toward Victor, grinning from ear to ear.
"Hmph. Swords," Zoltan cut in from the side. "They're for killing, not for looking at. You can't judge by first impressions. The important part is—your blade is a refined alloy. There's graphite and borax in it…"
Angoulême glared at him and pulled a face. "Shut up. If my Captain's getting me a sword, of course he'll get me the best. I don't need you to tell me—I already know!" With that, she happily hugged Victor, then bent down and kissed Zoltan on the cheek, and finally hugged her sword and armor to her chest as she hurried back to her room to keep packing.
Tomorrow, the Phantom Troupe would leave the city and continue toward Temeria's capital, Vizima. With Victor's temperament, he was obviously going to use Vergen—this crossroads for northern and southern goods—to outfit them with the best gear possible.
Compared to Angoulême, he had the same: a Mahakam steel sword from the dwarves' homeland, and a custom-fitted leather-and-plate harness. But he'd had one more thing made as well—a silver sword, its blade plated with silver.
That sword's existence traced back to a conversation right before Lambert left.
…
"This… this Wolf School medallion… is it for me?"
"Yeah. Vesemir told me to give it to you. Said if you couldn't become a mage, you'd end up wanting to be a witcher. You're pretty obsessed with having your own supernatural power. I've gotta say, the old man still reads people well."
"But I haven't gone through the mutations…"
"The old man said it's possible, then it's possible. Besides… there aren't many witchers left in the School of the Wolf… you know that. Our whole kind is disappearing. Even so, you still want to take it?"
"A medallion that can sense magic and monsters… I've wanted this for a long time."
"Just watch yourself. You can't rely on it completely. The medallion isn't all-powerful. Some subtle magic, or higher-class monsters—like vampires—the medallion won't pick them up.
Hey! What are you doing? Don't hug me. I'm not interested in men!"
"You know I'm grateful you walked with me this far—and for everything that happened on the road. You're an old bastard, but you're also a good friend. Sorry I still can't do anything for you."
"Don't mention it. You can thank me with a nice fat bag of crowns. I know you've got one."
"That's all? Then I'm sure two bags of crowns can buy me a hug."
"Live well. Once my business is wrapped up, I'll head to Vizima and find you?"
"No need. We'll meet at Kaer Morhen."
…
The next day, at the ferry outside Vergen, Victor had Angoulême board first. He stood by the dock to say goodbye to Zoltan. The first leg of their journey toward Vizima was by ship, heading to Flotsam—the gateway to the Pontar Valley.
Right before Victor boarded, the dwarf warrior said he had something to tell him, and kept Victor behind alone.
Even before Zoltan spoke, Victor could guess what was coming.
From a distance, Zoltan waved to Angoulême up on the rail. Then, with his mouth half-hidden in his thick beard, he said, "I don't much like you… not since the third day after you woke up."
Victor raised his eyebrows, about to speak—but Zoltan continued, not giving him the chance.
"The reason's simple. Your thoughts run too deep. I can't tell what you're thinking, and it makes me uneasy.
A complicated mind can protect Angoulême. But it can also get that girl killed without her even realizing you're the reason. Even if, right now, it looks like you're treating her well…
I know why she's set on you. It's her choice, and I can't stop her from going with you. But I can tell you what worries me."
He turned fully toward Victor.
"Now then—Captain of the Phantom Troupe, Ciri's younger brother, Victor Corion of Bell Town. Is there anything you want to say to me?"
In the end, it really was a lack of trust, Victor thought.
Vesemir had trusted him because Ciri vouched for him completely, and because months of living together had built a foundation. Lambert and Eskel had trusted him because Vesemir and Ciri stood behind him, plus an entire winter spent together.
But with Zoltan, that didn't work. Two people who'd been strangers—his only "proof" was a Wolf School medallion. The medallion was enough for Zoltan to help treat him, enough to help with business… but not enough for Zoltan to be comfortable letting him take Angoulême away.
And Victor had made a mistake as well. Because he'd felt familiar warmth toward Zoltan from the start, he hadn't bothered to hide his sharp edges. He hadn't expected that, to Zoltan, it would read as "too deep," not like a boy at all.
But when Zoltan laid his cards on the table, Victor didn't feel even a trace of guilt. Time would prove him.
Victor turned his head toward Angoulême on deck. She was climbing the mast with monkey-like agility, peering into the distance.
"Zoltan… do you believe in destiny?" His voice was calm and far-reaching. "I don't. I don't believe in destiny. But destiny waved at me anyway, and brought me a miracle."
He looked down at Zoltan.
"I can't explain the reasons to you in detail. But to me, Angoulême matters. She's the point where I began to truly interact with this world—proof that I can change it.
I'll do everything I can to protect her."