KAER MORHEN – THE COURTYARD
Snow whispered across the old stones, carried by a cold that seemed eternal in these mountains. Kaer Morhen stood, its halls hollow with age. Only the steady crunch of boots and the labored snort of a horse broke the calm.
Vesemir led his steed through the battered gates, cloak heavy with frost. The wind tugged at his hair, now white as the keep itself. The old witcher looked weary blood crusted on his armor, the faint stench of smoke and rot clinging to him. But it wasn't his own wounds that weighed him down it was the small, still figure slumped across his horse's back.
"Vesemir."
Two figures emerged from the stables, blades on their backs, wolf medallions gleaming faintly in the low light. Eskel was first to reach him steady, cautious, the long scar across his face twitching as he squinted toward the horse. Lambert followed, his expression as sharp as the mountain wind.
"Old man," Lambert muttered, folding his arms, "you almost made us worry. Thought the wolves got you."
Vesemir's lips curved faintly. "Aye. Almost wished they had. But no just something uglier than wolves in those woods."
He stepped aside, letting them see the boy draped over the horse. The moment their eyes fell on the body, the air seemed to grow colder still. The boy's skin was pale, lips blue, his shirt torn and stained with blood that had already darkened to brown.
Eskel frowned deeply, the muscles in his jaw tightening. "What in the name of… Vesemir, what's going on with this boy?"
Lambert tilted his head, brow raised, a cruel sort of smirk twisting his mouth. "Is he dead? Because if so, you've gone soft, bringing strays home."
Vesemir ignored the barb, his voice low but steady. "He's not dead. Not yet. I made him drink a Swallow potion."
Both witchers froze. Eskel blinked once. Lambert's smirk vanished, replaced by open disbelief.
"You did what?" Lambert snapped, stepping forward. "You fed that to a child?"
Vesemir met his gaze, unflinching. "Yes. I know what it means. But it kept him breathing. Barely."
He looked to the boy again, brushing away a lock of dirty hair from his brow. The child's chest rose faintly, trembling with each shallow breath. "He hasn't much time. But fate's stubborn sometimes. Maybe it'll favor him."
Eskel exhaled slowly, his voice quiet. "Poor bastard. What are you planning, Vesemir? You didn't drag him all the way here just to bury him."
The old witcher hesitated, and that silence said more than words ever could. He glanced at the keep its cold stones, its empty windows, the memories that clung to every wall.
"There's one thing left we can do," he said at last, voice heavy with the weight of years. "Something I swore I'd never attempt again."
Lambert stiffened, the meaning dawning on him instantly. His face twisted in anger. "No. You can't be serious, you said we lost the process of trials long ago.. was that a lie old man?"
"Lambert.."
"No!" He stepped closer, glaring. "We said we'd never do it again. You said it yourself. No more trials. No more boys screaming and dying on those damned tables!"
Vesemir's expression didn't waver. "And I meant it. But I also made a promise to his mother. She begged me to save him, and I gave her my word."
Lambert's voice cracked with rage. "Save him? By what boiling his blood, snapping his mind in two? You call that saving, old man? You call that mercy?"
The courtyard fell silent but for the wind. Eskel's eyes lingered on the boy, pity etched in every line of his scarred face. He said nothing, but the tremor of his jaw spoke volumes.
Vesemir turned from Lambert, weary. "Letting him die is mercy, you're right. But mercy's easy. He deserves a chance however slim. And that's final."
Lambert scoffed bitterly and turned away, boots crunching through the snow as he stalked off toward the stables. "Do what you want, old man. But don't ask me to help torture another kid."
Eskel watched him go, then looked back at Vesemir. "He's not wrong," he said quietly. "The trial broke more boys than it made witchers. The merciful choice is letting him go."
Vesemir sighed. "Look at him, Eskel. He's already dying. The trail of the grasses won't be worse than that. At least he'll die fighting for life."
Eskel studied the old man for a long moment. Then, finally, he nodded, grim acceptance settling on his face. "Alright, old wolf. What do you need?"
Vesemir glanced up toward the keep, the wind tugging at his cloak. His voice was low, solemn, as he looked upon the gates of Kaer Morhen his home, his curse.
"Fire in the alchemy hall. The mutagens. The vials. And the prayer we've long forgotten how to say."
He looked down once more at the boy on the horse.
"Let's hope this one remembers it for us."
****
KAER MORHEN - THE ALCHEMY HALL
In the chamber only a few sconces burned along the stone walls, their flames flickering against shelves of vials and copper instruments. Dust hung in the air, glittering faintly in the firelight, disturbed after years of silence.
The table stood in the center of the room.
"Sad Albert." That's what they used to call it. The witchers' humor for something that deserved none. Its wooden surface was darkened with old stains, deep grooves carved by the hands of boys who never lived long enough to grow calluses from swords. Shackles hung at each end, cold iron catching the light.
The boy lay upon it now his chest rising shallowly, his skin clammy and pale. Bandages wrapped his ribs and shoulder where Vesemir had done what he could. His eyelids fluttered, though he was far beyond waking.
Eskel stood over him, arms crossed, the light tracing the scar down his cheek. His eyes lingered on the table, then drifted to Vesemir. "Damn," he said softly, almost to himself. "Never thought I'd see Sad Albert again."
Vesemir's face tightened as he set down a tray of vials. "Neither did I." His voice was rough, heavy with age and regret. He reached for a flask of clear liquid, the smell of herbs and acid biting the air as he poured.
Behind them, Lambert leaned against a support pillar, arms folded, back turned to the table. He hadn't said a word since they entered the hall. His jaw was tight, and his knuckles white around the hilt of the dagger at his belt.
"Of course you kept it," Lambert said at last, his voice bitter and low. "All these years… of course you bloody kept it."
Vesemir didn't answer. The silence stretched until even the fire seemed to quiet. The old witcher's hands were steady, but his breath wasn't. He ground the herbs, poured the mutagen extract into the cauldron, stirred until it turned the color of tarnished gold.
When he finally spoke, his voice was little more than a whisper. "Some things you don't throw away, even when you should."
Eskel looked from one to the other, his tone more cautious than questioning. "You sure about this, old man?"
Vesemir nodded, eyes fixed on the boy. "No. But I've made my choice."
They began to prepare in silence.
Eskel gathered the heated flasks from the fire, setting them on the iron rack beside the table. The glass glowed faintly from the concoction within mutagens brewed from monsters long dead, potions distilled through generations of trial and torment. Each vial was a memory of death and transformation.
Lambert turned halfway, watching them from the corner of his eye. "You still remember the sequence?" he asked quietly.
Vesemir gave a weary smile. "I remember every scream that went with it."
He took the first needle its metal dull from years untouched and filled it with the emerald liquid. He looked down at the boy, brushing aside the matted hair from his face. The boy looked barely six. Too young to have seen what he'd seen.
"Easy now," Vesemir murmured, as if speaking to himself. "You'll have to fight."
Eskel brought over the leather straps, fastening them across the boy's arms and legs. The sound of buckles and metal filled the room, the ritual precision of it unsettlingly familiar. Lambert's head lowered, eyes fixed on the floor.
"Ready," Eskel said at last, stepping back.
Vesemir's hands hovered for a moment. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. "Alright," he murmured, steadying his voice. "We're ready."
He nodded to Eskel, Vesemir took the needle and, with one last look at the boy, drove it gently into his vein.
/-\
If you Like this story! Check out my other stories! Shadow Monarch: In One Piece / Shadow Monarch in DC
&
If you wish to read more or simply support me than check out my pat-reon / FrenzyAren"
You can Get Access to More Chapters Ahead of Release on All of My Stories!