Leon had seen the clouds over Windfall every day of his thirteen years. They were always dark. Always eerie. Today was no different. Neither was the mountain a few meters from the town—the Bloodied Hand, the natives called it. A shape like a hand stretching for the sky, reaching for something that never came. In ancient times, people were sacrificed there. Desperate people, begging the gods for favor.
He wondered if the gods ever answered.
Probably not. He was about to find out.
On a path that led to the base of the
mountain, a group of about twenty-five people could be seen moving with such
intentions. Some walked with torches, some with pitchforks, and others with
various weapons that could maim or harm a person.
At the front of the group,
two men dragged a contraption. Bound to it was a boy. His face was drained of
color, his eyes holding the sight of one who has lost everything in this life.
His mouth moved as he spoke.
"Why are you doing this?" he
asked, but no one answered.
"ANSWER ME!" He screamed this
time. "What sins have I committed to deserve this?!" He strained against
his bonds, screaming, and shouting.
As he continued to struggle, a man walked
in front of him. With a club in his hand, he struck the boy across the
face.
"Augh." The sound barely escaped
The boy's mouth before the man struck him in the stomach and again in the face.
A crack was heard when the club struck the boy's head. But the man didn't care.
He raised it again to hit him once more but was quickly restrained by two other
people.
"Control yourself, Geralt. You'll kill
him if you continue!" one of the men restraining Geralt said, trying to
hold him back.
"Release me, Victor. This curse needs
to be killed." Geralt spoke those words with so much venom and malice that
one would think him a snake.
"Fa-Father." The boy struggled to
release those words from his mouth. It was a wonder he could even speak after
being struck twice in the face by a club.
"Father. Why are you doing this
to me?" the boy asked, tears in his eyes as he saw the man who was supposed to
be his father, his mentor, his family, stare at him with unconcealed hatred and
contempt.
"Shut your mouth, you devil
spawn!" Geralt roared back in anger at the boy.
"I did not father a child who killed his mother as he was being born. I did not father a child who, two years after he came into this world, caused his siblings to fall sick. I
did not father a child who made this town, and its people suffer plagues,
famine, and become a target for bandits and beasts! You are a curse that was
brought into this world by chance. You are not my child."
Geralt said this with finality. The group
had long since stopped the moment Geralt attacked the boy.
Most of them watched
the scene with contempt, their eyes holding no pity for him. Others watched in
doubt, some with hesitation—after all, this was the boy who had helped some of
them in their time of need.
The boy stared at his father and the
townspeople with tears in his eyes, hoping someone would speak out to defend
him. He tried to find words to rebuke what his father had said. At last, all he
could do was cry in pain and hurt. As if to give him some sort of comfort, the
clouds finally gave birth to rain.
"Rain?" one of the women in the
The group looked up in shock, then happiness as a drop touched her head.
"Thank the gods, it's finally raining,
after ten years," another said as he and the group began to rejoice.
But their rejoicing was cut short by a
rustling sound from the tree line ahead. Some of the men assembled at the front
with makeshift spears, clubs, and pitchforks, pointing them toward the
direction of the sound.
"Wh-who's there?" one of the men
stammered, pitchfork trembling in his hands.
All of them were sweating despite the
cold—after all, the path to the mountain ran through a forest. It was said that
the forest was evil, that wailing sounds came from deep within it whenever
night came. Beasts of different sizes and kinds roamed its depths.
Surprisingly, when the group traveled through the path, they hadn't been
attacked by a single monster. So, when they arrived at the spot—a small
clearing where the white-hooded man had told them to stop—they thought they had
successfully escaped the maws of death.
But it seemed fate had other plans for
them.
The group waited with bated breath to see the source of the sound. A woman emerged into the clearing
dressed in white clothing.
"Who are you? State your name," a
A man from the group stepped forward in measured steps, pointing his pitchfork at
the woman.
"My name is Flora. I am but a servant
of Lord Collins, the man who told you all to come to this clearing," the
woman answered, moving his pitchfork away from her face. "The time of the
sacrifice is almost upon us. We must go now—his grace's protection will not
last much longer."