POV Aiden It had already been several weeks since we’d left Cintra, and we were finally getting close to the famed fortress of the Wolf School, Kaer Morhen.
Along the way, aside from the whole Nivellen episode, our days mostly boiled down to training with Geralt: the basics of the Wolf School’s combat style.
I’d picked up the fundamentals of the footwork, and I was just starting to learn a few striking techniques.
We were on horseback, Geralt riding a little ahead on Roach he was the one guiding us along the trail, a path far too dangerous for anyone who didn’t know it.
I looked at Ciri, sitting in front of me, and noticing she seemed a bit down, I found myself thinking back to our conversation, the day Geralt had gone back into Nivellen’s manor.
— Flashback POV Aiden Arriving at the stables, I saw Ciri gently stroking Nocturne and Roach, lost in thought, visibly a little upset.
I approached without saying anything right away after all these years together, I’d learned that when she was holding something in, the best thing to do was let her come to me.
So I got to work saddling the horses in silence.
While I adjusted Nocturne’s saddle, she asked from behind me: “Aidy, was…” She hesitated.
“Was what Geralt did necessary?” She held my gaze, pacing back and forth as if trying to convince herself: “I mean, I know she attacked us, that she deserved to die, she wanted to kill us, but…” I smiled slightly.
“Leaves a bitter taste, doesn’t it?” She nodded.
“Yeah, exactly that!
I don’t get it, I mean, why?” I finished Nocturne’s saddle, moved on to Roach’s, and answered calmly: “Ciri, close your eyes and think back on the scene.
What exactly feels bitter to you?
The bruxa’s death?
How it all ended?
Or…” She cut me off, her voice small: “No, you’re right.
I think what leaves that bitter taste is the way Geralt handled it.” I smiled, finished adjusting the saddle, turned to face her, arms crossed: “Why?” She thought about it: “I think it’s his behavior.
I mean, yeah, she killed innocent people, no denying that, but…” I smiled and finished her sentence: “But was killing her really necessary, when it was pretty clear she wasn’t a threat anymore?” She nodded.
I crouched down to her level so we’d be eye to eye: “Honestly, I don’t have the answer.” She looked at me, surprised I usually had an answer for everything and said, almost on instinct: “But then…” I tapped her nose.
“But does that actually change anything?” She rubbed her nose, annoyed.
I went on: “Ciri, we both learned this: life isn’t black and white, it’s gray.
Your real question isn’t what you think of Geralt it’s whether you think you’d end up like him.
That’s it, right?” She stayed quiet for a moment, then nodded.
“I know we’re going to train with Geralt, at Kaer Morhen.
And I know the whole world’s going to come looking for me, because of my position as princess.” I looked at her, mildly surprised.
She laughed, and this time it was her turn to tap my nose.
“Don’t look so shocked, Aidy remember, Grandma trained me in politics too.” She watched the falling snow, wistful.
“I know whoever manages to capture me gets a privileged claim in Cintra, a legitimate one.
That’s why Geralt’s hiding me somewhere no one will ever find us.
But it’s also why I asked him to train me I don’t want to just be the princess everyone has to protect anymore.
Remember our promise, Aidy?
That from now on, we’d fight together?” She gave a small laugh.
“Actually, I think that’s really what leaves the bitter taste what I might become.
Will I end up like Geralt, putting the code above what he feels?” I shook my head.
“Ciri, you’re overthinking this way too much.
Want my answer?” She nodded, listening closely.
I smiled.
“I don’t like what Geralt did.” She looked surprised.
I went on: “Don’t be so surprised.
Even though I admire Geralt, even though I love talking with him, even though I see him as a real mentor that doesn’t mean I fully accept his code.
Does that mean I should hate him for it?
No.
Everyone’s got their own way of doing things.
If it had been up to me, I’d have let the bruxa live, by Nivellen’s side, given her a chance and come back to kill her if she ever hurt another innocent.
But I’d have given her that chance, that’s true.” I ruffled her hair.
“That’s what you need to remember: training under someone doesn’t mean blindly copying their rules.
What separates a real student from a mere copy is the ability to think for yourself.
Train hard, sure, learn from Geralt’s experience but think about who YOU want to become.
That’s what’ll define you, Ciri.
Not anyone else.” She stayed quiet for a moment, then nodded softly.
“Yeah, okay.” End of flashback — POV Aiden I patted her back.
“Still thinking it over?
Careful, at this rate you’re gonna turn into a real scholar.” She gave me a gentle elbow to the ribs.
“Shut up.” Then she went on, more serious: “Yeah, I thought about it, and you’re right.
I’ll take Geralt’s teachings, his experience but I’ll always be the one making my own choices.
And like you, I’d have let her live.” I laughed lightly.
Geralt, who’d clearly heard every word, said without turning around: “Honestly, that’s exactly what I’d tell you to do.” We both looked at him, surprised and maybe he’d expected that, because he continued: “A witcher never dies in his bed that’s a lesson Vesemir’s drilled into me my whole life.
Even so, I’ll admit, sometimes I still want to prove him wrong, convince myself I’ll manage it anyway.
Rare thought, but it’s there.
What I’m trying to say is, training matters, but it’s not a cage always stay true to your own principles.
And if someone gives you grief for that, it probably means their own principles were shaky to begin with.” Ciri smiled, lighter now.
Seeing her smile like that made me smile too.
Maybe to lighten the mood a bit, I called out: “Geralt?
You, wanting to contradict your own mentor?” Geralt didn’t turn around, but I’m sure he was smiling.
“Yeah.
But at least I do it well.
And you, Aiden what goes into oil against higher vampires?” I went dead silent damn it, these potion formulas are genuinely hard to memorize.
Seeing my silence, he added, teasing: “Still too young for that one.
I’ve got plenty more arrows left for your teasing.” Ciri burst out laughing and, to get a little payback on my behalf, started messing up my hair while laughing, trying to push me off.
Even Nocturne didn’t so much as flinch probably used to our nonsense by now.
A few minutes later, a breathtaking landscape opened up before us, blanketed entirely in snow, dominated by a massive fortress carved into the mountainside.
Stopping Roach, Geralt turned to us.
“Welcome to Kaer Morhen.” — POV Geralt We’d finally made it to Kaer Morhen.
I wondered whether the old wolf was still busy forcing Lambert to get off his ass.
Walking into the castle courtyard, the kids behind me, I spotted Vesemir chopping wood.
A smile slipped out despite myself.
I dismounted from Roach, handing the reins to Aiden so he could lead our horses to the stable, and walked over to Vesemir, who, seeing me, drove his axe into a log and came to meet me.
He pulled me into a hug and said, in that gravelly voice of his: “White Wolf.
Snow doesn’t agree with you you’re paler than I am.” I smiled slightly.
“Vesemir, good to be back.
But I think I’ve still got some room before I catch up to you, age-wise.” He laughed.
“Me?
Teasing me about my age, when you’re the oldest witcher after me?” Then he turned to the two children approaching, crouched down to their level, and said: “Hmph.
You trained them well.” I just nodded, smiling, arms crossed, taking in the moment.
— POV Aiden Seeing another witcher, much older than Geralt, I figured this had to be Vesemir, his mentor, the one he’d already told us about.
I stepped forward with Ciri.
He held out his hand; I shook it, and he said: “Vesemir, mentor of the Wolf School.” I nodded.
“Aiden of Cintra.
And this is…” Ciri puffed out her chest proudly.
“Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon.
But just call me Ciri.” He gave a small laugh.
“Well, seems like youthful fire’s alive and well.
Come on in, warm yourselves up.” Following Geralt and Vesemir, I couldn’t help but look around, impressed: most of the walls were still standing solid, and I even spotted a ballista rusted, probably, but still impressive that they’d managed to keep a castle like this maintained over the years.
Arriving at the main door, Vesemir opened it and called out: “Eskel!
Lambert!
Come meet our guests!” Following him into the dining hall, what struck me most was the towering vaulted ceiling.
The air smelled of leather, dried herbs, and good cooking a warm atmosphere, despite appearances.
Turning my head, I spotted a witcher, like Geralt, dark-haired, a wide scar cutting across his face, but a warm smile on his lips.
He shook our hands.
“Pleasure to meet you.
I’m Eskel.
And that other grump over there, that’s Lambert don’t worry, he talks more than he bites.” Lambert, sitting a bit further off, snorted.
“Eskel, don’t speak for me.” He shot us a glance, staying seated at the table, offering just a simple nod as a greeting, muttering: “Great.
Guess I gotta add ‘babysitter’ to my resume.” Vesemir, bringing over the soup as we sat down, answered calmly, without even looking up from his bowl: “Not so bad you’ve already got ‘fisherman’ on there.” Geralt sat down, holding back a laugh threatening to slip out: “Lambert?
A fisherman?” Lambert slowly set down his spoon, held Geralt’s gaze with an almost theatrical seriousness, and let a silence stretch out before answering: “Yeah.
With bombs.” Ciri, who happened to have a spoonful of soup halfway to her mouth, froze, eyes lighting up with interest: “A witcher technique?” Lambert took his sweet time answering, a smug grin slowly spreading across his face, clearly savoring the effect his line was about to land: “Nah, kid.
Lazy man’s technique.” A brief silence followed, giving everyone a second to catch the joke.
Eskel shook his head, amused despite himself, and gave his brother a light shove.
“Cut it out, Lambert, you’re gonna give them ideas.” Lambert shrugged, taking his time serving dinner, plate by plate, before tossing out, almost offhand: “So what?
It’s not like they know how to make bombs.” I stayed quiet, keeping my eyes fixed on my plate to avoid giving anything away preferring to keep to myself the fact that I already knew the recipe for a Grapeshot bomb by heart.
During the meal, Geralt started laying out the situation.
After several minutes of explanation, Lambert asked: “So what, we’re just keeping them here as servants?” Vesemir shook his head, setting down his own spoon: “No.
We’re training them to become witchers.” Silence fell over the table.
Lambert, fork frozen halfway to his mouth, went still then, visibly angry, set it down hard, already thinking of the Trial of the Grasses.
He slammed a hand flat on the table, rattling the silverware: “Witchers?
Are you kidding me, old man?
You’re gonna put them through that?” Eskel and Geralt said at the same time, almost in unison: “That’s enough, Lambert.” But Lambert, stubborn as ever, pushed his chair back slightly and looked at his two brothers-in-arms, incredulous: “Are you two even hearing this?
He wants to turn them into witchers!” Vesemir let out a long sigh, pressing his palms flat on the table, as if to steady himself before answering: “If you’d let me finish: we’re training them to become witchers combat, monster knowledge, bombs.
But under no circumstances will they go through the Trial of the Grasses.” Lambert slowly sat back down, still wary, but visibly calmer.
Ciri, who’d followed the whole exchange with wide, curious eyes without daring to interrupt, finally couldn’t hold back her curiosity any longer and asked: “What’s the Trial of the Grasses?” A brief silence followed her question, as if no one quite knew where to start.
Geralt set down his fork and answered, more measured: “It’s the trial that turns a witcher apprentice into a full witcher.” Lambert, a bitter smile on his lips, couldn’t help but add: “Don’t forget the part where you’ve got a ninety-nine percent chance of dying from it.” Eskel shot him a pointed look and sighed: “Lambert, let Geralt talk.” Geralt continued, his tone a bit heavier than before: “Like Lambert said, it’s an extremely dangerous trial.
Survivors often come out of it weakened, sometimes with lasting damage and unfortunately, for those who don’t make it, it’s never a gentle death.
Either way, the formulas for the potions used were lost a long time ago.” Lambert nodded.
“Good riddance.” That’s exactly the detail that caught my attention: normally, Vesemir shouldn’t have leaned on that whole “lost formulas” story so easily after all, isn’t he the mentor here?
Maybe I was just overthinking it.
But he stayed quiet on the matter, and quickly steered the conversation elsewhere: “Anyway, Ciri, you’ll be trained by Geralt and Aiden, since you’re the more advanced of the two.
With me, it’ll be monster lore.
Once Geralt’s done with you, Ciri, it’ll move to combat training.
With Eskel, you’ll both learn the different combat styles across the schools there are several.
And with Lambert, it’ll mostly be hunting, potions, and bombs.” Lambert gave a small laugh.
“I’ll teach you bomb-fishing, kid.” Vesemir sighed, then smiled softly at Ciri and me.
“I got your rooms ready figured you’d want to sleep next to each other, so that’s what I did.
Go get some sleep, kids.
Tomorrow, training starts for real.” We nodded, and Ciri and I left the table to go explore the castle a bit.
She pulled me by the arm, smiling, snapping me out of my thoughts: “Come on, Aidy!
Don’t lag behind!”