POV Geralt It had been two weeks since Ciri’s birthday.
Since then, she’d gone all-business during training out of breath, drenched in sweat, sometimes hurt, we’d practically have to force her to stop and rest.
Triss and Vesemir spent most of their time down in the potion lab, in the cellar.
I often had to bring them food myself, or the two of them would probably forget to eat entirely.
As for Eskel and Lambert, they’d decided to get back on the Path winter was over, contracts would start rolling in again.
— Flashback POV Geralt Arms crossed, I watched Lambert and Eskel finish saddling their horses.
I noticed Eskel had switched mounts and asked, curious: “New horse?” Eskel nodded, tightening the saddle strap.
“Yeah, won him in a card game.
Named him Scorpion.” Lambert, finishing up with his own saddle, gave a small laugh.
“Scorpion?
Seriously?” Eskel looked at him, amused.
“Mock all you want, but I’m not the one who named my mare ‘Elena’ after that woman you kept visiting after every contract.” Lambert shrugged.
“Not my fault.
Poor thing was lonely all the time, her husband was off on every battlefield imaginable, and in her eyes, I was basically her knight in shining armor.” I rolled my eyes.
“Sure, Lambert.
And next you’ll tell me Eskel pulls women in with that scar of his.” Eskel looked at me.
“Ouch.
Low blow.” Lambert burst out laughing.
“Honestly, Geralt, you’re about the only one who gets to play the moralist with us.
Fine, you’ve never touched a married woman, sure but don’t tell me you’re some symbol of purity, you, the great Geralt, defender of the fair sex, sword of sorceresses.” I smiled, amused.
“All right, Lambert.
I get it.
You’re jealous.” He laughed.
“Of course I’m jealous.” He stepped forward, we clasped forearms, and he said: “Take care of yourself.
And the kids, Geralt.” I nodded, did the same with Eskel, then asked: “You want to wait for Ciri to come down and say goodbye?” Lambert shook his head.
Eskel, already mounted on Scorpion, answered: “Nah.
We’ll see each other come winter anyway.
Hoping to find Aiden back on his feet by then.” Lambert nodded, eyes drifting toward the castle.
“Yeah.
Hope the kid pulls through, and Merigold’s potion works out.” I nodded, serious.
“Yeah.
Me too.” Because if it came down to it if it meant striking a deal with a demon, I’d do it.
Even knowing that kind of choice never ends well.
I just can’t picture myself digging a grave for Aiden.
Lambert nodded, swung up into the saddle, and rode off, raising a hand.
“All right, later, White Wolf.” Eskel did the same.
I answered simply: “Good luck on the Path.” End of flashback — POV Geralt I stirred the rabbit stew, glancing absently around the room.
The dining hall was quiet, as usual Ciri had gone back to Aiden’s room, Triss and Vesemir still locked away in their lab.
I sighed.
That’s when a portal opened.
Yen stepped out, face closed off, clearly furious.
She grabbed a random bottle of wine, poured herself a glass, took a sip, and grimaced.
“Damn it, this is piss…” She kept drinking anyway.
I walked over, wiping my hands on a towel.
“Rare to see you this worked up.
Even rarer to see you drink bad wine without a single complaint.” She gave a dry laugh.
“Yeah.
I was with my dear friends the mages, sitting through one of their little meetings where they decide people’s lives like they’re moving pieces on a board, without a shred of remorse.” I sat down across from her, arms crossed.
“Isn’t that kind of what you used to do, with me, during your little schemes?” She smiled, stung, but kept her sarcastic tone.
“Oh, sure.
Except with you, I always made it perfectly clear you were my pawn.
And I don’t recall you ever complaining, given what I paid you in return.” She drank more.
“Anyway, forget that.
What’s bothering me is that two factions are forming among the mages: those backing the northern kingdoms, and those leaning toward Nilfgaard.” I asked: “I take it that’s not going smoothly.” She shook her head.
“No.
There’s more support for the North right now what Calanthe did, at her death, turned a lot of opinion in her favor.
But on Nilfgaard’s side, the two heads of the movement are Vilgefortz and Fringilla, and their names alone carry a lot of weight.
Worst part is, there’s no one left to represent Skellige anymore, which could’ve tipped the balance clearly one way.
Mousesack’s been declared dead, his body was never found in Cintra’s ruins, and no druid will speak to the mages since.
So, in short: it’s a mess.
A dark one, at that.” I nodded.
“Hearing the famous Yen say ‘mess’ twice in one sentence really confirms how bad it is.” She smiled, sarcastic.
“You know, Geralt, the ones who repeat other people’s words back at them, over-analyzing every syllable that’s usually fools or simpletons.
Which one are you?” I shrugged.
We probably would’ve kept going like that, but Triss came rushing in, hair a mess, dark circles under her eyes, a huge smile on her face.
“Geralt!
The potion’s ready!” I stood up immediately, following without waiting, Yen right behind me.
I asked, urgent: “Triss, what’s the success rate?” She answered, still out of breath.
“Honestly?
Ninety-nine percent.
I always keep that one percent of uncertainty, because anything can happen but with Vesemir, I’m genuinely confident.” Arriving in the lab, I found Vesemir sitting down, rubbing his eyes, looking just as worn out.
Seeing me, he grabbed a vial and held it out.
“We did it, Geralt.” I looked at the potion.
Unlike the classic Trial of the Grasses potion, which was green, this one was a clear blue, almost like spring water but just holding it, I could feel the cold seeping into my hand.
I asked: “Explain it to me.” Yen, arms crossed behind me, cut in: “Yeah, he’s right I can feel this potion’s packed with pure magic.
Confirms the old magic hypothesis.
Go ahead, Triss.” Triss nodded, clearly relieved to finally share her work.
“Actually, it’s pretty simple once you get it.
The classic Trial of the Grasses is basically like throwing a witcher apprentice into an arena to fight a leshen, armed with nothing but a steel sword.
The goal isn’t to kill him the goal is for him to survive.
Except a leshen is extremely dangerous, even for a well-trained witcher.
Result: only the best make it through.” She lifted the vial in her hands.
“Here, it’s the opposite.
The opponent’s a simple drowner and the apprentice is armed with a silver sword, in master-crafted armor.
Might as well call it a sure thing.” She continued, more softly: “The only real issue is that this potion is extremely cold.
And when I say cold, I mean if a normal human swallowed even a single drop, their whole mouth, their entire stomach, would freeze instantly.
One drop would be enough.” I didn’t get it.
So Aiden would die?
He was still human, after all.
Triss saw the question forming on both our faces and smiled.
“Figured you’d both think that.
To answer: that’s exactly why I keep saying this potion is exclusive to Aiden.
His whole body’s already used to that cold.
For him, it’ll be like drinking lukewarm water.” I nodded, but a doubt lingered.
“There’s something I don’t get.
If his body’s already used to that concentration of cold, of magic why isn’t he waking up?” Triss looked at Yen.
Yen answered, thinking out loud.
“Because his body got strengthened naturally, sure but too violently.
All at once.
Imagine someone lands a massive punch straight to your gut, hard enough to knock you out cold.
It might make you stronger, long-term.
But how long do you stay unconscious after that?
Depends entirely on when the body decides to reboot.
That’s exactly what’s happening with Aiden.” I nodded, my stomach tightening a little.
“And these properties, then?
These abilities he’ll have?” Vesemir, behind Triss, spoke up.
“First off, know that the base recipe hasn’t really changed just a few ingredients, plus Aiden’s flower.
So he’ll have roughly the same qualities as any witcher, with a few notable exceptions.” Triss picked up from there: “You already know this, Geralt: you witchers are limited to the Signs, because the transformation blocks off almost all the rest of your magical potential.
For Aiden, it’ll be the opposite.
He’ll have the Signs, like any witcher Igni, for instance, among others but on top of that, he’ll be able to keep casting real magic, mostly anything tied to water.
From our research, mine and Yen’s, his affinity for ice and water is… we’ve genuinely never seen anything that high.” I glanced at Yen for confirmation.
She nodded.
“She’s right.
I’ve never seen that kind of natural talent for water magic.” Triss then pulled out a frozen, dead mouse, cradled in her palm.
“During our trials on a rat, we noticed something specific.
The old magic always tries to improve, to adapt.
Even seconds after death, the rat kept trying to live, to adapt, thanks to that magic.” She looked at Yen, a little excited by her own theory.
“So we’ve got a hypothesis.
Our current magic, the kind everyone uses…” Yen finished her sentence, a crooked smile on her lips: “…is an adapted version of the old magic.
It adapted to its environment, and in adapting, it degraded because it couldn’t manage both at once, improving AND adapting.
It sacrificed improvement to survive.” Triss nodded.
“Yeah, for now, it’s still a hypothesis.” She looked me straight in the eye.
“But basically, it means that in Aiden’s body, once he drinks this potion, both properties will stay permanently active continuous improvement, and adaptation.
The improvement will be slow.
Very slow.
Vesemir and I ran some numbers, still hypothetical, but roughly: each year, he’d gain about 0.5% more strength compared to a witcher who just finished his mutations.
You know how it works a witcher can still improve a bit through red, blue, or green mutagens from monsters, but that’s it, that’s the ceiling.
Him, though…” I finished her sentence, a little stunned: “He’ll keep improving.
In a hundred years.
And after that too.” For a second, the thought hit me out of nowhere: a century from now, I’d be long dead, and he’d still be there, still growing stronger.
I pushed the thought away.
She nodded, serious.
“Yes.
Aiden will become extremely powerful, over time.
But that’s not the most important part.” She looked at Vesemir, who picked up, grave.
“When we examined the rat since the formula’s still largely based on the classic Trial of the Grasses normally, it should have lost all ability to reproduce, like any witcher.
Except…” Triss finished the sentence, eyes fixed on me.
“Like we explained, the old magic always tries to adapt, to fix whatever it can.
We found it was actually correcting that fertility issue.
Plainly put: within a few years, Aiden will become the first fertile witcher in history.” I stayed quiet for a moment.
It had been years since I’d made peace with that, for myself without even really thinking about it most of the time.
Maybe that was part of why I liked being around these kids so much.
It made me feel… Anyway.
Don’t think about that.