Rhoen had spent several days at Crow’s Perch and had already figured out its entire layout.
Crow’s Perch stood atop a limestone rise, commanding the surrounding land.
At its base ran a thick wooden palisade and a moat.
There was only one way into the fortress: a timber bridge at the entrance to the village, built from heavy logs fastened together with iron spikes.
From there, the road climbed steadily uphill.
The houses on either side gradually gave way to stone walls and watchtowers, and at the top of the slope stood the baron’s castle.
It was a medium-sized fortress built of red brick, divided into three tiers.
The lowest level was where the commoners and merchants gathered.
The blacksmith’s workshop and the stables were both crammed into this section, where the ground remained a permanent layer of mud mixed with horse manure.
The middle tier housed the barracks.
The baron’s soldiers lived there, while weapon racks and the training yard occupied most of the open space.
The uppermost tier was the baron’s private residence.
Its heavy oak doors remained shut year-round.
On his very first day, Rhoen had already reached a conclusion.
It was a fortress that was easy to defend and difficult to assault, but beyond controlling the surrounding villages, it held no real strategic value.
To the east lay marshes.
To the west stretched dense forests.
There were no proper roads leading north or south.
The Nilfgaardian commander had abandoned the siege not because the fortress couldn’t be taken, but because the cost simply outweighed the reward.
Today, Rhoen had left his Household Knights behind and wandered through Crow’s Perch alone.
Not far away was a neglected little garden.
A low stone wall enclosed it, its top overgrown with wild vines dotted by a few small white blossoms.
The garden itself was modest, but the weeds had been pulled, the pebbled paths had been relaid, and several clusters of unnamed shrubs had been carefully trimmed.
A row of roses grew along the wall.
Their blooming season was nearly over, and the edges of the petals had already begun to brown, though they still clung stubbornly to the stems.
Several medicinal herbs grew in one corner, filling the air with the scents of sage and rosemary.
The whole of Crow’s Perch smelled of horse manure, stone, and mud.
This tiny patch of land, no bigger than an outstretched hand, was the only place that someone had clearly taken the time to care for.
Rhoen sat down on a stone bench, resting his battle axe beside his leg.
An elderly woman was bent over one of the flowerbeds, pulling weeds.
Her hair was streaked with gray and tightly tied into a bun at the back of her head.
She wore an old grayish-blue smock.
The fabric wasn’t particularly fine, and the cuffs had faded from wear, but it had been washed meticulously clean.
When she looked up, Rhoen saw a pair of green eyes.
Their color remained strikingly clear, yet the corners were lined with deep wrinkles.
She was only in her forties, but she looked as though she had been old for a very long time.
She noticed Rhoen, straightened up, rested one hand on the low wall surrounding the flowerbed, and wiped the other on her apron.
“You’re the new Sergeant, aren’t you?” she said.
It wasn’t a question.
Rhoen nodded.
“Just passing through.
Thought I’d sit for a while.”
The old woman didn’t press him for more.
She simply shifted her basket to one side and continued pulling weeds.
“I’ve tended this garden with my own hands,” she said without looking up, as though she were speaking to the flowers themselves.
“Not many people can keep roses alive in Velen.
The soil isn’t right, and neither is the water.
It’s simply not a place suited for such delicate plants.”
Rhoen looked at the row of roses.
Their petals had browned at the edges, but the stems and leaves were a healthy dark green, free of insect damage or signs of withering. This chapter is updated first at g.com.
“You know how to care for them.”
“I’ve been growing flowers for twenty years,” the old woman replied.
“Back at our old home, I had a much larger garden.
After I followed my husband here, this little patch was all I had left.”
Her hand paused at the base of one rosebush as she gently brushed away the soil, checking its roots.
“He never used to touch my flowers.
Then one day, after we had an argument, he smashed every flowerpot I owned.”
Rhoen fell silent for a moment.
“I’m sorry.”
Just then, footsteps came from the garden entrance.
A young woman stood beside the iron gate, dressed in a dark cotton dress.
She had brown hair.
She was very young, perhaps not even twenty yet.
There was still a trace of youthful softness lingering in her face.
But she didn’t stand like a young girl.
Her back was perfectly straight, her chin slightly tucked, as though she had long since learned to make herself as small as possible.
“Mother,” she called.
The old woman brushed the dirt from her knees, picked up the basket, and followed the young woman back toward the castle.
Before turning away, the young woman glanced at Rhoen.
Her gaze lingered on him for a moment, as though seeing someone who looked so completely out of place in Crow’s Perch had instinctively made her take a second look.
Then she disappeared around the corner.
Rhoen remained seated.
The woman was Anna Strenger, the baron’s wife.
The young woman was Tamara, the baron’s daughter.
In the original storyline, Anna would be cursed, and Tamara would join the Witch Hunters before ultimately rescuing her mother from the swamp herself.
But that was still a story for the future.
That afternoon, as Rhoen passed by the garden again, he found Tamara sitting alone on the stone bench.
Hearing his footsteps, she looked up.
Still seated, she tilted her head back and studied him for quite a while.
There was nothing shy about her stare—it was direct, unabashed, openly sizing him up.
Her eyes first fell on the two-handed battle axe resting beside him, its blade larger than her head.
Then she looked over his lamellar armor before her gaze drifted back to the axe.
Unable to contain her curiosity, she asked, “Big guy, where are you from?”
“Calradia.”
She frowned.
She had heard her father’s men talking about the newly arrived Sergeant and the cavalry under his command.
But none of them had ever mentioned where he came from.
“So where’s that?”
“A distant continent.”
“Then how did you get here?”
“A storm.
A shipwreck.”
She stood up and took two steps closer, her eyes lighting up.
“Can you tell me about it?
I’ve never been farther than Vizima.
Tell me about Calradia—a distant land I’ve never seen.”
Rhoen looked at her.
He simply shifted his battle axe aside, resting the blade off to one side.
He began with the Khuzaits.
He told her of the endless grasslands where the wind swept across the plains, and how the earth itself trembled when cavalry charged over the horizon.
Khuzait riders could loose arrows from horseback without steadying themselves with their hands, controlling their mounts with nothing but their knees.
Then he spoke of the Nords and their frozen coast, hemmed in by snow-covered mountains.
They chopped holes through the ice to fish, and the prows of their ships were carved into the heads of dragons.
Tamara blinked, as though picturing the dragon-headed ships in her mind.
Next came the deserts of the Aserai.
For thousands of years, Aserai merchants had crossed the endless sands.
The location of every oasis was a secret passed only from father to son.
Their cities were built from sun-baked bricks, and at sunset, their walls glowed like gold.
Then there were the endless snowfields of Sturgia.
The Sturgians trekked through waist-deep snow clad in bearskins, and their cavalry could march across rivers frozen solid.
Tamara listened intently.
She rested her chin in one hand, her elbow on her knee, leaning forward slightly.
“I want to see the world beyond Velen someday.”
She spoke so softly that it sounded as though she were talking to herself.
After a long silence, her gaze drifted away from Rhoen and toward the dull gray sky beyond the garden wall.
The sky over Velen was always like this.
Either heavy clouds or thick fog.
The sun was a rare sight.
Rhoen watched her profile.
He wanted to ask why she couldn’t leave.
But he never did.
It wasn’t because he didn’t want to know.
He had already found the answer in her silence.
Just then, heavy footsteps echoed from the garden entrance.
The baron strode in carrying a jug of ale.
His face was flushed red, his hair was a mess, and he reeked of sour beer.
He had clearly been drinking for quite some time.
A smile hung on his face, but it looked forced, as though he had only just dragged himself out of some unpleasant ordeal.
When Tamara saw him, a complicated expression flashed across her face.
It disappeared almost as quickly as it appeared.
She rose to her feet.
“I’m going to check on the kitchen.”
She headed toward the castle gate.
As she passed the baron, she didn’t even look at him.
The baron opened his mouth as though to call after her, but swallowed the words instead.
He merely kicked an empty flowerpot lying at his feet.
Then he turned toward Rhoen and glared at him.
“Hey!
You, boy!”
He jabbed a finger at Rhoen’s chest, as though he wanted to poke straight through him.
“Don’t you dare get any ideas about my daughter.
You hear me?”