When Alvin saw the system prompt, he let out a long breath of relief.
Vries returned the parchment scroll to the bookshelf and glanced at Alvin’s excited eyes.
There was no need to read his mind.
She already knew he had memorized all of it.
The sunlight on the mahogany table had shifted to the corner.
Vries looked out the window.
The sky was darkening quickly.
“Today’s guidance ends here.
I’ve opened the door to magic for you.
How far you go from here depends on you.”
“But remember, this meditation method is extremely valuable.
Without my permission, you must not teach it to anyone.”
Alvin came back to himself at once and bowed in an Apprentice’s salute, his voice full of gratitude.
“I understand.
Thank you, Lady Vries.
I will honor this promise.
I wish you good health.”
Vries’s lips curved slightly.
“You as well.”
…
Not long after Alvin left, the sky soon grew dark.
Vries raised a hand and lit the magical chandelier overhead.
Soft light filled the room.
Suddenly, she looked toward the wooden door.
No footsteps came from the corridor, but she knew a guest had arrived.
“Knock, knock…”
The knock followed immediately.
Vries closed the book on the table and said clearly, “Come in.”
The door slowly opened, and a tall man stepped inside.
The man had an aged face, short gray-white hair brushed back behind his head, and a wolf-head medallion hanging over his chest.
The wolf-head medallion began to tremble the moment he entered the room, but the movement was extremely faint, so faint it was almost impossible to notice, as if some invisible hand were forcibly holding it still.
As a Master Witcher, Vesemir naturally sensed the medallion’s reaction.
His amber cat eyes looked warily at the woman seated behind the red desk.
Vries leaned back in her wooden chair and settled into a more comfortable position.
“Well, let me see who it is.
Master Vesemir of the School of the Wolf.
What brings you to my door?”
Vesemir heard the teasing in her tone, but he did not get angry.
He only frowned slightly and reached back to close the door behind him.
“In your presence, I would not dare call myself a Master.”
Vries gave a soft snort.
The hood over her head dissolved into starlight, revealing waterfall-like black hair and dignified features.
A golden necklace appeared silently at her chest, its red gemstone gleaming with an eerie light.
With those lacquer-black eyes, she looked Vesemir over with lofty composure.
Every movement carried nobility and ease.
If any young Mage or Sorceress saw her like this, they would certainly cry out in astonishment.
Vesemir bowed.
“Esteemed…”
“Lady Vries.
Here, just call me Vries.
As for those empty titles, there is no need to mention them.”
Vesemir drew a breath.
He was not used to such worldly etiquette either.
“It is an honor to meet you, Lady Vries.”
Vries nodded in response.
“Likewise, Witcher.”
“I wonder why you came to see me.
Are you afraid I’ll carry off your little Witcher?”
“You can set your mind at ease.
I don’t share your custom of picking up children wherever I go.”
Vesemir paid no mind to Vries’s aggressive attitude.
One could even say he was long used to it.
He continued, “That isn’t why.
I came here with only one question.
Why would a Mage who has always despised Witchers come to Kaer Morhen, the witchers’ fortress, and stay for two whole months?”
Vries sat up slightly, her expression turning serious.
“The witchers’ fortress?
Have you forgotten that Kaer Morhen comes from the Elder Speech, Caer a’Muirehen, the Keep of the Elder Sea?
In ancient times, this place lay beneath a vast sea.
It was the elves who built it.”
Vesemir stared at her.
As the current head of Kaer Morhen, of course he knew these things.
Vries changed tack.
“You’re right.
Mages despise Witchers.”
“I do as well.
I have always believed you to be failed products of mutation experiments, mutated killers fit only for slaughtering monsters.”
“Your cruelty once made me sick.
Look at the road leading here.
How many corpses are buried beneath it?”
“How many of them were enemies, and how many were your apprentices?”
“And you even gave it such a grand name: ‘Killer’s Trail.'”
Vesemir’s cat eyes darkened.
Vries rose to her feet.
“Still, you are not entirely stubborn.
At least you didn’t turn me away.”
Vesemir muttered inwardly.
Turn you away?
You teleported straight into the hall of Kaer Morhen.
How were we supposed to refuse?
Vesemir knew some apprentices called him the living fossil of the School of the Wolf.
But he was nothing compared to the woman before him.
Her age could only be called ancient.
She was one of those closest to the legendary Mages of old.
Even Alzur, the founder who created the Witchers, would have to show her a measure of respect.
Who would dare refuse such a being?
And who could?
Seeing Vesemir’s guarded stance, Vries shook her head with a smile.
“Vesemir, I’m not coveting your mysterious mushrooms or mutation formulas.”
“Besides, you should thank me.
If I remember correctly, the success rate of the Trial of the Grasses is only thirty or forty percent.”
“And this time, with my assistance, six of the seven apprentices survived, didn’t they?”
Vesemir said in a low voice, “That is correct.
Thank you for coming from so far away to help.”
Vries raised a hand.
“Spare me the barbed tone.”
“Since you want to know why I came here, I can tell you.”
“Do you know Ithlinne’s Prophecy?”
“Ithlinne…” Vesemir thought for a moment.
“That legendary elven seer?
The Prophecy of White Frost?”
Vries spoke clearly, each word carrying a distinct rhythm that stirred the heart, as though she were reciting a poem.
“The time of the Sword and Axe, the Time of Contempt, is soon to come.
Then the leaves shall fall, the buds shall wither, the fruit shall rot, the seed shall turn bitter, and the clear waters of the valleys shall freeze into solid ice.
The White Frost shall come, and after it the White Light; and the world shall perish amid wind and snow.”
After hearing this, Vesemir felt a wave of irritation.
For centuries, elven prophets and northern priests had cried the end of the world countless times, and how many races had kings destroyed using such words as an excuse?
The creed of the School of the Wolf was to remain neutral.
They had always kept their distance from talk of the world’s end.
A Witcher believed only in the sword in his hand.
If he had not been standing before this legendary Sorceress, he would certainly have stuck a finger in his ear.
Vries saw the disbelief in Vesemir’s eyes and simply said, “Ithlinne’s Prophecy is true.
I saw it with my own eyes, at the College of Aretuza, in Ithlinne’s portrait in the Gallery of Glory.”
“That night, I was making my usual rounds through the Gallery of Glory.
Then I fell into a vision.
In it, just as Ithlinne said, frost swept across the world and destroyed it.
All life was to be buried.”
“Until someone appeared.
I couldn’t see that person’s face.
I only knew they existed beyond the world, carrying the Silver Sword.
They cut through the frost and brought life back to the world.”
Vesemir suddenly looked up, astonishment flashing through his eyes.
“Existed beyond the world, carrying the Silver Sword?
You mean a Witcher?”
Vries walked to the window and looked at the stars gradually appearing in the sky.
“I don’t know…”