Witcher: Sovereign of Magic

Late 1263, Sodden Hill, Temeria

Lytta Neyd was burning. Not literally, though the heat radiating from her own magic was intense. The world around her, however, was a raging inferno – fire, steel, and death. The stench of blood and smoke choked her lungs, a visceral reminder of the carnage, but she forced it aside, drawing deep from the well of her magic. Another surge of power rushed through her veins as she raised her hands, unleashing a storm of fire upon the Nilfgaardian ranks. Crimson flames engulfed the black-clad soldiers, their armor glowing red-hot before they collapsed into the mud, their screams momentarily piercing the din of battle.

She had lost count of how many she had killed. Each spell was a desperate act, a futile attempt to stem the tide. It didn't matter. The enemy was endless, a tide of black-clad warriors pressing forward, relentless, unstoppable. They were like locusts, swarming over the hill, their numbers seemingly inexhaustible. The screams of the dying surrounded her, their agony lost in the fury of battle, a symphony of despair. Somewhere behind her, Tissaia de Vries, her face grim, held the defensive lines, her lightning splitting the night sky as entire formations of Nilfgaardian knights crumbled under her power. But even Tissaia's formidable magic was beginning to falter.

It wasn't enough. Sodden Hill was falling. The mages had been the North's last hope—a desperate, final stand against an empire that seemed inevitable. They had come here knowing most of them wouldn't leave. They had come prepared to die, to buy time for the North.

And now? They were dying, one by one. Their sacrifices were becoming meaningless.

Lytta staggered, exhaustion gnawing at the edges of her focus. Her mana reserves were dwindling, her body screaming for rest, for respite from the constant strain of channeling magic. She turned, searching desperately across the battlefield for reinforcements—anyone still standing, anyone who could offer a glimmer of hope.

Nothing.

The hill was littered with bodies, soldiers and sorcerers alike, a grotesque tapestry of death. The remaining mages fought on with sheer desperation, their faces etched with pain, their spells growing weaker, flickering like dying embers. Hope was a distant memory.

They were alone. Outnumbered, outmatched, and running out of time. Nilfgaard was going to win. Sodden Hill was lost.

A scream tore through the chaos—one of their own. A cry of terror that chilled Lytta to the bone.

Lytta whirled, her heart pounding in her chest. Arden Valreth, one of the younger mages, barely out of training, his face pale and streaked with dirt and blood, had fallen to his knees. He had nothing left, no magic, no strength, just the raw terror of impending death. A Nilfgaardian soldier loomed over him, sword raised high, ready to deliver the killing blow.

No. Not Arden.

Lytta reached for a spell, a desperate attempt to intervene, but she was too slow. Her body wouldn't respond, her magic sluggish.

The blade began to fall—

And then, something impossible happened.

The air rippled, a distortion in the fabric of reality. A force unlike anything she had ever felt tore through the battlefield. It was magic—but not theirs. Not Northern magic. Not Nilfgaardian. Something else. Something alien.

The Nilfgaardian soldier froze mid-swing, his body jerking unnaturally, as if caught in some invisible snare. His eyes widened in confusion, then terror.

Then he was crushed. Not by a physical blow, but by something far more terrifying.

His armor crumpled inward, bones snapping like dry twigs, blood gushing from his mouth as an invisible force crushed the life from him. He collapsed, unmoving, a grotesque heap of armor and flesh.

Lytta's breath caught in her throat. She stared, speechless, trying to comprehend what she had just witnessed.

Arden was staring past her, his face pale, eyes wide with shock.

Slowly, hesitantly, she turned.

A man stood amidst the carnage, untouched by the chaos of battle. A mage—but not one she recognized. He was tall, clad in dark robes that seemed to absorb the light around him, his expression unreadable, his presence… wrong. The air around him vibrated with raw power, something ancient, something unnatural, something that made her skin crawl.

He shouldn't be here. He shouldn't exist. He radiated an aura of power that dwarfed anything she had ever encountered.

Her instincts screamed—fight or flee. But she was frozen, unable to move, trapped by the sheer intensity of his presence.

Before she could do either, he moved.

Faster than thought, faster than any spell she had ever seen, he stepped forward, reaching for Arden. Shadows curled around them both, swirling and coalescing like a living entity—

And then they were gone.

No teleportation sigil. No incantation. Just—nothing. As if the world itself had swallowed them whole.

And then it happened again. And again. And again.

Lytta wasn't the only one who saw it. Amid the chaos of battle, in the final moments of Sodden Hill, something—someone—was taking the mages. Not killing them. Taking them. One moment, they were fighting beside her, their faces grim, their spells faltering. The next, they were gone. No trace. No explanation. Only the impossible.

She knew death. She had seen her friends burn, had watched her fellow sorcerers die screaming, had felt the agony of defeat. But this? This was something else. Something far more unsettling.

And then, just as suddenly as it had begun—it stopped.

Nilfgaard fell back, their advance faltering, their momentum broken. The last of the defenders stood victorious, or what was left of them. Sodden Hill had been saved. Miraculously, impossibly saved.

But Lytta did not feel like they had won. The victory felt hollow, tainted by the inexplicable events she had witnessed.

Because deep down, she knew—something far greater than Nilfgaard had moved in the shadows that night. And she needed to find out what it was.

Early 1264, Castlevania, Velen

Lytta Neyd awoke in an unfamiliar place. The bed beneath her was too soft, too luxurious to belong to a battlefield infirmary. The air smelled of old books, of magic woven deep into the walls, a scent that spoke of ancient power and hidden knowledge.

She sat up sharply, hands already forming a spell, a defensive reflex honed by years of training and war—

"That won't be necessary," a voice said, cutting through her thoughts.

She froze. The voice was smooth, deep, and calm in a way that put her on edge. It was a voice that commanded attention, that exuded an aura of quiet power.

Her gaze darted to the figure seated in a high-backed chair near the fireplace. Him. The man from Sodden Hill. The one who had taken them. The one who had plucked them from the jaws of death.

Her pulse quickened, but she forced herself to stay composed. Assess. Adapt. Those were the survival skills she had learned at Sodden Hill, and she would need them now more than ever.

"Where am I?" she demanded, her voice steady despite the tremor in her heart.

"Somewhere safe," he replied, his gaze fixed on her, those unnervingly intelligent eyes seeming to see right through her.

"That's not an answer," she retorted, crossing her arms. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing her fear.

A pause. Then, a small, knowing smile played on his lips. "No, it's not."

Lytta clenched her fists. He was playing with her, toying with her fear and confusion.

"You took the others," she said, her voice hardening. "Arden. The mages who should have died at Sodden. You—"

"Saved them," he interrupted, his gaze piercing. "Would you have preferred they burned?"

She faltered. His words struck a nerve, a raw and painful truth.

"That's not the point," she whispered, the fight leaving her voice.

"Then what is?" he challenged.

She had no answer. Because, as much as she hated to admit it—he was right. The mages he had taken—Arden, the others—should have died. She had seen it. Felt it. Their magic fading, their lives slipping away. She had accepted their deaths.

And yet, they were here. Alive. Rescued from certain doom by this mysterious, unsettling man.

A chill ran through her. She wasn't sure whether to be grateful… or terrified. Perhaps both.

Swallowing hard, she met his gaze, trying to project an air of confidence she didn't feel. "Who are you?"

The man studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, finally, he stood, the air around him humming with restrained power, a subtle energy that made the hairs on her arms stand on end.

"I am the one who will ensure that magic does not die in this world," he said