Witcher: Sovereign of Magic

The ink on the agreement was barely dry, yet the wheels were already turning. My homunculi, ever efficient, had begun the flow of resources towards Kaer Morhen. Timber, stone, and skilled laborers arrived in a steady stream, bolstering the keep's defenses and repairing the ravages of time and neglect. Alchemical ingredients, rare herbs, and other supplies crucial for the Witcher trials also made their way to the mountain stronghold. I had upheld my end of the bargain – now it was time for the Witchers to fulfill theirs.

Within the walls of Kaer Morhen, a renewed sense of purpose had taken hold. The older Witchers, Vesemir, Eskel, Lambert, and Coën, now bore the added responsibility of training a new generation. The weight of tradition, the legacy of their kind, rested on their shoulders. They knew the trials ahead would be arduous, demanding both physically and mentally. They also knew that the future of the Witchers, perhaps even the future of the North, depended on their success.

"So," Vesemir said, his voice echoing through the training yard, "let's see what you're made of." He gestured towards a series of obstacles – climbing walls, rope bridges, and a gauntlet of swinging logs. "This is just the beginning. We're looking for strength, agility, and a will to survive. Those who can't keep up… well, they won't last long."

A group of boys, ranging in age from perhaps ten to fourteen, stood nervously before the assembled Witchers. They were a motley crew, some wide-eyed with fear, others trying to project an air of bravado. They were the chosen ones, brought to Kaer Morhen through the vagaries of fate and the Law of Surprise.

"Remember," Coën growled, his scarred face grim, "pain is temporary. Weakness is not. Push yourselves. Prove you deserve to be here."

The training was brutal. The boys ran until their lungs burned, climbed until their fingers bled, and sparred until they collapsed from exhaustion. The Witchers, hardened by years of combat, showed no mercy. They sought to weed out the weak, to find those with the strength and the will to endure the trials to come.

"Faster!" Lambert yelled, cracking a whip in the air. "Come on, you slugs! Are you trying to move like a snail?"

One boy, no older than twelve, stumbled and fell, his knee twisted at an awkward angle. He cried out in pain.

"Get up!" Eskel barked. "No time for tears. Pain is your teacher. Learn from it."

The boy, his face contorted with pain, struggled to his feet. He limped onward, determined to prove himself.

"This is madness," one of the younger boys whispered to another, his voice trembling. "I can't… I can't do this."

"Shut up," the other boy hissed. "Just keep going. If we quit, they'll just throw us to the wolves."

Amidst the physical challenges, the recruits also began to learn the basics of swordsmanship, studying under the watchful eyes of the veteran Witchers.

"Swords are not toys," Vesemir said, his voice patient but firm. "They are tools. Tools of death. Respect them. Learn how to use them. Or they will become your undoing."

The boys practiced with wooden swords, their movements clumsy and awkward at first. But with each passing day, they grew more confident, their swings becoming more precise, their footwork more fluid.

"Remember the stance," Coën instructed, demonstrating a complex series of movements. "Balance, precision, power. It's all connected."

The boys struggled to mimic his movements, their bodies aching, their muscles screaming in protest.

"Again!" Coën yelled. "And this time, put some force into it!"

Vesemir, ever the scholar, also oversaw the recruits' education in the lore of monsters.

"Know your enemy," he said, his voice echoing through the library. "Understand its weaknesses. Its habits. Its motivations. Knowledge is your greatest weapon."

The boys pored over ancient tomes, studying bestiaries, learning the habits and vulnerabilities of the creatures they would one day hunt.

"Ghouls are attracted to decay," Vesemir explained. "They are weak to fire. And they are surprisingly intelligent. Never underestimate them."

The training was relentless, designed to break the recruits, to push them beyond their perceived limits. Some faltered, unable to withstand the pressure, succumbing to injury, exhaustion, or simply the crushing weight of despair. Others, however, thrived, their bodies and minds growing stronger with each passing day. They were the ones who would become Witchers.

"They're getting stronger," Eskel observed, watching the boys spar. "They might actually survive the Trials."

"Don't get ahead of yourself," Lambert cautioned. "The Trials are a different beast altogether. We've lost good boys to the mutations."

"It's a necessary risk," Vesemir said. "The world needs Witchers. And these boys… they have the potential."

The time finally arrived for the Trial of the Grasses. The recruits, now hardened by months of brutal training, stood before the assembled Witchers, their faces etched with a mixture of fear and anticipation. They knew what lay ahead – the mutagenic concoctions, the agonizing transformations, the uncertain outcome.

"This is it," Coën said, his voice grave. "The final test. The trial by fire. Some of you will become Witchers. Some of you… won't."

The trial was a dark ritual, steeped in ancient magic. The recruits were subjected to a series of alchemical concoctions, each designed to trigger specific mutations. Some would survive the process, their bodies adapting to the changes, their senses heightened, their strength enhanced. Others would succumb, their bodies unable to withstand the magical forces unleashed within them.

The process was agonizing to watch. The recruits writhed in pain, their bodies contorting, their screams echoing through the halls of Kaer Morhen. The Witchers watched impassively, their faces betraying no emotion. They had witnessed this ritual countless times before, but it never ceased to be a harrowing experience.

When the ordeal was over, the survivors emerged, changed forever. Their eyes now gleamed with the characteristic golden hue of a Witcher, their bodies bearing the marks of their transformation. They were no longer boys. They were Witchers. They were also bound to the Witcher order, not just by tradition, but by the very magic that coursed through their veins.

Twenty new Witchers had been created, ten from the Wolf School, ten from the Griffin School. They were stronger, faster, more resilient than ordinary men. They were ready to face the monsters that roamed the world, ready to protect the innocent, ready to uphold the Witcher tradition. They were a force to be reckoned with. And they were a force that I had helped to create. A force that, in its own way, would serve my larger, more subtle, purposes.