Witcher: Sovereign of Magic

Early 1267, Cintra

War had come again. Nilfgaard had never truly abandoned its ambitions. The First Northern War had ended in a political stalemate, a fragile truce bought with blood and broken promises. But it had been nothing more than a testing ground, a brutal experiment. The Empire had measured the North's weaknesses, dissected its divisions, and now, it struck with chilling certainty, its forces honed and its strategies refined.

Temeria, Kaedwen, Redania—they had all been bracing for this moment, or so they claimed. They had fortified their borders, trained their men, secured alliances, or at least, alliances on paper.

And yet, they were not ready. They were complacent, lulled into a false sense of security by the brief respite.

Nilfgaard's black-clad legions marched across the Yaruga, a relentless tide of steel and fire, cutting through lands already broken and scarred from the previous war. In weeks, they had reabsorbed Cintra, its ruins transformed into an Imperial stronghold, a staging ground for further incursions. Their spies, insidious and patient, had worked for years to turn the North against itself, ensuring that when Nilfgaard finally unleashed its full might, the Northern Kingdoms would not, could not, stand as one.

And so, Temeria fought alone, its cries for aid echoing unanswered across the fractured North.

Kaedwen, ever cautious, held its own borders, its forces poised defensively, waiting to see which way the wind would blow before committing. Redania, ever treacherous, remained hesitant, its king Vizimir plotting and scheming from behind the thick stone walls of his castle, more concerned with internal power struggles than the encroaching enemy. Skellige, as always, did what it always did—raided both sides indiscriminately, caring little for the grand war that was unfolding, its longships prowling the coasts, preying on the weak and the vulnerable.

The Brotherhood of Sorcerers, fractured by internal politics and conflicting loyalties, had no unified stance. Some mages, bound by oaths or swayed by promises, fought alongside kings, their magic bolstering the ranks of mortal armies. Others, wiser or more cynical, hid in their towers, waiting to see who would emerge victorious before choosing a side, their neutrality a shield against the coming storm.

They all believed that the war would be fought on battlefields, with steel and fire, with grand armies clashing and kingdoms falling.

They were wrong.

Because while armies clashed on the plains, I had already begun my own war in the shadows, a war fought with whispers and secrets, with calculated strikes and unseen hands.

Mid 1267, Cintra

The first Nilfgaardian generals began dying.

It did not happen on the battlefield, amidst the clash of swords and the roar of cannons. It did not come with a declaration of war, a formal announcement of hostilities.

One never woke up, his lungs filled with blackened blood, the physicians baffled, no trace of poison found, no sign of forced entry. Just… death.

Another was lost at sea, his flagship vanishing into the night without a single distress call, swallowed by the waves as if it had never existed. Rumors of sea monsters and vengeful spirits spread among the sailors, fueling fear and superstition.

A third was found in his tent—dead, unmarked, untouched. The only sign of his passing was the look of pure terror frozen on his face, his eyes wide with an unspeakable horror.

The Empire hesitated, if only for a moment. A flicker of doubt, a seed of fear planted in the hearts of even the most hardened commanders.

They did not know who was responsible. The methods were too varied, too subtle, too… impossible.

The North, desperate for any sign of hope, believed their spies had finally struck a decisive blow, their long-awaited revenge finally being exacted.

Nilfgaard, ever suspicious, blamed its own inner corruption, the whispers of treachery and betrayal that plagued every court, every empire.

Neither of them suspected that Castlevania had struck first, a silent predator moving in the shadows, its fangs dripping with unseen venom.

This was how my war was fought. Not with banners, not with declarations, but with quiet deaths, whispers in the dark, and an enemy who would never know they had lost until it was too late, until the foundations of their power crumbled beneath them.

Late 1267, Yaruga River

The Yaruga River had always been a battlefield, a dividing line, a bloody border between civilizations. It was the last natural barrier before Nilfgaard's forces would flood into the North unopposed, a strategic point of immense importance.

A small Temerian village sat on its shores, insignificant in the grand scale of war, a collection of thatched huts and humble dwellings. Its people were simple—farmers, fishermen, merchants passing through, their lives untouched by the grand schemes of kings and emperors.

And it was about to be wiped from existence, deemed collateral damage in the grand strategy of war.

A Nilfgaardian battalion, fresh from their victories in the South, their ranks swollen with seasoned veterans, had been ordered to clear the village, to secure the crossing point and establish a foothold on the northern bank of the river.

They numbered five hundred, a seemingly unstoppable force.

Against them stood five.

Five of my mage-knights, fully trained, fully armed, their magic honed to a razor's edge. The first true warriors of Castlevania, the vanguard of my coming storm.

The Nilfgaardians laughed when they saw them, five figures standing defiantly against a sea of black armor.

"Five of you?" their commander sneered, his voice echoing across the river. "Against an army? You must be mad."

"More than enough," my mage-knights replied in unison, their voices calm, their eyes burning with an inner fire.

The battle lasted five minutes.

By the end, the village still stood, untouched by the carnage.

The Nilfgaardian bodies littered the riverbanks, burned, frozen, torn apart, their armor twisted and broken, their weapons scattered and useless. The river ran red with their blood.

And not a single one of my knights had fallen. They stood amidst the carnage, untouched, their robes pristine, their magic barely exerted.

The world still did not know who we were. But soon, it would.

Because this was only the beginning. A taste of what was to come.

King Foltest's POV, Temeria, Vizima Castle, Late 1267

King Foltest of Temeria sat upon his throne, his fingers tapping nervously against the armrest, his mind turning over rumors he could not ignore, whispers that were more terrifying than any Nilfgaardian army.

The war had begun again, a brutal, unforgiving dance of death. Nilfgaard marched, and Temeria was at the front lines, a shield against the encroaching darkness. His armies were strong, his commanders experienced, but even he, a king hardened by years of political intrigue and battlefield command, knew the truth: Temeria could not stand alone forever. The other Northern kingdoms were either too weak, too distracted, or too treacherous to offer meaningful support.

But that was not what troubled him most. No, what troubled him were the whispers, the rumors of something else, something far more dangerous, far more insidious than Nilfgaard.

"Another attack along the Yaruga?" he asked, his voice steady, calm, betraying none of the anxiety that gnawed at him.

His spymaster hesitated, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. That alone was unusual. The man was usually a master of composure, his face a mask of professional detachment.

"Yes, Your Majesty," the man admitted, his voice low. "But… there is something strange."

Foltest leaned forward, his interest piqued. "Strange how?"

"A Nilfgaardian battalion was… eradicated," the spymaster said, choosing his words carefully. "Wiped out. Completely. But not by our forces. Not by Redania. Not by any known faction."

Foltest frowned, his brow furrowing. "Skellige?" He had considered the possibility of a Skellige raid, but the scale of the destruction seemed too… precise.

"No," the spymaster confirmed. "Too organized. Too… magical."

"Elves?" The Scoia'tael were a constant threat, but they usually operated through guerrilla tactics, hit-and-run attacks.

"No, Your Majesty. This was… different."

The spymaster hesitated again, his gaze darting around the room, as if he expected someone to jump out of the shadows. Then, lowering his voice, he continued: "There are rumors of… mages. Five of them. They faced five hundred men and left not a single survivor. No prisoners. No wounded. Just… death."

Silence filled the chamber, a heavy, oppressive silence that seemed to amplify the whispers of fear in Foltest's heart.

Foltest exhaled slowly, his thoughts racing, trying to make sense of the impossible.

"Impossible," he muttered, more to himself than his spymaster. "Five mages cannot break an army. It's… strategically improbable."

"These ones did," his spymaster said grimly. "And the whispers… they're spreading. The men are terrified. They say… they say it wasn't a battle. It was a… a slaughter."

Foltest rose from his throne, his fingers pressing into the polished wood, his knuckles white with barely suppressed tension. He paced across the room, the weight of his crown feeling heavier than ever. Mages? An independent force of sorcerers, unaffiliated with the Brotherhood, capable of such a feat? It defied all logic, all conventional understanding of warfare. It was… unsettling. Deeply unsettling.

"Where did they come from?" he demanded, stopping abruptly and turning to face his spymaster.

His spymaster hesitated yet again, his eyes darting nervously towards the shadows in the corners of the room. "The same place as the other whispers, Your Majesty," he said carefully, his voice barely above a murmur. "A name keeps appearing in the shadows, a name that should not exist, a name that… chills the blood."

Foltest's eyes narrowed. He had heard that name whispered before, a fleeting shadow on the edge of his perception, a rumor too outlandish to believe. But now… now it was becoming increasingly difficult to dismiss.

"Say it," he commanded, his voice hardening.

The spymaster exhaled, his breath shuddering slightly. "Castlevania," he whispered, the name hanging in the air like a curse.

Foltest did not speak for a long time. He had heard that name once before, a whisper in the dark, a shadow within the war, a phantom no king had ever seen, but one too many feared to ignore. It was a name associated with impossible feats of magic, with whispers of ancient powers and hidden agendas. A name that inspired both awe and terror.

"Find out what you can," Foltest said finally, his voice low, his gaze fixed on some unseen point in the distance. He felt a cold dread creeping into his heart. This was no ordinary threat. This was something… different.

"And if this… Castlevania is real?" his spymaster asked, his voice trembling slightly. "If it's not just a myth, but a… a power?"

Foltest's lips curled into a grim smile, a smile that held no mirth, only a chilling resolve. He knew the answer to that question, even if he didn't want to admit it.

"Then we will need to decide, soon," he said, his voice hard, "whether it is a friend to Temeria… or its most dangerous enemy." He paused, his gaze hardening. "And if it is the latter… we will need to find a way to destroy it. Before it destroys us all."

He turned back to the window, staring out at the darkened city, his mind racing, trying to comprehend the implications of this new, unknown power. He was a king, a warrior, a strategist. He understood politics, he understood warfare. But this… this was something beyond his understanding. This was magic, raw and untamed, a force of nature that could not be controlled, only feared.

He felt a shiver run down his spine. He had faced down Nilfgaardian armies, he had weathered political storms, he had survived countless threats. But Castlevania… Castlevania was something else entirely. It was a shadow in the night, a whisper in the dark, a force that could unravel kingdoms and reshape the world. And he knew, with a chilling certainty, that his reign, his kingdom, his very existence, might depend on how he dealt with this new, terrifying power.