Witcher: Sovereign of Magic

Early 1268, Castlevania, Velen

The world was fraying at the edges. Not with a grand, singular cataclysm, nor a decisive war, but through a thousand insidious fractures, each deepening, widening, pulling the world toward an inevitable breaking point. Nilfgaard's war hadn't yet engulfed the North, but its shadow stretched long and heavy, chilling every court, every whispered negotiation. The kings, those petty players on the grand stage, still squabbled and plotted, sending their men to die for causes they barely grasped. The Brotherhood of Sorcerers, once a monolithic power, was now a viper's nest of intrigue, division, and paranoia. Some mages clung to their royal patrons, others scurried into hiding, while a treacherous few played both sides, their magic for sale to the highest bidder.

And in the midst of this chaos, a legend was about to crumble. Geralt of Rivia. The White Wolf. The Butcher of Blaviken. The man who had walked the knife-edge between worlds, wrestled with monsters both literal and metaphorical, and stared down the barrel of fate itself. Now, on a nameless street in the ravaged city of Rivia, his story was about to reach its tragic, ignominious end.

Mid 1268, The Rivian Pogrom

Rivia was ablaze. Not with the fires of war, not the clash of armies, but with something far more primal, far more terrifying: madness. The people – peasants, artisans, merchants – had turned on their neighbors, consumed by a frenzy of fear, hatred, and bloodlust. Elves and dwarves, those scapegoats of human anxieties, were hunted down in the streets, butchered without trial, without reason, without mercy.

And at the heart of this maelstrom of violence, Geralt of Rivia lay dying. The White Wolf, as always, had fought back, a whirlwind of steel defending the defenseless. But even legends have their limits. A common pitchfork, wielded by a common man caught in the grip of uncommon madness, pierced his chest, a wound as symbolic as it was fatal.

Nearby, Yennefer of Vengerberg, her face streaked with tears and blood, knelt beside him, desperately channeling her magic, pushing herself beyond the limits of her considerable power. But even her potent enchantments were failing. The life was ebbing from him, the light fading from those golden eyes.

The world, or what remained of it, believed it was the end of their story. The Witcher, the sorceress, their fates sealed in the blood-soaked streets of Rivia. But I, observing from my fortified sanctuary, knew better. From my throne in Castlevania, I felt the subtle tremor in the weave of magic, the unnatural shift in the currents of fate. Something was amiss.

The world believed them dead. I knew they were gone, yes, but not lost. Not entirely. Because the Wild Hunt had begun to stir. And when the Wild Hunt rode, it meant that the world, already teetering on the brink, was about to be irrevocably changed.

Late 1268, The Wild Hunt Rides

I had dedicated years to deciphering the enigma of the Hunt. They were not mere phantoms, figments of folklore, nor were they simply spectral riders. They were something far more ancient, far more terrifying – predators from beyond the veil, hunters unbound by the constraints of time and dimension.

And now, they were on the move. Their quarry: Ciri, the Lion Cub of Cintra, the last scion of the Elder Blood.

She was elusive, a wraith slipping through my grasp, her power too volatile, too unpredictable to track. But the Hunt… they left a trail, a disturbance in the delicate fabric of magic itself, a ripple that resonated across realms.

From the highest tower of Castlevania, my senses, honed by years of disciplined training, stretched outward, probing the currents of magic that flowed through the world, seeking the telltale signs of their passage.

And then, I felt it. A tremor, a tear in the delicate membrane separating worlds. Something ancient, something powerful, crossing over. The Wild Hunt had set its sights on Ciri. They craved the power of the Elder Blood, the potential to unlock the secrets of time and space.

And if they succeeded… it would unravel everything I had painstakingly built. It was a contingency I had foreseen, a threat I could not, would not, allow to materialize.

But I could not intervene directly. Not yet. The timing had to be precise. Premature action would expose my hand, reveal my existence to forces that were not yet ready to comprehend my purpose.

So, I allowed the Hunt to roam, to sow terror and confusion in their wake, to distract the world with their terrifying spectacle. Because while they pursued Ciri, while the kingdoms trembled before their ghostly riders, I continued to wage my own war, a war fought in the shadows, a war for control of the very fabric of this fractured world.

Castlevania's Influence Spreads

The world remained blissfully unaware of Castlevania's growing influence. My machinations were subtle, my agents discreet. They were embedded in the courts of Redania, Temeria, Kaedwen, and Kovir, whispering in the ears of kings, manipulating the flow of information, subtly altering the course of events.

The Brotherhood of Sorcerers, though still outwardly powerful, was crumbling from within. Key figures, those who posed a potential threat to my plans, had met with… unfortunate accidents. Some perished in the escalating conflicts, others succumbed to mysterious ailments, while a few simply vanished without a trace, leaving behind only unanswered questions and lingering unease.

One particularly troublesome sorcerer, known for his vast library of arcane texts, had been found petrified in his own tower, his magic turned against him in a bizarre and inexplicable manner. His most valuable tomes, including a crucial treatise on interdimensional travel, were missing.

Another, a master of illusion and infiltration, simply ceased to exist. His opulent estate remained untouched, as if he had merely stepped out for a moment. But a single, ancient artifact, capable of masking magical signatures, was missing from his collection.

None of these deaths could be traced back to me. My homunculi were meticulous, their actions veiled in layers of plausible deniability. This was how true power was wielded. Not with grand armies and open declarations of war, but with whispers in the dark, with knowledge stolen before it could be weaponized, with enemies eliminated before they even knew they were targets.

King Vizimir's POV – The Whispers Grow Louder

Redania, Tretogor Castle, Late 1268

King Vizimir of Redania sat in his private study, his brow furrowed as he reread the report lying before him. The words were unsettling, disturbing.

"Castlevania."

The name had surfaced repeatedly in recent months, whispered by his spies, encoded in cryptic messages from his informants. It wasn't uncommon for rumors to circulate about hidden kingdoms, lost cities, ancient orders operating in the shadows. But this… this felt different.

Castlevania was real. Of that, Vizimir was becoming increasingly certain. And it was… active.

"Your Majesty," Philippa Eilhart's voice cut through his concentration. The Redanian king looked up, meeting the unnervingly perceptive gaze of his most trusted, and most dangerous, advisor.

Philippa rarely displayed emotion unless she chose to. And right now, her carefully neutral expression conveyed a sense of deep concern. That alone was enough to make Vizimir uneasy.

"You've heard the whispers," Vizimir stated, not bothering with pleasantries.

"Yes," Philippa replied, her tone crisp.

"Is it real?"

A pause, a flicker of uncertainty in her usually unwavering gaze. Then, for the first time, Philippa hesitated.

"I… don't know," she admitted.

That was more alarming than any confirmation. Philippa Eilhart was never unsure.

"My network of informants has picked up fragments of information," she continued, her voice regaining its usual sharpness. "Rumors of an academy hidden beyond any known border. Tales of sorcerers who answer to no king, no Brotherhood. And then there's the incident on the Yaruga."

Vizimir sighed, leaning back in his chair. The Yaruga. Five mages, their origins unknown, had decimated an entire Nilfgaardian battalion. No survivors. No witnesses. No trace of their allegiance.

"You suspect they were from Castlevania?" he asked.

Philippa's lips thinned. "I suspect," she said carefully, "that a new power is rising in the world. And if it isn't already our enemy… it soon will be."

Vizimir drummed his fingers on the armrest, a nervous tic. Redania was surrounded by enemies. Nilfgaard was the most immediate threat, but it was a known quantity, a danger he understood, a force he could (theoretically) measure and prepare for.

But Castlevania… an unknown enemy was the most dangerous kind.

"Find out everything you can," Vizimir commanded. "Leave no stone unturned."

Philippa's eyes gleamed with a predatory light. "My agents are already in motion," she said, a hint of anticipation in her voice.

"Good," Vizimir replied. "I don't like fighting wars in the dark."

Philippa's lips curved into a thin, almost cruel, smile. "Then you're not going to like what