Witcher: Sovereign of Magic

Early 1270, Castlevania, Velen

Geralt of Rivia had returned from the dead. The world, consumed by its own internal strife and the ever-present threat of Nilfgaard, remained oblivious to the significance of this resurrection. But I… I understood. From my throne in Castlevania, my senses, honed to an unnatural sharpness, stretched across the ravaged landscape, feeling the subtle tremor in the currents of fate.

Geralt of Rivia – the White Wolf, the Butcher of Blaviken, the Witcher whose name was whispered in awe and fear – had vanished two years prior. Presumed dead, his return was a violation of the natural order, a defiance of death itself. Yet, here he was, flesh and blood, breathing once more. Changed, yes, altered in ways I was only beginning to comprehend, but undeniably alive.

And that… that was what held my attention.

Kaer Morhen, The Witcher's Keep

The ancient halls of Kaer Morhen, usually echoing with the clang of steel and the gruff laughter of Witchers, had fallen silent long ago. Snow drifted through broken windows, blanketing the dust-covered floors. It was a place of ghosts, a monument to a dying breed. Where once hundreds of Witchers had trained and honed their skills, now only a handful remained, clinging to the fading embers of their order. The old masters were gone, claimed by age, battles, and the ever-encroaching darkness. The trials, the agonizing rituals that transformed boys into Witchers, had ceased. The world believed that the age of Witchers was over.

They were wrong. And I, perhaps more than anyone, knew why. My agreement with the Witchers, the resources I had provided in exchange for their… cooperation… had ensured the continuation of their order. A new generation of Witchers had been forged, their loyalty, though unspoken, bound to me through the very resources that sustained them.

Geralt arrived at Kaer Morhen, half-dead, carried by companions who themselves seemed bewildered by his miraculous survival. His body was healed, miraculously restored, but his mind… that was another story. His memories, the tapestry of his life, had been ripped away, leaving behind gaping holes, fragments of skill and instinct floating in a sea of confusion. He knew his name, he knew how to fight, how to wield his signs, how to kill the monsters that haunted the world. But the context, the why, the who… those were lost, swallowed by an amnesia that was as profound as it was unnatural.

And that was what piqued my interest. Whatever had stolen his memories, whatever dark force had pulled him back from the other side… it was not of this world.

Early 1270, Castlevania, Velen

I had dedicated years to studying the Wild Hunt, those spectral riders who haunted the fringes of reality. To the common folk, they were boogeymen, figures of myth and legend, used to frighten children into obedience. But I knew the truth.

The Wild Hunt was real. More than real. It was a transdimensional force, a pack of cosmic predators that hunted prey far more significant than any man, elf, or dwarf. They sought something beyond mortal comprehension, something that resonated with the very fabric of magic.

And they had been searching for Ciri, the Lion Cub of Cintra, the heiress to the Elder Blood.

I had tracked their movements, felt their presence like a chill wind, followed the ripples they left in the Veil between worlds.

And now, somehow, Geralt of Rivia had become entangled in their hunt.

For two years, he had been gone, vanished without a trace. For two years, he had been nowhere, existing perhaps in some liminal space between worlds.

And now, he had returned. But at what cost? What price had he paid for this resurrection? And, more importantly, what did it mean for my own plans?

Mid 1270, Castlevania

Uncertainty was a luxury I could not afford. Geralt was a wild card, a variable whose influence could not be predicted. And wild cards were dangerous unless they were understood, controlled.

So, I dispatched my agents. A small cadre of shadow mages, skilled in the arts of concealment, disguise, and espionage, slipped into the shadows of Kaedwen, Redania, and Temeria. Their orders were simple: observe Geralt, track his movements, identify his allies, and discern what, if anything, he remembered.

But they were not to interfere. Not yet.

If Geralt was truly just a broken man, a lost soul struggling to piece together a shattered past, then he was of little consequence.

But if he was something more… if he was a pawn in a larger game, a conduit for forces beyond my current understanding… then I needed to know. And I would decide what to do with him.

Late 1270, Vizima

Beyond the isolated sanctuary of Kaer Morhen, the world was already ablaze with conflict and intrigue.

Vizima, the heart of Temeria, was rotting from within. King Foltest, a man clinging desperately to power, ruled over a kingdom riddled with corruption, where nobles whispered of rebellion and the Order of the Flaming Rose, once a symbol of righteous protection, was descending into fanaticism.

And in the labyrinthine slums of Vizima, a new power was stirring. Salamandra. A rogue faction of criminals and mages, operating in the shadows, growing stronger, exploiting the weaknesses of the crumbling Brotherhood of Sorcerers.

Salamandra was too volatile, too undisciplined, an organization built on ambition but lacking vision. They were destined to make a mistake.

And soon, they would. They would cross paths with Geralt of Rivia.

And when they did, I would be watching closely. Because a man's true nature is not revealed in times of peace. It is revealed in battle.

Late 1270, Kaer Morhen

The attack was swift and brutal.

Kaer Morhen, the last bastion of the Witchers, was violated, its ancient defenses breached by Salamandra's forces. They came not to destroy the keep, but to steal its secrets.

The mutagens. The alchemical formulae that transformed ordinary boys into Witchers, granting them superhuman speed, strength, and reflexes. Salamandra sought to replicate the Trials, to create their own army of enhanced warriors, twisted and corrupted, loyal only to them. They believed they had acquired the complete formula, the key to unlocking the power of the Witchers. They were mistaken. The formula they stole… it was outdated, incomplete, a flawed version of the true process.

But they had underestimated Geralt. And they had underestimated the new generation of Witchers, the ones trained under the watchful eyes of Vesemir, Eskel, Lambert, and Coën. My investment in Kaer Morhen had paid off.

He fought with the ferocity of a cornered beast, a whirlwind of steel cutting down Salamandra's mercenaries and mages with brutal efficiency. The newly forged Witchers fought beside him, their enhanced abilities, the result of my provided resources, proving their worth. And, subtly, amongst the ranks of the Kaer Morhen defenders, were a few… specialized individuals, agents of Avalon, ensuring that Salamandra's theft would ultimately prove to be a poisoned chalice. They ensured that Salamandra would be successful in acquiring the formula, but also that its flaws would be catastrophic.

Together they managed to repel the invaders. But not before Salamandra had seized what they craved.

They had the incomplete formulae. And now, they would unleash their own brand of terror upon the world… a terror that would ultimately backfire spectacularly.

From my vantage point, my spies relayed every detail of the attack, the losses, the stolen secrets.

And I made my decision. Salamandra had overstepped. Their ambitions had spiraled out of control, and they now possessed a power they were not worthy of wielding, a power that was inherently flawed.

I would let them believe they had won. But in truth, they had just signed their own death warrant.

Geralt left Kaer Morhen, his path laid out before him, his mind focused on vengeance. He would go to Vizima, hunt down Salamandra, and uncover the truth behind their operations.

He believed he was acting independently, a lone wolf carving his own destiny. He did not yet understand the world he had returned to. He did not yet understand the forces that were moving him, the subtle manipulations that guided his steps.

Because I was already manipulating the pieces on the board. Salamandra had made its move, a move I had subtly orchestrated. The Brotherhood was weakened, ripe for the picking. The North was teetering on the precipice of total collapse.

And soon, Avalon would tighten its grip on the world.

For now, I would allow Geralt to play his part. But when the time was right… I would reveal the truth.

That the age of kings and emperors was coming to an end.

And that Avalon… would be what came next.