Witcher: Sovereign of Magic

1273, White Orchard

"I remember that scent."

Vesemir's voice was calm, but Geralt could hear the weight behind it. Lilac and gooseberries. It wasn't in the air, not here—not in the war-torn fields of White Orchard, where the scent of damp earth and burning wood clung to everything. But when he thought of Yennefer, when he tried to picture her, that was the scent that came to mind. It was the scent of memories, of past mistakes, of something just out of reach.

"We've been searching for weeks," Vesemir continued, adjusting his grip on the reins. "We find Nilfgaardians, we find ghouls, we find war. But no Yennefer."

Geralt exhaled slowly, guiding Roach down the dirt path. "She's out there." He knew it. Not because of magic, not because of destiny. Because this was Yennefer—and she always left a trail. Even when she didn't want to be found.

"Her magic leaves a residue," Geralt said, more to himself than Vesemir. "Like a whisper in the wind. Faint, but there."

Vesemir nodded. "Aye. But the wind shifts, Geralt. And whispers can be misleading."

"Then we follow the whispers," Geralt replied.

1272, Castlevania – A Spy in the Shadows

The Nilfgaardian agent, codenamed "Raven," moved through the lower districts of Castlevania, his footsteps careful, his heartbeat steady despite the unnatural hum of magic in the air. He had been sent to confirm one thing—whether this hidden city was real or just another rumor whispered in war camps. But what he found? It should not exist.

The streets were too clean, too structured, filled with people who shouldn't even be alive. He passed mages walking openly, elves who should have been driven into hiding, homunculi—artificial beings that should have been nothing more than failed alchemical experiments. This wasn't just a refuge. It was something else.

"By the Emperor's grace," Raven muttered under his breath, "it's real."

He continued his reconnaissance, noting the architecture, the symbols, the palpable sense of power that permeated the very air. He saw things that defied explanation: flickering portals leading to unknown locations, constructs of pure energy moving silently through the streets, and whispers of experiments conducted in the Alchemical Halls – experiments that made his blood run cold.

"This… this is beyond anything I could have imagined," Raven thought, his mind reeling. "This changes everything."

And then, he felt it. A presence. Someone watching him. The air grew heavier. The shadows seemed to stretch. And in that moment, he knew—He had been caught. And whoever had caught him? Was letting him know that he would not leave unchanged.

1272, Novigrad – Radovid's Growing Suspicion

"Mages are vanishing." Radovid sat back in his throne, hands clasped before him as his unnamed spy laid out yet another report filled with nothing but shadows and dead ends.

"Not dead?" he asked, voice deceptively calm.

"No, Your Majesty," the spy admitted, his face grim. "They're simply… disappearing. One moment, they're in hiding. The next, there's no trace of them. No bodies. No signs of struggle. It's as if they were plucked from existence."

Radovid's jaw tightened. This wasn't just the work of Nilfgaard. This wasn't just scattered sorceresses running for their lives. Someone was moving them. Hiding them.

"And what of the rumors?" Radovid asked, his eyes narrowed. "The whispers of a hidden city, a place where magic thrives?"

The spy hesitated. "They are whispers, Your Majesty. Tales told by frightened peasants."

"But what if they're not?" Radovid pressed. "What if there is a place where these mages are being taken? A place where they are being shielded from the righteous fire of the Eternal Fire?"

The spy shifted uncomfortably. "It would be… a significant threat, Your Majesty."

"A threat we must eliminate," Radovid declared. "Find them," he ordered. "Find whoever is keeping them safe. And when you do—" He smiled coldly. "Burn them with the rest."

1272, Velen – The Witch Hunter's Last Hunt

Captain Alric of the Eternal Fire had hunted many mages. He had dragged sorceresses from their homes, watched them beg for mercy, listened to the crackling flames as they screamed in the town squares. Magic was a disease. And he had been its cure. But tonight, he was the one being hunted.

He had followed the rumors—stories of a place where magic thrived, where no witch hunter dared step, where even the bravest Nilfgaardian scouts went missing. And when he arrived at a nameless village in Velen, he found nothing. No mages. No rebels. No traces of sorcery. Just silence. Too much silence.

"This is a trap," Alric muttered, his hand tightening around the hilt of his sword.

His men were nervous, their eyes darting from shadow to shadow.

"Captain," one of them whispered, "we should leave. This place… it feels wrong."

Alric scoffed. "Nonsense. There's nothing here."

Then the air shifted. The torches flickered. And the shadows moved.

"What was that?" another soldier stammered.

The last thing Captain Alric saw was a pair of glowing violet eyes staring at him from the darkness. Then, there was nothing.

By morning, his men found his armor, bloodied and torn. There was no body. Only a single phrase, etched into the dirt beneath his sword. "The blind should not seek the unseen." After that, the witch hunters never returned.

1272, Castlevania – The Spy Learns the Truth

The Nilfgaardian agent, Raven, knelt in the center of a glowing sigil, his body paralyzed, his mind racing as Solomon Aurex Valtherion looked down at him from his throne.

"You've seen enough," Solomon said, voice calm but absolute.

Raven's mouth was dry, but he forced himself to speak. "What… are you?"

Solomon's eyes burned with arcane energy, and Raven felt his thoughts unravel, his secrets exposed.

"Something greater than a king."

The air pulsed with power. Raven knew, in that moment, that he had gone too far. And when he left Castlevania, when he returned to Nilfgaard with his report—He would not remember anything. Only that something was watching. And it was waiting.

1272, The Witcher 3 Begins

The pieces were moving. Geralt and Vesemir continued their search for Yennefer, riding deeper into a land consumed by war. Radovid's paranoia turned to obsession, his hunt for missing mages drawing him closer to something he could not comprehend. Nilfgaard had touched the edges of a shadow it did not understand—and had been lucky to walk away alive. And in the depths of Castlevania, Solomon Aurex Valtherion watched the world begin to notice him. It would not be long now. The game had begun. And soon, the world would see the hand that had just entered it.