Witcher: Sovereign of Magic

The world was not yet ready for Avalon.

The Northern Kingdoms were still too consumed with their own destruction to notice the storm brewing on the horizon. Nilfgaard continued its slow, methodical march, swallowing territories weakened by war and betrayal. The free cities of the North clung to fragile alliances, but their leaders bickered over borders and coin, too shortsighted to see the greater threat.

Radovid was too blinded by his hatred of mages, too obsessed with rooting out the remnants of the Lodge to realize that magic itself was shifting. He thought himself a chess master, but his board was small, his pieces limited.

But Emhyr var Emreis? He was not blind. The Emperor of Nilfgaard had ruled for decades because he understood something most did not: Real power was never about brute force alone. It was about knowledge. Control. The careful, patient manipulation of the board before a single move was even made.

And what little knowledge he had of Avalon unsettled him. A hidden city. A place that should not exist, sealed from the prying eyes of spies and sorcerers alike. A force powerful enough to return the Witchers from the edge of extinction. That was why he had decided to test it. And he would do so in the way he knew best. By applying pressure. By making them reveal their hand.

Meanwhile, in the ruins of a kingdom that no longer existed, a Witcher and a sorceress prepared to meet once more.

1272, Vizima

The inn was quiet. The kind of quiet that did not come from peace, but from tension. The war had left its mark on Vizima, and though the Nilfgaardian banners hung high above the city, the people within its walls still spoke in hushed tones, their voices careful, their movements cautious.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of stale ale, damp wood, and cheap food. But beneath it all, something sharper lingered—something distinct. Lilac and gooseberries.

Geralt stepped inside, golden eyes scanning the room. And there she was. Yennefer of Vengerberg sat at the far end of the inn, a glass of wine in her delicate fingers, her violet gaze meeting his as if she had been waiting for him all along.

"Took you long enough," she said, smirking slightly.

Geralt exhaled, rolling his shoulders. "You're hard to track."

"I prefer it that way."

Vesemir, still standing near the entrance, crossed his arms. "We've been chasing rumors for weeks, Yen. You could've sent word."

Yennefer arched a brow. "And ruin the fun?"

Geralt shook his head, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Same old Yen.

"We need to talk," she said, standing gracefully, her expression shifting.

"About what?" Geralt asked.

The humor in her eyes faded. "Ciri."

"What about her?" Geralt asked, his voice hardening slightly. He hadn't seen Ciri in years, not since… well, since everything had fallen apart.

"She's alive," Yennefer said, her voice low. "I know it."

Geralt exchanged a look with Vesemir. They had both felt it, a faint echo of Ciri's presence, a whisper on the wind. But they had dismissed it as wishful thinking.

"How do you know?" Vesemir asked.

"I can feel it," Yennefer replied. "A connection. It's faint, but it's there. She's calling to me."

"Calling to you?" Geralt repeated, skepticism lacing his voice. "Or are you just hoping she is?"

Yennefer's eyes flashed. "Don't you dare," she hissed. "I would never use Ciri for my own purposes."

"I didn't say you would," Geralt said, raising his hands in a gesture of peace. "But we have to be realistic, Yen. We've been searching for years. We've followed every lead, every rumor. And they've all led to nothing."

"This is different," Yennefer insisted. "This time, I know she's alive. I can feel it in my bones."

Vesemir stepped forward. "Alright, Yen. We'll trust you. But we need a plan. How do we find her?"

Yennefer took a deep breath. "I've been tracking her magical signature," she explained. "It's faint, but it's there. It's leading me… east."

"East?" Geralt frowned. "That's a long way. And it's dangerous territory. Nilfgaard controls most of the eastern kingdoms."

"We have no choice," Yennefer said. "If Ciri is alive, we have to find her. No matter the cost."

"And what about Avalon?" Geralt asked. "They're involved in this somehow, aren't they? Their… enhancements. The whispers about their power. It's all connected, I can feel it."

Yennefer nodded grimly. "They are a mystery," she admitted. "Powerful, secretive… and their influence is growing. I don't trust them, Geralt. I don't trust them at all."

Vesemir sighed. "Then we'll have to be even more careful. We'll need to watch our backs, every step of the way."

1272, Royal Place

The candlelight flickered against the polished blackwood of Emhyr var Emreis' desk as he read the report in silence. His fingers tapped idly against the surface, his expression unreadable.

The first spy had returned from Avalon, shaken and confused, unable to recall any details beyond one certainty: Avalon was real. That alone was enough.

He looked up. Across from him, Vattier de Rideaux stood motionless, hands folded behind his back, waiting for his emperor's response.

"And what do we know of its defenses?" Emhyr asked.

Vattier did not hesitate. "Very little, Your Imperial Majesty. Our agent could not approach the inner city, only the outskirts. But what he did witness suggests that Avalon is not merely a stronghold for rogue sorcerers." His jaw tightened slightly. "It is… something else."

Emhyr set the report down. "Explain."

Vattier took a measured breath. "There are beings there that should not exist. Constructs, homunculi, magical entities walking freely among the people. The city itself is… alive. It moves. We are not certain how, but it does."

"And its ruler?"

Vattier hesitated. "We have no name. No history. Only that he exists—and that he is powerful enough to shield the city from even our best attempts at divination."

Emhyr's expression darkened. That, more than anything, was what disturbed him. A hidden city was one thing. A city immune to Nilfgaard's spies, its movements untraceable, its magic strong enough to conceal itself entirely? That was a problem.

"They call it Avalon," Vattier added. "Those outside the city, at least. Within, it's something else entirely. Something… more."

"More?" Emhyr prompted.

"A… presence," Vattier struggled to explain. "A sense of… purpose. It's as if the city itself is a living entity, with its own will and its own agenda."

The silence in the chamber stretched.

Finally, Emhyr leaned forward. "We need to know if it is a threat."

Vattier nodded. "How shall we proceed?"

The Emperor's gaze sharpened. "We push. We test its defenses. We apply pressure in ways they cannot ignore." His fingers drummed lightly against the desk. "And if it pushes back—" He exhaled. "We find out just how strong it really is."

"And what of the Witchers, Your Majesty?" Vattier asked. "They have been… enhanced. Changed. And Avalon is suspected to be behind it."

Emhyr considered this. "The Witchers are a wild card," he said. "They are powerful, but they are also unpredictable. We will observe them for now. See which way the wind blows. They search for Ciri, I believe. Let them. Their quest may serve our purposes."

1272, Avalon – The Storm Approaches

I stood at the highest balcony of my fortress, watching the sky as the world shifted below me. It was beginning. Nilfgaard had noticed. It had taken longer than expected, but Emhyr was not a fool. He knew better than to ignore something he didn't understand. And now, he would come to test me. That was fine. Let him.

His spies had already failed. His whispers had already been silenced. Now, he would try something bolder. Something more desperate. Perhaps he would send assassins. Perhaps he would try to stir rebellion within my ranks. Perhaps he would attempt to break into the city itself.

It didn't matter. Whatever move he made next, he would soon learn the truth. Avalon was not like the Brotherhood of Sorcerers. It was not like the Northern courts, where secrets and treachery could bring down empires. This was not a place built on fragile alliances. It was built on power. Magic did not belong to kings. Not anymore. And soon, the world would understand that.

"They are coming, Lord Valtherion," Lytta Neyd said from behind him, her voice as subtle as a whisper.

"I know," he replied, without turning. "Emhyr is predictable. He believes he can control everything, manipulate everyone. He underestimates us."

"And the Witchers?" Lytta asked. "They are also moving. They search for the girl."

"Let them search," he said. "Their path will lead them where they need to be. Everything is proceeding as planned."

"But what if they interfere?" Lytta pressed. "They are… unpredictable. And they are stronger now, thanks to your… gift."

He finally turned, his gaze meeting Lytta's. "They will not interfere, Lytta. They serve a purpose, just as everyone else does. Their enhanced abilities… they are a tool, a weapon to be wielded when the time is right."

Lytta's expression remained unreadable. "And what of the girl, Ciri? She is a wild card. Her power… it is unlike anything I have ever sensed."

He smiled, a slow, predatory curve of his lips. "Ciri is the key, Lytta. She is the catalyst. Her power… it will reshape the world. And we will be there to guide it."

"But she is also unpredictable," Lytta persisted. "She could choose a different path. A path that does not align with our own."

"She has no choice," he said, his voice hardening. "Her destiny is intertwined with ours. She will fulfill her purpose, whether she wills it or not."

Lytta inclined her head. "As you command, Lord Valtherion."

He returned his gaze to the horizon, the storm clouds gathering on the horizon mirroring the storm brewing within him. Emhyr's challenge was a minor irritant, a fly buzzing around a lion. He knew how to handle Emhyr. He knew how to manipulate him, how to use his ambition against him.

The Witchers were a different matter. They were a force of nature, driven by their own code, their own sense of justice. They were loyal to each other, fiercely independent, and resistant to manipulation. And their enhanced abilities, thanks to the mutagen he had provided, made them even more dangerous.

But he had foreseen this. He had accounted for the Witchers. He had woven them into his plans, just as he had woven everyone else. They were pieces on his board, pawns in his game. And he was the master.

He thought of Ciri, her power a raging torrent barely contained within human form. She was the key to everything, the instrument of his grand design. He could feel her presence, a faint echo in the distance, growing stronger with each passing day. She was coming closer, drawn to him by an invisible thread.

And when she arrived… the world would tremble.

He closed his eyes, focusing his power, reaching out across the miles, touching the minds of those who served him, those who were bound to him, those who were already moving according to his will. He felt their loyalty, their unwavering devotion, their readiness to carry out his commands. They were his eyes and ears, his hands and feet, his instruments of power.

He opened his eyes, the violet fire burning within them. The storm was coming. And he was ready.

1272, The Road East

Geralt, Vesemir, and Yennefer rode east, following the faint trail of Ciri's magic. The journey was long and arduous, the land scarred by war, the air thick with tension. They encountered Nilfgaardian patrols, bands of desperate refugees, and creatures warped by the chaotic energies unleashed by the conflict.

"We need to be careful," Geralt said, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "This territory is crawling with Nilfgaardians. And they're not the only danger out here."

"I sense something else," Yennefer said, her brow furrowed. "Something… ancient. Something powerful."

"Like what?" Vesemir asked.

"I don't know," Yennefer admitted. "But it's watching us. I can feel its eyes on us."

They continued their journey, their senses heightened, their guard up. They were hunters in a hostile land, searching for a lost lamb, knowing that the wolves were circling.

One evening, as they camped beneath a sky full of stars, Geralt spoke his mind.

"Yen," he said, his voice low, "about Avalon… what do you know about them?"

Yennefer sighed. "Not much," she admitted. "They are shrouded in secrecy. They appeared a few years ago, seemingly out of nowhere. They offered us their… gift. Enhanced abilities. But they asked for nothing in return. Or so it seems."

"That's what worries me," Geralt said. "No one gives something for nothing. There's always a price. We just don't know what it is yet."

"I agree," Vesemir said. "They are playing a dangerous game. And we are caught in the middle."

"We need to find out what they want," Geralt said. "Before it's too late."

"And what about Ciri?" Yennefer asked. "What if Avalon is involved in her disappearance?"

"It's possible," Geralt said. "We can't rule anything out."

"Then we need to be prepared for anything," Yennefer said. "We need to be ready to fight."

Geralt nodded. "We will be," he said. "We always are."

They fell silent, each lost in their own thoughts, the weight of their quest pressing down on them. They were searching for Ciri, but they were also searching for answers, searching for the truth behind the mysteries that surrounded them. And they knew that the journey ahead would be long and dangerous, filled with challenges and obstacles they could not yet imagine. But they would face them together. They were Geralt, Yennefer, and Vesemir. And they would not give up.

It didn't matter. Whatever move he made next, he would soon learn the truth. Avalon was not like the Brotherhood of Sorcerers. It was not like the Northern courts, where secrets and treachery could bring down empires. This was not a place built on fragile alliances. It was built on power. Magic did not belong to kings. Not anymore. And soon, the world would