Witcher: Sovereign of Magic

The morning sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden glow over the quiet fields of White Orchard. The war had left its scars here—burnt homes, mass graves, Nilfgaardian banners fluttering in the breeze where Temerian colors once stood. But for the first time in days, there was peace.

Geralt tightened the last strap on Roach's saddle, preparing to leave. Vesemir stood nearby, adjusting his own horse's bridle. They had lingered in White Orchard longer than expected, but now it was time to move on.

Then, the air shifted. A pulse of energy, subtle but undeniable. And with it, the unmistakable scent of lilac and gooseberries.

Geralt turned just as Yennefer of Vengerberg stepped toward them, her violet eyes sharp, her movements as precise as ever. She was dressed for the road—black riding leathers hugging her frame, raven hair flowing loosely over her shoulders. She was a sight that never failed to stir something in him, even after all these years.

"You're not seriously leaving without saying goodbye, are you?" she asked, smirking slightly.

Geralt met her gaze, crossing his arms. "Didn't know I needed permission."

Yennefer let out a quiet chuckle. "You don't. But you do need to come with me. We're going to Vizima."

Vesemir frowned, stepping forward. "And why's that?"

Yennefer's smirk faded. "Because Emperor Emhyr var Emreis has requested an audience with Geralt. Personally."

Geralt's jaw tightened at the mention of the Nilfgaardian ruler. "Emhyr doesn't 'request' anything. What does he want?"

Yennefer's expression was unreadable. "Ciri. The Wild Hunt is after her, and Emhyr believes you're the only one who can find her before they do."

The mention of her name sent a chill down Geralt's spine. Ciri. His Ciri.

Geralt exchanged a glance with Vesemir, who sighed deeply, rubbing his beard. "If the Wild Hunt is involved, we don't have time to waste. I'll head back to Kaer Morhen. If you find her, that may be the only place left that's safe."

Geralt clasped Vesemir's forearm. "Take care of yourself, old man."

Vesemir nodded. "You too, lad. And keep an eye on her." He shot Yennefer a look, but she only smiled in amusement.

"Come now, Vesemir," she said smoothly. "You know Geralt's eyes never leave me."

Geralt sighed, shaking his head. "Let's just go."

Yennefer reached out. "Hold on."

The last thing Geralt saw before the world twisted into darkness was Vesemir watching them disappear.

1272, En Route to Vizima – A Conversation in the Saddle

The teleportation dropped them just outside Vizima, near the Imperial-controlled lands.

Geralt exhaled, rolling his shoulders. "You could warn me before you do that, Yen."

"Where's the fun in that?" she teased, already moving toward the Nilfgaardian escort waiting for them.

The Imperial knights—clad in black and gold armor—stood in disciplined silence beside their horses. One of them stepped forward, giving a curt bow. "Lady Yennefer. Witcher. The Emperor awaits."

Yennefer mounted her horse effortlessly. Geralt followed suit, settling into the saddle as the group began riding toward the capital.

For a while, neither of them spoke. The road stretched long ahead, lined with fields trampled by war, trees stripped bare by soldiers searching for firewood. It was a land still bleeding.

Then, Yennefer broke the silence. "I assume you've heard the rumors."

Geralt glanced at her. "You'll have to be more specific."

She gave him a knowing look. "Avalon."

Geralt frowned. "I've heard whispers. A city hidden from the world. Some say it's a myth."

Yennefer scoffed. "If it was a myth, Nilfgaard wouldn't be losing spies over it."

That caught his attention. "Losing spies?"

Yennefer nodded. "Emhyr has been trying to locate it. He's sent agents, diviners, even mages. None have returned with anything useful. Some don't return at all."

Geralt considered this. A place strong enough to keep even Nilfgaard out? That wasn't normal.

"Sounds dangerous," he said finally.

Yennefer's lips curled into a smirk. "Sounds interesting."

Geralt rolled his eyes. "You always did like mysteries."

"And you always did pretend you weren't curious."

He couldn't deny it. A hidden city, unreachable by conventional means, powerful enough to remain untouched by the war? There weren't many things in this world that could accomplish that.

And now, Nilfgaard was watching it.

"Think Emhyr will bring it up?" Geralt asked.

Yennefer tilted her head slightly. "Perhaps. But his priority is Ciri. Avalon is secondary—for now."

Geralt nodded, gripping the reins as Vizima's walls came into view.

"Let's see what he has to say, then."

1272, Vizima

The scent of Nilfgaardian oils and polished steel filled the grand hall of the Imperial Palace. Golden chandeliers bathed the marble floors in warm light, and rows of Nilfgaardian soldiers stood at attention, their black armor gleaming.

Geralt had never liked this place. Too many rules. Too much ceremony.

He and Yennefer walked side by side, led by a court official who barely spared them a glance. They reached the massive doors of the throne room, where a herald struck his staff against the polished marble floor.

"Geralt of Rivia, Witcher of the Wolf School. Yennefer of Vengerberg, Advisor to the Emperor."

The doors swung open.

At the far end of the room, seated upon a throne of black marble, was Emhyr var Emreis. The White Flame Dancing on the Graves of His Foes. His gaze was unreadable, his presence as imposing as ever.

"Geralt of Rivia," Emhyr said, his deep voice filling the chamber. "At last, we meet again."

Geralt stopped at the base of the steps leading to the throne. He did not bow. "Emperor."

A flicker of amusement passed through Emhyr's expression before he got straight to the point.

"You know why you are here," he said. "Cirilla has returned. And the Wild Hunt is after her."

Geralt's fists tightened at his sides. He had known this was about Ciri, but hearing it spoken aloud made it real.

"And you want me to find her," he said.

Emhyr leaned forward slightly. "I want you to bring her to me."

Geralt met his gaze evenly. "And if she doesn't want to come?"

A silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken meaning.

Before Emhyr could respond—The air in the throne room rippled. A deep hum of energy pulsed through the chamber, sending a sharp chill down Geralt's spine. He felt it before he saw it—an immense force bending the very fabric of reality. The torches flickered. The Nilfgaardian guards stiffened, their hands going to their swords.

And then—A figure stepped into existence. No portal. No incantation. No flash of light. One moment, there was nothing. The next—he was there.

A man, dressed in deep black robes embroidered with arcane silver patterns, his posture relaxed, but his presence undeniable. His features were sharp, his gaze cold yet knowing. He radiated power—not the kind of magic that came from careful study or gifted talent, but something more fundamental. More ancient.

The air in the room felt heavier, the way it did before a storm.

The Nilfgaardian soldiers reacted instantly. Swords were drawn. Emhyr's personal guards rushed forward, forming a defensive line between the throne and the intruder. Magic flared in Yennefer's hands as she prepared a spell, but before she could unleash it—

"That won't be necessary," the man said. His voice was calm. Certain. It cut through the rising tension with effortless authority.

Geralt, ever the pragmatist, remained still, his golden eyes narrowing as he took the stranger in. His eyes widened slightly as recognition dawned. "Solomon."

The man turned to him, offering a small, almost amused smile. "Geralt. It's been a while."

Emhyr had not moved from his throne, though his gaze had sharpened. He studied the figure carefully before speaking. "Who are you?"

The man regarded him in return, his expression unreadable. "You already know," he said simply.

Emhyr's lips pressed into a thin line. "Avalon."

Yennefer inhaled sharply. "Avalon?"

Geralt shot her a glance. "That name means something to you?"

Yennefer nodded, her violet eyes locked onto Solomon. "A hidden city, concealed from the world. A place outside of time beyond the reach of kings, emperors… even mages," Yennefer continued, her voice laced with awe and a hint of trepidation. "A myth. Until now."

Solomon sighed, shaking his head slightly. "Avalon," he corrected. "The city is called Avalon. Castlevania is… well, it's a part of it. Think of it as the heart."

Emhyr's brow furrowed slightly. "Avalon? No records exist of such a place."

"That is intentional," Solomon replied. "And it will remain that way."

Emhyr's patience was wearing thin. "Why are you here?"

Solomon stepped forward, his movements slow but deliberate. "To offer something of use."

He reached into his robes, pulling out a small, intricately carved artifact—a polished obsidian stone with swirling silver veins. He extended it to Geralt.

"A gift," he said.

Geralt eyed the artifact warily before taking it. The moment his fingers closed around it, a pulse of energy ran through his hand—not unpleasant, but undeniably potent.

"What is it?" he asked.

"A means to contact me," Solomon said. "If you need guidance. If you encounter something… unexpected."

Geralt turned the stone over in his palm. It was cool to the touch, but he could feel the power woven into it. "And what do you get out of this?"

Solomon's gaze didn't waver. "Knowledge. The Wild Hunt is moving. Forces are shifting. And I have no intention of being caught unaware."

Emhyr leaned back in his throne, eyes calculating. "You claim neutrality, yet you intervene. Why?"

Solomon offered the faintest smile. "Because I prefer to shape the future, rather than wait for it."

Geralt exhaled, pocketing the artifact. "If you know so much, why not find Ciri yourself?"

"Because this is your path," Solomon replied. "But know this—her fate, and the fate of many, are intertwined with something far greater than Nilfgaard or Redania." His gaze flickered to Yennefer. "And you."

Yennefer raised a brow. "Me?"

Solomon reached into his robes once more, pulling out another item—a silver ring adorned with a faintly glowing rune. He held it out to her.

"A key," he said. "To Avalon. If you wish to visit."

Yennefer hesitated only a moment before taking it, her fingers brushing against the enchanted metal. She studied Solomon with open curiosity now. "Why invite me?"

Solomon's expression remained unreadable. "Because I suspect you will find what you are looking for there."

Yennefer met his gaze, considering his words. Then, slowly, she nodded.

The room was silent for a long moment. Then, Solomon turned back to Geralt.

"Find Ciri," he said. "And when the time comes… use the stone."

And just as suddenly as he had arrived—He was gone. No flash of light. No portal. Simply gone.

The silence that followed was thick, tense. The Nilfgaardian guards were still gripping their swords, uncertainty written across their faces.

Finally, Emhyr spoke. "This changes nothing," he said, though there was an edge to his voice. "Find Cirilla. Bring her to me."

Geralt nodded once. "I'll find her."

He turned to Yennefer, who was still studying the ring in her hand.

"You still heading to Skellige?" he asked.

She looked up, lips curving into a small, knowing smirk. "And maybe… somewhere else."

Geralt shook his head, amused despite himself. "Velen it is, then."

And with that, the hunt for Ciri truly began. But now, it was a hunt complicated by the reappearance of Avalon, a hidden city and a power Geralt knew little about, but sensed was deeply intertwined with Ciri's fate, and perhaps, his own. He glanced at the obsidian stone in his pocket. He had a feeling he'd be using it sooner rather than later.