Witcher: Sovereign of Magic

1272, Velen – The Witch's Trail

The road stretched endlessly before Geralt, winding through Velen's war-ravaged landscape. Fields once golden with wheat now lay trampled and burned. Villages had been abandoned or overrun, their skeletal remains a testament to Nilfgaard's slow, inevitable march. The stench of rot clung to the air, mingling with the damp scent of the marshlands ahead.

Geralt rode in silence, thoughts lingering on his last conversation with Emperor Emhyr. Ciri was being hunted. By the Wild Hunt. By forces unknown. And now, he was back where the trail had gone cold. Velen.

The first lead had brought him to Crow's Perch and Phillip Strenger, the self-proclaimed Bloody Baron. That road had led to revelations about the man's broken family, a deal with the Crones, and a battlefield soaked in the blood of the Eternal Fire's fanatics. It had also confirmed that Ciri had been in Velen, seeking someone. Someone connected to the prophecies surrounding her.

The second lead – whispers of a woman matching Ciri's description who had sought the aid of a witch. And in Velen, "witch" could mean anything. He had followed the rumors, the hushed whispers in the few remaining hamlets, until they led him here, to Midcopse.

1272, Midcopse – A Familiar Face

The villagers of Midcopse eyed Geralt warily as he passed. Children peeked from behind wooden fences, while their mothers whispered hurried prayers and clutched their talismans. The men, hardened by war and hunger, simply scowled and continued their work. To them, he was just another monster—whether or not he carried a sword mattered little.

But Geralt wasn't here for them. He was here for the witch. The one who had supposedly crossed paths with Ciri.

A few well-placed coins loosened tongues, and soon enough, he found himself following a barely discernible dirt path leading to a cottage hidden among overgrown trees and an unnatural quiet. Smoke curled lazily from the chimney, carrying the scent of dried herbs and something else… something stronger. Magic.

Geralt dismounted, boots crunching against damp leaves as he approached the door. He knocked once.

Silence.

Then—The door creaked open, revealing a woman who leaned against the frame, arms crossed, a knowing smirk already playing at her lips.

"Geralt?"

Keira Metz. Of course.

Her golden hair cascaded over her shoulders, her dress as impractical as ever. The same Keira who had once sat at the royal court, whispering secrets to kings. Now, she played at being a witch, tucked away in the wilderness, a secret of her own making.

Geralt exhaled. "You're the witch they're talking about?"

Keira's smirk widened. "Witch? Please. These peasants call anything they don't understand 'witchcraft.' I'm a sorceress, Geralt. There's a difference."

"Not to them."

"No," she admitted, stepping back and motioning him inside. "But I imagine you didn't come all this way to remind me of my unfortunate circumstances."

Geralt crossed the threshold, taking in the modest interior. Bundles of dried herbs hung from the rafters. A wooden table was cluttered with alchemical ingredients, open tomes, and a half-finished meal.

"You're searching for someone," Keira guessed, watching him with sharp eyes.

Geralt didn't bother confirming what she already knew. "A girl. Ashen hair, scar on her cheek."

Keira's expression shifted—curious, intrigued. "And why, dear Witcher, do you think she came to me?"

"She didn't," Geralt admitted. "But she quarreled with a witch. The villagers think that means you."

Keira sighed dramatically, placing a hand on her hip. "Of course they do. Simple minds, simple fears."

"So you haven't seen her?"

"Not personally," Keira said, turning toward the table and sifting through a pile of scrolls. "But I may know someone who has."

Geralt frowned. "Who?"

Keira pulled out an aged piece of parchment, unrolling it carefully. A faint glow pulsed from the markings—runes, elven in origin.

"An elven mage," she said. "He came through here some time ago—secretive, powerful, and very much in a hurry. He spoke of a girl who 'did not belong' to this world."

Geralt's jaw tightened. "You think he was talking about Ciri?"

"I know he was talking about someone important," Keira said. "And if the Wild Hunt is after her, I'd bet my finest dress it was your girl."

Geralt studied the parchment. "This mage. Where did he go?"

"That," Keira said, rolling up the scroll, "is the interesting part."

She turned to him, eyes glinting with something between excitement and amusement. "He was hiding in a ruin beneath the Mire," she said. "And I know how to get there."

Geralt sighed, rubbing his temple. "Of course you do."

Keira smirked. "Come, dear Witcher. We have a mage to find."

They left the cottage, the setting sun painting the sky in hues of orange and purple. As they rode towards the Mire, Geralt couldn't shake the feeling that they were being watched. He glanced back at Midcopse, the small village now a distant smudge on the horizon. Something about the quiet… it was unsettling.

"You said this mage was secretive," Geralt said, breaking the silence. "What else do you know about him?"

Keira shrugged. "Not much. He was tall, cloaked, spoke little. But his magic… it was potent. Different from anything I've encountered. Almost… primal."

"Primal how?"

Keira hesitated. "It's hard to explain. It felt… untamed. Like raw elemental power, barely contained. It was also… ancient. Older than anything I've ever sensed."

Geralt frowned. "That's not good. If he's connected to Ciri…"

"Then we need to find him," Keira finished. "Before anyone else does."

They rode on in silence, the oppressive atmosphere of the Mire closing in around them. The trees grew gnarled and twisted, their branches reaching out like skeletal fingers. The air was thick with the smell of decay and damp earth. The path became increasingly treacherous, forcing them to slow their pace.

"This place gives me the creeps," Geralt muttered.

Keira chuckled. "Don't tell me the White Wolf is scared of a little swamp?"

"Scared? No," Geralt replied. "Wary? Absolutely. This isn't just a swamp, Keira. There's something… unnatural about it."

"You're just being dramatic," Keira said, though her voice lacked conviction. She too could feel the oppressive weight of the Mire, the sense of something ancient and malevolent lurking beneath the murky water.

"We're almost there," Keira said, pointing to a cluster of crumbling stone ruins in the distance. "The mage's hideout. Let's hope he's still there."

Geralt drew his silver sword, his senses on high alert. He could feel the magic emanating from the ruins, a palpable hum that vibrated through the air. It was a dark, unsettling magic, the kind that spoke of ancient rituals and forgotten powers.

"Those ruins… they're older than I thought," Geralt observed. "There's more to this place than just a mage's hideout."

Keira nodded. "I agree. I sensed it too. There's a power here… something… dormant. But it could be awakened."

"And that's what worries me," Geralt said. "Let's find this mage and get out of here."

"Agreed," Keira said, her hand resting on the hilt of the dagger she carried. "But be prepared for anything, Geralt. This place… it feels… wrong."

Geralt nodded, his eyes fixed on the ruins ahead. He had a feeling that this was more than just a mage's hideout. He had a feeling that this was a place of power, a place where dark secrets lay hidden, waiting to be unearthed. And he knew, with a chilling certainty, that whatever they found here, it would change everything.