Witcher: Sovereign of Magic

1272, Velen – A Crossroads

Keira led the way, stepping lightly through the overgrown path as if she belonged here, as if the horrors of Velen's endless war had never touched her. Geralt followed, keeping his senses sharp—Velen had a habit of making even the simplest journey into a problem.

"You never answered my question," he said after a while.

Keira didn't look back. "Which one? You ask so many."

"Why are you here?"

She laughed softly. "You sound just like a Nilfgaardian emissary I once met. Always looking for motives instead of simply accepting what is."

Geralt sighed. "Keira."

"Fine, fine," she conceded, finally turning, her smirk playful but her eyes guarded. "It's… complicated. Let's just say Radovid's policies haven't been good for my career prospects. Burning mages at the stake tends to put a damper on one's social life, you know. And Velen, as dreadful as it is, offers a certain… anonymity. Besides," she added, her voice dropping slightly, "I have… research to conduct here. Things I can't discuss."

He let the conversation drop. He knew Keira. She was always playing her cards close to her chest. But he sensed there was more to her presence in Velen than she was letting on.

Ahead of them, the land was changing. The trees grew taller, twisted, their bark blackened as if burned from within. The air felt wrong—thick, humming with something old. Not a curse. Not residual magic. But something waiting.

Keira slowed her pace. "We're close."

Geralt reached for his sword. "I know."

1272, The Mire – The Hidden Ruins

The entrance to the ruins was barely visible through the creeping mist. What remained of the structure was ancient, swallowed by time and decay—massive stones half-buried in mud, faint traces of elven runes carved into their surface. A stairway, almost lost to the swamp, led underground.

Keira crouched beside one of the stones, brushing away moss. "See these? Ancient protection glyphs. He didn't want just anyone following him."

Geralt studied the markings. "Didn't work too well, did it?"

Keira smirked. "That's the problem with mages. They're so busy hiding, they forget to be thorough. Or perhaps," she mused, "he wanted to be found, by the right people."

Geralt grunted and started down the stairs. "Come on. Before something else finds us first."

The tunnel descended deep beneath the swamp, the walls shifting from damp stone to something impossibly smooth—elven. The ruins were not just old; they were untouched by time, preserved by forgotten magic.

And they were not empty.

The moment they stepped inside, frost clung to Geralt's armor.

Keira shivered. "This isn't natural."

Geralt drew his silver sword. "No. It's not."

And then they heard it. A distant howl. Echoing through the tunnels. Not human. Not alive.

Keira's eyes widened. "The Wild Hunt."

Geralt cursed. "We're not alone."

1272, The Ruins – The Hunt Arrives

They moved quickly, weaving through the winding corridors of the ruin, their breath visible in the icy air. The deeper they went, the stronger the unnatural frost became.

And then—They found it. A chamber lined with glowing elven runes. A stone pedestal stood at the center, its surface scorched, as if something had been burned into it. Geralt approached, running his fingers over the markings.

Teleportation residue. Ciri had been here.

"This was his escape route," Keira murmured, examining the runes. "The elven mage must have teleported. But the question is—"

She never finished. Because the air shattered. A portal tore open behind them, raw and jagged, and from its depths came a specter of frost and death. The Wild Hunt had found them.

Geralt moved without thinking, shoving Keira aside as the first warrior stepped through, its armor humming with unearthly energy. The air crackled with ice as the spectral knight raised its blade—And swung.

Geralt blocked just in time, his silver sword clashing against an unnatural force. The sheer cold of it seared his skin through his armor. He gritted his teeth and pushed back.

"Keira!" he barked. "Close that portal!"

She was already moving, her hands weaving a spell, ancient words spilling from her lips as the air crackled with power.

More warriors stepped through. Geralt met them head-on. One. Two. Three. Each strike came faster, colder, as the Hunt's warriors fought like phantoms, unrelenting and silent. Geralt dodged, countered, his movements a deadly rhythm of steel and instinct.

Then—A pulse of magic erupted from Keira's hands, and the portal collapsed. The remaining warriors faltered for a split second—just enough for Geralt to drive his blade deep into the last one's chest.

The ruin fell silent.

Keira let out a sharp breath, her hands still trembling from the spell. "That… was close. Damn close."

Geralt wiped his blade clean. "Too close. Those things… they're relentless."

He turned back to the pedestal, eyes narrowing. "Ciri was here. But she's gone now."

Keira sighed. "So what now? Another dead end."

Geralt exhaled, thinking. The Wild Hunt had come here for a reason. That meant Ciri's trail wasn't cold just yet. But where had she gone next?

He turned to Keira. "You said the mage was looking for a girl. Do you know where he was headed?"

Keira hesitated, then nodded. "There's only one other place nearby with magic strong enough to interest him. Crookback Bog."

Geralt frowned. That name again. He had heard it before—whispers of the Crones, of dark magic that lingered in the swamps like a living thing. And if Ciri had gone there… He was going to find out why.

"Then that's where I go next," Geralt said.

Keira hesitated. "Be careful, Geralt. The Crones… they're not like anything you've fought before. Their power… it's… primal. Ancient."

He met her gaze. "Neither is Ciri."

But before he left, there was something else to do.

1272, The Ruins – A Call to Avalon

Geralt reached into his saddlebag and pulled out the obsidian artifact Solomon had given him. The stone pulsed faintly in his palm, as if reacting to his touch.

Keira raised a brow. "Now what are you doing? Calling for reinforcements?"

Geralt didn't answer. Instead, he activated the artifact. The air shifted. A pulse of unseen energy rippled outward, sending a chill through the chamber. The torches flickered.

And then—Solomon arrived. No portal. No light. No sound. One moment, nothing. The next, presence.

Keira stiffened, her fingers twitching toward a spell. "Who in Melitele's name—"

"Relax," Geralt muttered. "He's an ally. Of sorts."

Solomon studied Keira for a long moment before turning to Geralt. "You called, Witcher."

"Keira needs transport out of Velen," Geralt said plainly. "Can you arrange that?"

Solomon regarded her with an unreadable expression. "Avalon offers paths, not escapes. It is a place of learning, of power. Are you prepared for that, sorceress?"

Keira crossed her arms. "I'm prepared for anything."

Solomon nodded. "Then you may come. A path will open when you are ready." He produced a silver ring etched with glowing runes. "This will guide you."

Keira examined the ring, lips curving into a small, unreadable smile. "A generous offer. And what do you get out of this, Solomon?"

Solomon's gaze didn't waver. "Let's just say… I have an interest in the events unfolding. And in those involved."

He turned back to Geralt. "And you, Witcher? Your path is set?"

"I'm going to Heatherton," Geralt replied. "I have a meeting there."

Solomon's expression tightened slightly. "Heatherton… a dangerous place. Be careful, Geralt. The threads of fate are tangled in Velen. Be sure which ones you pull."

"I intend to be," Geralt replied.

Solomon inclined his head slightly. "Then we will speak again, Witcher. When the time is right."

And just like that—he was gone. No portal. No spell. Simply gone.

Keira let out a slow breath, shaking her head. "You do keep strange company, Geralt."

"So do you."

Keira smirked, slipping the ring onto her finger. "If you ever decide you're tired of chasing ghosts, come find me. I might just have a use for you."

Geralt chuckled. "I'll keep that in mind." He turned to leave the ruins. "I'm meeting a contact there," he clarified. "They've promised information."

Keira frowned. "Heatherton? That's… risky. It's crawling with informants, and not all of them are friendly."

"I know," Geralt replied. "But this contact… they've proven reliable in the past. And the information they have could be crucial. It concerns Ciri."

"Crucial how?" Keira asked, her curiosity piqued.

Geralt hesitated. "I can't say. Not here. It's… sensitive. But it could lead me to her. Or to whoever is pulling the strings behind all this."

He started to walk away, then paused, turning back to Keira. "Be careful, Keira. Something about this place… it feels wrong. I sensed a presence earlier, something besides the Wild Hunt. Keep your eyes open."

"I always do," Keira replied, her smirk returning. "But thank you for the concern, Geralt. I'll be sure to keep my wits about me."

Geralt nodded and then turned and left the ruins behind, the image of Ciri and the weight of his quest heavy on his shoulders. He mounted Roach and set off towards Heatherton. He knew he was walking into a dangerous situation, but he had no other choice. He had to follow every lead, explore every possibility, if he was to find Ciri and uncover the truth behind her disappearance.