Witcher: Sovereign of Magic

1272, Velen – A Land Scarred

The wind, a mournful dirge echoing across the ravaged plains, carried the stench of rot and burnt wood. Geralt rode through the war-torn heart of Velen, a landscape stripped of its beauty and soaked in the crimson stain of conflict. The trees, skeletal and bare, clawed at the sky, their branches reaching like the desperate hands of the fallen. The earth itself seemed to weep mud and blood, a testament to the brutality that had swept across this forsaken land. Crows, black harbingers of death, circled overhead, their harsh cries a constant reminder of the carnage that lay scattered beneath them. The distant crackle of still-smoldering villages painted the horizon in hues of grey and orange, a grim tableau of destruction.

No Man's Land. The name was a cruel understatement. Velen was more than just unclaimed territory; it was a graveyard for hope, a breeding ground for despair. The remnants of its peasantry huddled in the ruins of their former lives, their eyes hollow with fear, their bodies gaunt with hunger. Bandits, deserters, and creatures born of nightmare roamed unchecked, preying on the weak and the desperate. Even the air itself felt heavy, thick with the lingering scent of death and the palpable weight of sorrow.

Geralt, his face grim, urged Roach forward along the rutted dirt path that wound its way towards Heatherton. The obsidian artifact, a gift from Solomon of Avalon, rested silently in his saddlebag, its faint pulse of magic a subtle counterpoint to the pervasive darkness of Velen. He had chosen to ignore its call for now. This was his hunt, his responsibility. Ciri's fate was his burden, and he would carry it alone, at least for the moment.

1272, Heatherton – A Village Desecrated

The stillness of Heatherton was more unsettling than any battlefield's clamor. As Geralt approached the village, a sense of dread washed over him. The silence was unnatural, broken only by the whisper of the chilling mist that clung to the ground like a shroud. The mist itself was peculiar, swirling and shifting in patterns that defied the natural currents of the wind, as though it were a malevolent entity, conjured by some dark force.

He reined in Roach at the edge of the village, his Witcher senses on high alert. The scene before him was a tableau of horror. Doors hung open, some ripped from their hinges, others bearing the gruesome marks of violence—dark, irregular stains that could only be blood. The once-orderly fences lay in splintered ruins, and the few remaining livestock were dead in their pens, their bodies unnaturally stiff and pale, as if drained of life's essence.

Geralt dismounted, his boots sinking into the mud. The air was thick with the cloying sweetness of decay, mingled with something far more sinister, a scent that prickled his nostrils and raised the hairs on the back of his neck. It was the stench of unnatural death, of something… other.

He drew his silver sword, the polished steel gleaming faintly in the dim light, and moved cautiously into the village. Near the first hut, a body lay sprawled on the ground. It was a man, his eyes wide and staring, his mouth frozen in a silent scream. His skin was ashen, tinged with an unnatural frost, a clear indication that his death was not caused by any conventional weapon.

Geralt knelt beside the body, examining it closely. The man's wounds were deep gashes, but they were unlike anything he had seen before. They weren't the clean cuts of a blade, nor the ragged tears inflicted by beast claws. They were… different. As if the very life force had been ripped from the man's body.

His gaze swept across the desolate village. This was not the work of ordinary bandits or even common monsters. This was something far more malevolent.

From one of the huts, a low, rasping wheeze drifted out into the silence. Geralt's grip tightened on his sword. He pushed the door open, bracing himself for whatever horror awaited him within.

The interior of the hut was a charnel house. Dried blood painted the walls and floor, a grotesque tapestry of violence. A man, Hendrik, slumped against the far wall, his body trembling uncontrollably. His breath came in ragged gasps, his eyes, wild and unfocused, flickered up to Geralt as he entered.

"Hendrik?" Geralt asked, already knowing the answer. The man was dying. Deep wounds marred his flesh, and his skin possessed the same unnatural pallor as the corpse outside.

Hendrik tried to speak, but his voice was barely a whisper, his throat too dry. Geralt knelt beside him, offering him water from his waterskin. Hendrik took a weak sip, then choked, blood bubbling at his lips. He clutched at Geralt's arm with surprising strength, his fingers twitching, trying to form words.

"They…" Hendrik coughed, more blood staining his lips. "They came… in the mist…"

"Who?" Geralt pressed, his voice low and urgent.

Hendrik's body convulsed, his grip tightening painfully on Geralt's arm. For a moment, Geralt thought he had lost him. But then, with a herculean effort, Hendrik forced out two words, his voice a ragged whisper that sent a chill down Geralt's spine.

"The Hunt."

His grip loosened, his breathing slowed, and then, Hendrik was gone.

Geralt cursed under his breath. He had hoped for more, but he knew time was precious in Velen. He had to move quickly.

Despite the carnage, Geralt meticulously searched the hut. Beneath a loose floorboard in the corner, he found a small, wooden chest. Inside, hidden beneath layers of parchment and coded reports, were Hendrik's notes. They detailed his investigation into Ciri, and they offered two crucial leads.

1272, Velen – Two Paths

Geralt sat outside the ruined hut, the chilling mist swirling around him, and read through Hendrik's notes by the fading light.

Hendrik's first lead pointed to Phillip Strenger, the Bloody Baron, the self-proclaimed ruler of Crow's Perch. Ciri had apparently met with him. If anyone knew anything about her, it was likely the Baron.

The second lead was a rumor, a whisper carried on the wind. An ashen-haired woman had been sighted in Novigrad, the free city to the north. If Ciri had gone there, she might have sought out Triss Merigold, who was rumored to be hiding from the witch hunters within the city's walls.

Two paths, each fraught with peril. One led to a ruthless warlord in his heavily fortified stronghold. The other led to a city teeming with witch hunters, where magic was a death sentence.

Geralt sighed, rubbing his temples wearily. He knew he would have to follow both leads eventually, but time was a luxury he didn't have. He had to choose.

His gaze drifted towards the distant silhouette of Crow's Perch, a dark blot against the dying light. The Baron. He was the logical starting point. Ciri had met with him, which meant he knew something. And Geralt was determined to find out what. He mounted Roach, steeling himself for the encounter that lay ahead. The road to Crow's Perch, and the secrets it held, beckoned.