Witcher: Sovereign of Magic

1272, Crookback Bog – A Swamp Ablaze

The swamp burned. Smoke curled through the oppressive mist, twisting and writhing like the tormented spirits of the bog, as the warriors of the Eternal Fire clashed with the Crones' monstrous servants. Crimson robes billowed in the chaotic wind, the flickering torches casting an eerie, dancing light against the gnarled, ancient trees of Crookback Bog.

Tamara, her face streaked with dirt, sweat, and the grime of battle, led the charge. Her sword, a flickering point of steel in the melee, was stained with the viscous, blackened blood of the creatures they fought. Her breath came in ragged gasps, but her resolve, fueled by a burning need for vengeance and a desperate hope for her mother, did not waver.

They had come to save Anna. They had come to destroy the witches who had stolen her. They had come to reclaim what was theirs. Now, they stood at the heart of the cursed bog, surrounded on all sides by horrors that defied natural law, creatures ripped from nightmares and given grotesque form.

But even through the chaos—even through the fire and the blood and the screams of the dying—the Crones simply watched. They stood at the far end of the clearing, seemingly untouched by the battle raging around them, their ancient, twisted forms barely visible through the swirling fog. They exuded an aura of ancient power, a chilling calm that contrasted starkly with the frenetic violence of the scene.

Anna was with them. Bound by dark magic, her mind fractured, her will twisted by the Crones' insidious curse. The orphaned children, hollow-eyed and frail, huddled behind her, their small bodies trembling. They had been claimed by the Crones, marked as offerings, their innocence a sacrifice to the witches' dark rituals. No amount of fire, no righteous fury, seemed capable of undoing that terrible claim.

Then—the air shifted. A deep pulse of raw energy rippled outward, invisible yet palpable, sending a chill through the sweltering battlefield. The torches flickered violently, threatening to extinguish, and the unnatural mist recoiled as if struck by an unseen force.

And just like that—a figure appeared. No portal. No spell. No dramatic flourish. One moment, the clearing was empty; the next, he was there.

Draped in black robes lined with intricate silver runes that shimmered faintly in the dim light, his presence alone was enough to force back the encroaching darkness of the swamp. He radiated an aura of quiet power, a chilling authority that commanded attention.

The warriors of the Eternal Fire faltered, their weapons lowering slightly as they turned to face the newcomer, their initial aggression replaced by confusion and a flicker of unease.

Tamara narrowed her eyes, her grip on her sword tightening. "Who—?" she began, her voice hoarse, but the words died in her throat.

The Crones, however, knew. They recognized the power that radiated from him.

"Sorcerer…" the Weavess hissed, her gnarled fingers twisting with anticipation, a predatory gleam in her ancient eyes.

"You meddle where you do not belong," the Brewess croaked, her bloated form shifting uncomfortably, her voice like the rustling of dry leaves.

Solomon's cold gaze barely flickered towards them. His attention was focused on the Crones. "You have taken what does not belong to you," he stated, his voice resonating with an unnerving calm.

The Whispess grinned, a grotesque expression that stretched across her wrinkled face, her voice barely a whisper, yet carrying across the battlefield. "You offer a bargain, then?"

The swamp fell silent, the clash of steel and the cries of the wounded momentarily forgotten.

Then, Solomon lifted his hand—and in his palm, something glowed. A ring. The silver band shimmered with an unnatural, inner light, pulsing with an ancient power that hummed against the very fabric of reality, a tangible force that made the air crackle.

"The Ring of Tarrasque," Solomon said, his voice carrying clearly through the bog, each word measured and precise. "An artifact of endurance beyond mortal limits. A bondbreaker. This is my offer."

Geralt's gaze flickered to the ring. He had seen many magical artifacts in his long life, but this—this was different. He could feel its presence, a tangible weight in the air, as though it were something alive, something ancient and powerful.

The Crones' grins widened, their eyes gleaming with avarice.

The Brewess licked her cracked, dry lips. "Such a pretty thing…"

"A rare thing…" whispered the Weavess, her voice laced with greed.

"A worthy thing…" purred the Whispess, her gaze fixed on the ring.

Solomon's expression did not change. He remained unmoved by their avarice. "One ring. In exchange for the woman and the children. That is the bargain."

Tamara's breath caught in her throat. "You're trading with them?!" she exclaimed, her voice filled with disbelief and outrage.

Geralt shot her a warning glance, his eyes conveying a silent command. "Stay out of this."

She stepped forward, fury burning in her eyes. "The Eternal Fire does not deal with monsters!"

"No," Solomon agreed, his voice cutting through her anger. "But you will burn before you win this fight."

Tamara hesitated, her righteous anger clashing with the grim reality of their situation. She knew he was right. Even now, despite their courage, despite their fire and steel—the Crones were winning. The warriors of the Eternal Fire were tiring, their torches were burning low, and the creatures of the swamp were endless, their forms slithering through the mist, waiting for the opportune moment to strike.

If the bargain was rejected, there would be no survivors. And the Crones knew it. They exuded an air of smug confidence, their cracked lips curling into knowing smiles.

Then—"Agreed." The word, spoken in unison by the Crones, hung heavy in the air.

The moment the word was spoken, the air shifted again. The dark magic binding Anna unraveled, vanishing like smoke in the wind, the oppressive weight that had held her captive suddenly lifted.

The orphaned children gasped, their small bodies trembling as the invisible chains that bound them were broken. The curse was undone. The deal was made.

The ring disappeared from Solomon's palm, fading into nothingness as it was claimed by powers older than the swamp itself, drawn into the Crones' sphere of influence.

The Weavess chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. "A pleasure, sorcerer…"

"We shall see what secrets it holds…" the Brewess muttered, her eyes gleaming.

"Until we meet again…" the Whispess whispered, her gaze lingering on Solomon for a moment longer than necessary.

Anna collapsed into the Baron's arms, weak but alive, the vacant emptiness in her eyes slowly beginning to fade.

The orphans, dazed and disoriented, stumbled into the arms of the Eternal Fire's warriors, shaking but unharmed.

Tamara stood frozen, her sword still clutched tightly in her grip, her knuckles white. But she was not looking at the retreating Crones. She was looking at Solomon, her expression a mixture of confusion, anger, and a dawning understanding.

"What are you?" she demanded, her voice trembling slightly.

Solomon turned toward her, his expression unreadable, his eyes dark and enigmatic. "A man who understands the cost of war," he replied, his voice devoid of emotion.

Tamara's jaw clenched. "We should have killed them," she said, her voice filled with bitter regret.

Solomon's eyes darkened, a hint of steel entering his gaze. "No," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "You shouldn't have."