Witcher: Sovereign of Magic

The battle was over.

The flames of the Eternal Fire flickered against the thick swamp mist as the last of the Crones' monstrous servants slithered into the dark waters, retreating into the unknown. Their masters were gone, vanished with the cursed ring Solomon had traded them.

The air was thick with smoke and sweat. The warriors of the Eternal Fire tended to their wounded. Tamara stood over them, her sword still clutched tightly in her shaking hand.

Anna lay in the Baron's arms, alive but weak, her body trembling as she recovered from the breaking of the curse. The orphans, freed from the Crones' grasp, huddled together, their faces pale with fear and exhaustion.

But Geralt wasn't finished.

He stepped forward, turning his gaze toward the empty space where the Crones had once stood. "The girl," he called out into the mist. "Cirilla. You knew she was here. You saw her."

Silence.

Then, the air rippled.

A low, wet chuckle echoed through the bog, followed by another, then another, until the laughter of the Crones surrounded them once more—disembodied, hidden, yet still present.

"The child of destiny…" the Weavess crooned. "So sweet, so fierce…"

"She ran fast, but not fast enough to hide from our sight…" rasped the Brewess.

"And what do you offer in return, Witcher?" purred the Whispess. "Information is a trade, after all…"

Geralt's jaw tightened. He had nothing left to bargain with, and he had no intention of giving them anything. But that didn't mean he couldn't play their game.

"You already made a deal tonight," he said coldly. "You got the ring. You have what you wanted. Consider this a courtesy—tell me what you know, and I'll forget to come back here and gut the lot of you."

The chuckling continued, slithering around them, curling through the trees.

"Brave words…"

"Foolish threats…"

"But amusing all the same."

Then, for a moment, silence.

And finally, the answer.

"She was here," the Weavess admitted. "A star fallen from the sky, burning with a light that does not belong in this world."

"A gift of fate, but not for us…" whispered the Brewess. "*We would have taken her, shaped her, made her ours…"

"But she had protectors…"

"*A raven and a beast…"

Geralt's breath hitched.

A raven.

Yennefer.

And a beast?

Geralt's grip tightened on the hilt of his sword.

A raven and a beast.

Yennefer was obvious—her nickname, her magic, her connection to Ciri. But the beast? That could mean anything. A monster? A mage? Something worse?

"The beast," Geralt said coldly. "What was it?"

The Weavess cackled, her voice slithering through the bog like a serpent. "A thing that does not belong…"

"A shadow that walks between worlds…" rasped the Brewess.

"Not of the Hunt, not of the world of men… but something older…" the Whispess purred.

Geralt's stomach twisted.

They weren't talking about a monster.

They were talking about something else.

Something other.

"Where did she go?" he demanded.

"She escaped," the Weavess hissed. "Danced through the mist, through the veil of things unseen…"

"But she was watched…" murmured the Brewess. "By us… by them…"

"And by the sorcerer…" whispered the Whispess.

Geralt frowned. "What sorcerer?"

A pulse of energy rippled through the air.

The flames of the Eternal Fire dimmed.

The mist grew heavier.

And then—

A figure appeared.

No portal. No flash of light.

One moment, there was nothing.

The next—he was there.

Draped in black robes lined with silver runes, Solomon stepped forward, his presence shifting the very air around him. His expression was unreadable, his sharp gaze flickering between Geralt and the empty space where the Crones' voices still echoed.

The warriors of the Eternal Fire flinched.

Tamara raised her sword. "Who—?"

Solomon ignored her.

Instead, he looked at the mist. "They talk too much."

The laughter of the Crones faded. A final whisper slithered through the darkness—"See you soon, Witcher…"

And then, they were gone.

The bog was silent.

All eyes turned to Solomon.

Geralt exhaled. "You knew she was here."

Solomon nodded slightly. "I suspected."

"The beast," Geralt continued. "They weren't talking about a monster, were they?"

Solomon's expression didn't change. "No."

"Then what?"

A pause.

Then, Solomon stepped closer. "Ciri is not just running from the Wild Hunt, Geralt. Something else follows her. Something old."

Geralt's stomach tightened. "Do you know where she is?"

"Not yet." Solomon reached into his robe and pulled out a small crystal with swirling silver veins—the same kind of magic woven into the artifact he had given Geralt in Vizima. He tossed it to the Witcher.

Geralt caught it, feeling the familiar pulse of magic. "What is this?"

"A doorway," Solomon said simply. "When the time comes, you will know how to use it."

Geralt studied him for a long moment. "And what do you get out of this?"

Solomon smirked. "The same thing you seek, Witcher. Knowledge."

Then, without another word—

He was gone.

No portal. No spell.

Simply gone.

Geralt exhaled, turning back toward the Baron, Tamara, and the freed orphans.

He had his answer.

Now, it was time to act.

With that, he mounted Roach, turned toward the road ahead—

And rode toward Novigrad.