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Chapter Text

“Hey, I love you.” 

The words popped into Geralt’s head and out of his mouth as he traced lazy circles on the expanse of warm, golden skin beneath his hand. But the sight of Emhyr’s devastated expression made him bite his tongue and wish that he had kept his mouth shut.

A trio of wolf howls shattered the calm night air. The window shutters in the imperial bedchamber snapped open from a blast of wind, which also blew out all the candles.

Geralt grabbed his sword and rolled out of bed into a crouch before Emhyr. The Witcher’s cat eyes scanned the darkness for the attack. 

Someone clapped, and the candles reignited in an instant.

A rather ordinary-looking merchant grinned back at the Witcher. Geralt growled menacingly, "who are you?"

"Gaunter O'Dimm, also known as Master Mirror," the man introduced himself. "I am surprised, pleased even, to find you at the heart of Nilfgaard. Though I am disappointed that you do not remember me from our earlier meeting in White Orchard, Geralt." 

Then the man executed a perfect bow to Emhyr, “Your Imperial Majesty! I should hope that you, at least, still remember me.”

As he stepped closer to the bed, Geralt struck out with his sword— and found O’Dimm smiling at him from the other side of the bed. He lunged and again found the merchant standing just out of reach. Geralt wondered what sort of magic the man welded; his medallion, however, remained as still as a stone. 

He saw a shimmer and found himself gasping for air on his hands and knees. There was no sign of an attack, but it felt as if a shaelmaar had rammed into him. A massive bruise rapidly bloomed on his pale torso.

“Geralt!” Emhyr dropped beside him protectively.

“O’Dimm, enough.” The emperor’s voice was steady, but Geralt could feel the minute tremors in Emhyr’s hands as he was helped back onto his feet.

“Tsk, tsk, it seems that Sir Geralt is still in the dark. I think it’s time for a little story, don’t you?” The merchant settled comfortably into a chair. Any pretense of deference was gone.

The emperor paled. 

O’Dimm waved his hands, and Geralt watched the shadows about the room fuse together before it slithered along the floor and onto a wall like a living thing. It then twisted, merged, and pulled apart until the silhouette of the imperial palace emerged from the void as Master Mirror began his tale.

“Once upon a time, there was a little Prince, who by his birthright would become the Emperor of Nilfgaard when he became of age. But the Usurper led a coup, killed the father” — the shadows showed the form of an armored warrior violently stabbing a man to death—  “and cursed the Prince, secretly the newly crowned emperor, into a hedgehog creature, a beast for day and man at night.

The shadow showed the form of a child painfully transforming into a hedgehog-shaped figure. Emhyr’s fingers tightened around Geralt’s.

“The young Prince escaped, but he was forced to hide in the dense forests of the North due to his beast-like appearance. He knew that the curse could be broken, allowing him the chance to reclaim his birthright if a Queen would give him the hand of a Princess to wed. But how does one find a Queen or a Princess in a godforsaken forest in the middle of nowhere?”

“As fortune would have it, a simple merchant of mirrors, myself that is, was traveling through the forest one day and came upon the poor cursed creature. I listened carefully to his tale of woe and offered him a trade. In exchange for helping to free him from his curse” — O’Dimm paused dramatically for a moment. His eyes gleamed with hunger — “I simply asked for his soul.” 

“Oh, but the Prince was wily, like another.” The merchant’s voice lowered with menace. The shadow on the wall shivered, and the entire room darkened all of a sudden. But then, just as quickly, O’Dimm recovered and continued on. “He put a special condition on his part of the deal. I can only claim his soul if he honestly loves another and is so loved in return. But what can I say; I’m a romantic at heart, so I agreed.”

“Since our contract, I have fulfilled my end of the bargain. Shortly after his meeting with me, the cursed Prince saved the life of the wounded King Roegner, who unknowingly promised his daughter, the Princess of Cintra, to his rescuer. And from there, the stage was set. First, the curse was broken, as you are aware, since you were both there. Then, not only did the Prince reclaim his birthright, but he went on to build the largest empire on the Continent.”

“And so for decades, the Prince’s stipulation remain unfilled, for who could genuinely love an emperor? Princess Pavetta? She did not even know the real identity of the man she married. Princess Cirilla? She barely remembered her own father. Who indeed, but the same Witcher who once saved his life at a queen’s banquet.”

Coming to the end of his tale, the merchant stood up. The figures on the wall ceased moving and, with a faint wail of despair, melted to the floor and flowed back to where shadows should be.

“Finally,” O’Dimm clasped his hands together cheerfully. “Heartfelt declarations of love have been exchanged, first from your lips and now from Geralt’s. It is time for me to collect my payment, Emperor Emhyr var Emreis, Deithwen Addan yn Carn aep Morvudd.”

Chapter Text

“Emhyr?” Geralt turned to face the dark-haired man.

The Emperor shut his eyes and nodded in resignation. Then, reluctantly, he pulls away from his witcher. O’Dimm stepped closer with a gleam in his eyes.

“No!” Geralt shouted and threw himself between Emhyr and the supernatural creature wearing the body of a nondescript man. “If you are a merchant as you say,” he held out a hand, “then a trade.”

O’Dimm looked at the Witcher with consideration. “Are you offering yourself in his stead?” 

“Yes,” Geralt said at the same time as Emhyr cried out a sharp refusal.

“No! Your contract was with me, O’Dimm,” the Emperor insisted through clenched teeth.  

“A Witcher! An Emperor! How delicious!” the merchant laughed and rubbed his hands together with glee. “Your Imperial Majesty, your detractors would never believe that you could put someone else’s life before your own. But I actually find myself in need of service rather than souls these days. So I suppose, just this once.

For you see, Geralt, I have a problem with another who has proved himself even more recalcitrant. A vulgar, despicable man with a heart of stone. A man who refused to pay his debts. And that man just happened to be of interest to the both of us— Olgierd von Everec. The man who willfully and maliciously conspired to cause you to kill someone who might have been cured.”

Geralt froze. He had nearly forgotten about Olgierd and the trouble the man had caused him. But without a second of hesitation, he quickly assented to the creature’s offer.

“Come, Master Witcher,” O’Dimm opened his arms in welcome.

Emhyr immediately grabbed onto Geralt with both hands, but he could not match a witcher’s strength. It had been decades since he last felt so helpless. “Don’t, Geralt,” the Emperor begged. “Stay.” 

Geralt avoided looking at the dark-haired man as he stepped close to O’Dimm. “Let’s do this then,” he growled.

“Ah, but I must give you a mark to show that we’re associates,” the merchant said as he suddenly gripped Geralt’s jaw in a bruising hold. The Witcher doubled over in pain as an intricate brand burned into the left side of his face. 

“Geralt!” It was entirely too late, but there was little else Emhyr could do. “I love you,” he said and said again. “I love you, Geralt.”

Finally, golden cat-eyes raised up and met his gaze directly. “I know. I love you too.” 

And then the Emperor was left alone in his bedchamber.  Not a thing was out of place. But it felt as if the world had just ended for Emhyr.

A beat. Two.

He took a few steadying breaths. 

Despair loomed, but he knew he had to remain collected for Geralt’s sake. Gaunter O’Dimm, whatever sort of creature he is, would learn that Emhyr var Emreis is no longer a shivering cursed boy trying to survive in the wood. 

The Emperor of the North and South reached for his dressing gown. He walked across the room, flung open the doors to his bedchamber, and commanded, “get me the Lodge of Sorceress now!”

Geralt found himself portaled away from the privacy of the Imperial bedchamber to outside the Alchemy Inn in Oxenfurt. Sounds of loud carousing spread out into the yard. The Witcher glared at O’Dimm as he was forced to steal a shirt and a pair of pants from the clothing line.

It was not surprising that all eyes turned to him when he walked in through the front door of the inn. Yet, oddly, no one took notice of the merchant’s presence.

Geralt recognized a bearded man with a large mug of ale from his previous meeting with Olgierd. He grabbed the man by the collar. “Your ataman, where is he?” he growled and shook the rascal menacingly.

The drunk pointed toward the stairs with a shaky finger.

Unlike everyone else, Olgierd noticed the merchant immediately. He immediately dismissed his compatriots from the room and turned toward Geralt and O’Dimm with a dark expression.

Geralt did not miss how the man’s eyes lingered on the brand on his face.

“Gaunter O’Dimm. Come to cast aspersions?”

“No, I’ve come to collect a debt,” the merchant answered amiably, though with a sinister glint in his eyes.

But to Geralt’s surprise, Olgierd was not cowed in the least. “You know you first must—“

“Grant you three requests?” O’Dimm interrupted a shade too eagerly. “By proxy, allow me to present to you my champion, Geralt of Rivia. I believe you’ve met already.”

Geralt crossed his arms to loom in front of Olgierd. “I found and killed the monster frog like you asked me to. I sliced its gut open, and it turned into a man, who also happened to be an Ofier prince. Almost lost my head for regicide. You know that would happen?”

O'Dimm laughed. "He didn't just know. He brought about the curse himself. It's quite the gripping story, you see."

At least this time, the self-proclaimed merchant saved the supernatural theatrics. "Olgierd once loved a beautiful maiden named Iris. Yet her parents chose to offer her to a prince of Ofier. Olgierd wanted to kill the poor sod but then decided that would be too simple. So instead, he—"

Olgierd walked straight into the merchant's face. "Remind me, O'Dimm, who is to fulfill my last three requests?" 

“Why, my assistant, Geralt."

"Then begone. I don't wish to look at your face any longer than I must." O'Dimm stepped back in assent. He departed with a bow and a possessive grip on Geralt’s shoulder. 

Olgierd gestured to Geralt's brand. "That’s a dangerous man you’ve chosen to deal with, Witcher."

“Didn't have a choice." 

"I don't need to know, nor wish to know, what your deal with Master Mirror is. But take my advice, you must be careful what you wish for lest your wish be granted, for there are consequences. And unfortunately for you, I shall devise tasks so impossible you will never complete them, not if you go mad trying."

Geralt lost his patience, "Guess I gotta pop the question directly. What do I need to do for you?" 

True to his words, Olgierd's tasks turned out to be more than a little convoluted. First, he asked for the house of Maximilian Borsodi. Then he asked Geralt to show his brother, Vlodimir von Everec, the time of his life. Only Olgierd forgot to mention that Vlodimir had been dead for years.

"You see, he is a cheat," O'Dimm leaned in much too close than Geralt liked. "But not to worry"— he tossed an ornate flask to Geralt— "here, Vlodimir's blood, for a summoning ritual." 

Geralt could only guess how the merchant happened to have a dead man's blood. 

Thankfully, O'Dimm saw no need to supervise him any further and departed whistling a jaunty tune.

Geralt hoped that Emhyr’s solution to free him from O’Dimm would be more straightforward than Olgierd’s impossible-sounding tasks. 

But first, he needed proper armor and clothing. Thankfully, Shani was in Oxenfurt and gave him her address before the ambush with the Frog Prince. Geralt knew that he would need all the help he could get. 

Chapter Text

Emhyr slammed his palms onto the table in frustration as Philippa Eilhart disappeared from the megascope. The force toppled over the silver inkwell on his desk. The Emperor stared blankly as black ink spilled across sheaves of official documents and felt every single one of his years. 

He sank heavily into his chair.

The sorceresses were useless in how to deal with O’Dimm. But whatever they had scried unnerved them enough that they’ve all retreated to Montecalvo. Even Lady Yennefer only gave vague promises to look further into the matter.

Mererid approached slowly and deliberately at his side. “Your Majesty, if I may,” he began.

Emhyr looked at his chamberlain wearily. He had told only Mererid that a supernatural creature had abducted Geralt from their bedchamber; the Court was used to the Witcher’s sporadic outings, and so, for now, no one remarked on Geralt’s missing presence.

“What is it, Mererid? You may speak freely.”

“Your Majesty mentioned that the d'yaebl called himself Master Mirror. I have been corresponding with Lady de Trastamara”— at Emhyr’s confused look, Mererid quickly explained—“Sir Geralt’s cook, sire. She had confessed to me that she was cursed as a spotted wight over a hundred years ago by a merchant of mirror.”

Emhyr drew in a sharp breath. “And how did she free herself from the curse?” he asked.

“It was Sir Geralt who broke the curse.”

Emhyr’s lips curved into a wane smile; his Witcher would. 

“Perhaps it had also been the d'yaebl who cursed her.”

The Emperor’s brows knitted deeply in thought. Demon or mage, O’Dimm was apparently ageless, for he looked mostly the same now as when he first appeared to Emhyr decades ago. Of course, there would be traces of the havoc left by Gaunter O'Dimm throughout history, even if he had gone by different names.

Emhyr felt a glimmer of hope as he said, “invite Lady de Trastamara to the palace immediately. Explain to her that Geralt might have run afoul of the same creature who had cursed her. ”

“Geralt!! What at you doing here?!” Shani exclaimed in surprise when she found the Witcher suddenly at her door.

As the red-haired physician stepped aside to let him in, she was struck by his ill-fitting clothes. It almost looked like he stole them from some poor sod. “What happened to you?” 

The Witcher replied in his usual laconic way. “Long story”— which explained nothing.

She rolled her eyes. But then Geralt said something she was not expecting. “Shani, I need your help.”

“I guessed that this isn’t a social call. All right, tell me what you need.” The sharp-eyed young woman noted that Geralt was bearing a strange-looking brand on his cheek. “Is it at all related to that mark on your face?”

The Witcher’s gingerly touched his face. “Yeah. Got it from a man named Gaunter O’Dimm. Could be a mage but maybe not a man at all...a demon or a djinn. He’s very powerful; that’s all I need to know. He expects me to fulfill some nobleman’s wishes in return. First one is to summon the ghost of his brother, then show him the time of his life. Gotta find his grave and summon him. O'Dimm even gave me a vial of his blood so I could summon him without resorting to necromancy. But I'll need a censer too."

"Whose ghost is it?" Shani asked curiously.

"Olgierd von Everc’s brother. Got to find where he was buried first though.”

“Von Everec?” The name sounded vaguely familiar to Shani. She walked over to her bookshelf and grabbed a dusty tome after a bit of searching.

As she flipped through the pages, Shani explained, “In my third year at the Oxenfurt Academy, we had to choose an elective. My options were Pearls of Wisdom from the Hierarchs or Famous Redanian Dynasties. I chose the latter.” Eventually, she found what she was looking for. “Hmmm. It says Olgierd had a brother named Vlodimir. He lies in the family crypt, near their manor.”

“Thanks, Shani. Knew I could count on you.” The Witcher turned around to leave.

“Geralt, wait!” 

Shani disliked like politics; she knew better than most the price of royal ambition and avarice. She will admit that the streets of Oxenfurt seemed safer than before now that Nilfgaardians soldiers have started regular night patrols. However, the knocks on the back door of her clinic never stopped. 

Most of her covert patients, undoubtedly many Redanian rebels amongst them, stayed quiet except to thank her. Some, however, gossiped about hearing stories of a white-haired Witcher in the company of the Emperor of Nilfgaard. The rumors only grew more ludicrous and crude over time.

The Emperor is a filthy degenerate, whoring with a mutant. 

The Witcher ain’t human. I heard that it gave birth to a litter of wolves that grew to be as big as a man in one moon. The tyrant keeps them in the throne room to maul any poor sod that displeases him.

Shani dismissed the rumors, for she knew that Geralt would not want to be involved with nobilities anymore than she did. But his sudden appearance did make her wonder what had happened to him since their meeting months ago. She would have to bide her time to winnow the story out of him.

“The crypt is described as quite a work of art. I’d love to see it. Why don’t I bring the censer? We can meet at the entrance,” Shani offered.

“Could be dangerous, Shani.”

She snorted. “You’re not even in armor. And where are your swords?”

“O’Dimm snatched me before I could get my things.” Geralt shuffled on his feet and mumbled, “is there a Nilfgaardian embassy nearby by any chance?”

Shani raised her eyebrows at that but eventually nodded in response.

“Ok, if you can get a censer, I’ll see about getting resupplied. But if things go wrong and I tell you to run, you run.”

Chapter Text

Geralt cursed O’Dimm for the umpteenth time as he dodged and parried the strikes from Olgierd’s ornery, deceased ancestors. The Witcher eventually dispatched the specters so he could complete the summoning ritual for Vlodimir von Everec.

Unfortunately, Vlodimir proved himself to be as much of a menace as the rest of his family.

“You’re to see I enjoy myself, correct? Well, then think of a way to make it so that I can touch things, taste things, smell things!” the ghost demanded after Geralt explained his task to him. “I’m not moving until you figure out a way for me to revel and ruck and fuck like I did in the old days.”

Geralt growled in frustration. “You this big a pain in the ass when you were alive, too?”

“Do not anger me, boy. If I’ve but one night, I want to revel properly, not watch others enjoy themselves.”

Witcher and ghost glared at each other in a stalemate. 

A wily grin appeared on Vlodimir’s semitransparent visage. “I have an idea,” he said suddenly.

Cold seeped deep into Geralt’s flesh; it felt like something was trying to drag him out of his body. He fought hard against the unseen force, but it wasn’t enough. Little by little, the Witcher could feel himself losing control.

It was a relief, then, to see the marble floor rushing toward his face.

He blacked out.

“Geralt! Wake up! Open your eyes! Where are the smelling salts?” Shani held Geralt’s head in her lap and slapped his pale cheeks a few more times. 

The Witcher had told her to run away when the poltergeists came out of their stone sarcophagi and immediately attacked him. She waited and waited, but Geralt never came out. Worried, Shani ventured back into the crypt to find him supine on the marble floor.

“Geralt! Ger—!”

Suddenly she was grabbed by an inhumanely strong grip. Geralt’s golden eyes flashed open to stare directly at her.

“Death was a small price to pay to lie on a lap so lovely. And so near the wonders concealed a bit higher,” he cooed.

Shani’s eyes widened in alarm.  “Have you gone mad!?” she exclaimed as she slapped his hand away.

“Yes! As soon as I laid eyes on you. Promise to stay and stroke my chin, and I shall spend the rest of eternity in a hound’s body, trodding along by your well-turned calves.”

Shani frowned with suspicion. The Witcher was not a poet, nor has she ever heard so many words tumble out of Geralt’s mouth all at once.

She backed away from him. “Geralt, what’s happened to you?”

“Geralt? I’m Vlodimir.” 

The armed and armored man lumbered to his feet and took a shaky step toward her. Suddenly, his left hand swung hard at his own abdomen; he bowed over in pain.  

“Blast! Fine, fine, give me a moment,” Geralt groaned, then shook like a wet dog.

“Geralt!”

“Yeah. Definitely don’t like being possessed,” the white-haired man muttered as he slowly straightened. “Sorry about that, Shani. That wasn’t me. That was Vlodimir von Everec. willing or not, I gotta lend him my body for a day.”

Shani’s mouth dropped open in shock. Next to her, Geralt appeared to have started an argument with air. After several minutes, the Witcher eventually calmed down and turned his attention back to her. “Vlodimir promised to behave. Will let you talk to me if you just ask. But just in case”— he handed a still-sheathed dagger out to her. 

“Old wounds, here and here.” Geralt gestured to his upper left thigh and right elbow. “Never healed right. Best bets to stop me quickly. Don’t hesitate.” 

The young doctor took the weapon with a nod. 

Unbeknownst to Shani, since she could not see nor hear him, Vlodimir von Everec was stomping his feet next to them, protesting about his honor and how he would never hurt Geralt’s lovely maiden friend.

Geralt ignored him the best he could.

“If you can just find a way to keep him entertained and out of trouble for a day. Maybe just take him to a whorehouse.” The Witcher’s face blanched with sudden realization and muttered something under his breath. “Just keep us out of trouble, somehow.”

Shani blinked in rapid succession and thought hard about what might keep a man like Vlodimir von Everec entertained. A sudden idea came to her; Geralt would not like it, but he seemed to have little choice on the matter.

The Witcher shook again. 

Then he was a whole different person again. “Right, then, Sugarplum, what say you we leave this dank crypt? There’s a charming grove nearby where kisses taste sweeter than anywhere else in the world.” The white-haired man held out his arm for her.

Shani rolled her eyes. Geralt will owe her a lot for this, enough that he better tell her the truth when she asks him about his supposed relationship with the Emperor of Nilfgaard.

Emhyr was not surprised to learn that half of Corvo Bianco’s household traveled with Lady de Trastamara to the City of the Golden Towers. Mererid happily took on the task of making arrangements for everyone’s stay in the Imperial Palace.

Lady de Trastamara stood alone in the Emperor’s private office dressed in her finest, though Emhyr could see that she was nervous. Perhaps it was because she was realizing, just now, the full might of the man before her, or maybe it was due to Huchen’s presence at his feet; since Geralt’s abduction, Emhyr had gotten into the habit of keeping at least one of the pups close by his side. 

“Your Imperial Majesty, how may I be of service?” She curtsied gracefully. Emhyr gestured for her to sit. 

“Mererid explained in his letter that Sir Geralt had fallen afoul of a supernatural force.”

She nodded. “Yes, your Majesty. He mentioned”— Marlene swallowed—“a merchant of mirror. It is very likely, the same man who cursed me into a spotted wight a century ago.”

Emhyr looked her straight in the eyes and admitted, “that is mostly right. However, Mererid does not know the full truth, only what I had told him. It was not Geralt who ran afoul of this Master Mirror”— she made a sign to ward off evil—“but me. When I was younger, in my desperation, I made a deal with this creature for his help in exchange for my soul. The conditions we agreed upon were, or I had thought at the time, difficult if not impossible to fulfill. I thought that I had outsmarted him.”

“But apparently not,” the Emperor gave her a rueful smile.

“Recently, the creature came to collect his due, but Geralt offered himself to this foul demon instead. I will never leave Geralt in his hands. What can you tell me about the man who cursed you?”

Marlene’s face turned ashen as she listened to the Emperor. “May I have a glass of wine, please.” 

Emhyr poured her a glass of Amarone from his private collection and placed it in her faintly trembling hands. She imbibed the ruby liquid with near desperation. Eventually, the wine worked its restorative effect.

In a stronger voice, she began, “my time as a wight seemed like a dream. I only remember bits and pieces. There was a thunderstorm that night. The maid told me that a merchant was at the door seeking shelter from the storm. In exchange, he promised to give me a mirror that will show me the true appearance of things.”

“Do you remember what this man looked like?” Emhyr asked gently.

“I’m afraid that he was entirely nondescript. I felt as though I would forget his face every time I turned away from him. But the mirror he pulled out to show me, I will never forget the sight of my reflection in it. It was horror.

“The mirror did not show the vain, prideful young woman I was back then but a skeleton with maggots crawling over the bits of flesh still left on the bones. I did not know then, could not have known that the mirror was showing me my future as a spotted wight.

“I screamed, yanked the mirror out of his hands, and smashed it against the floor. He was angry and demanded that I pay him for the broken mirror. But at the time, I thought that he was nothing but a prankster. So I yelled for the servants to throw him to get out.

“He left with a curse on his lips: None shall sit and dine with you at your table, no spoon you have shall sate you, never again shall you wish to spy your reflection in the mirror.

“As I pondered the meaning of those ominous words, lightning streaked across the sky. The accompanying thunder was so loud that all the windows in the manor shattered at once. Master Mirror disappeared into the storm. That was when my nightmare began."

Marlene shivered in her chair. Then, just as Emhyr debated how best to comfort her, Huchen came forward and rested her great head on Marlene’s knees. The cook’s fingers settled into the thick fur around the wolf’s neck and started to stroke rhythmically.

Huchen’s warm, furry presence calmed Marlene enough for her to continue.

“My family and I sought out anything and anyone that might be able to cure my condition, but nothing helped. We were desperate; we sent out people to find the mirror merchant, but only one of them ever returned— stark raving mad. The man kept crying about spoons and demons. He screamed that I was cursed, that the de Trastamara line was cursed. 

“Soon after, my father locked me in the hunting cottage so that my family and all the servants could vacate the estate. He promised that they would keep searching for a cure for me when the rest of the family was safe. For the first few years, I even received letters about how the people they hired discovered cases similar to mine decades, even centuries ago.

“But then, bit by bit, the letters stopped coming.   

“And then there was nothing.

“My last connection to the world disappeared. The only thing anyone could see when they looked at me was a horrifying monster.”

She looked at the Emperor of Nilfgaard with wet eyes.

“In the years that followed, I often wished that a Witcher would chance upon the estate and kill me at last. I thought that was to be my fate upon the sight of Sir Geralt. But, to my astonishment, he took it upon himself to break my curse at the risk of great danger. Then he even gave me a home and a purpose to live again.”

The Emperor of Nilfgaard, deep in thoughts, forgone sleep for the night. Three things happened the next day.

The servants were woken up early to prepare the imperial retinue for an immediate departure to Oxenfurt. 

Emhyr had told Mererid and his closest advisors that he intended to take up temporary residence at the renovated manor of the mage Aeramas. He did not explicitly state his reasons, leaving it to the court’s rumor mill to decide if this meant that he was gravely ill, about to propose to Geralt, cheating on Geralt, or to prevent an imminent uprising in Nilfgaard’s newest vassal state. 

Mererid, however, was amongst the few that had an inkling of Emhyr’s true purpose. The chamberlain was commanded to remain at the palace to maintain a semblance of normalcy. Mererid protested against the Emperor’s instructions for the first time, but Emhyr upheld his decision.

“Show Lady de Trastamara the sights,” he told his long-time confidante gently. “She is worried about Geralt, but this is not her fight.”

A contract was posted to all Nilfgaardian outposts from the border with Ofier to the Dragon Mountains. It stated:

To Master Witcher Eskel,

Got your Mahakaman spirit*. Collect at the Nilfgaardian outpost in Oxenfurt.

Lastly, a discrete megascope call was made to the Lodge of Sorceress that Emperor var Emreis wanted an audience with Kiera Metz and her companion, the Witcher Lambert. 

Chapter Text

A guttural scream interrupted the festivities, leaving revelers confused and scared.

Shani told the bride and groom to stay inside before rushing toward the sound source to see if she could be of any help. She had expected bloodied combatants and other signs of violence. Instead, she came upon the same travel merchant, who had interrupted her dance with Vlodimir, standing over Geralt. 

“Geralt, what was that? Are you alright?” Shani knelt to check on the Witcher. She looked back to confer with the merchant only to discover that he was no longer around.

A faint scent of sulfur hung in the air.

Shani shivered.

“Geralt, what happened?” She asked as she helped him to his feet.

“Gaunter O’Dimm. Time was up. He came to collect.” 

“Vlodimir?”

“O’Dimm forced him out of me and back to the crypt,” Geralt said. “Two more tasks I still have to complete. Thank you for your help, Shani, but forget O’Dimm. He is dangerous. Forget that I was here," the Witcher advised as he walked away, not seeing the contemplative look on the young doctor's face.

Geralt departed for Novigrad as soon as he delivered Vlodimir's letter to his brother, onward to another impossible task— somehow getting his hands on Maximilian Borsodi’s houses.

Constructions were a common sight on the roads from Oxenfurt to Novigrad. 

And while most locals were not exactly thrilled over the conquest, they seemed to have more or less accepted the southerners since regular Nilfgaardian patrols dramatically decreased the number of bandits and robbers. Geralt even saw a handful of farmers sharing drinks with the black-armor clad soldiers at the local taverns. 

Things appeared less rosy the closer he got to Novigrad, however. Patrols doubled in size and frequency. The soldiers looked weary and apprehensive.

At least smoking pyres no longer greeted arrivals at the city gate.

Geralt was barely inside the city when the cacophonous ringing of bells signaled that there was a fire nearby. A moment later— "Out of the way! Out of the way!" — a small squadron of Nilfgaardian troops yelled as they raced down the cobblestone pavement in the direction of the alarm. 

Hierarch Square, now renamed Imperial Square, looked much the same. It was easy enough to get directions from a stall keeper. But, having spent so much time in the South, the Witcher was surprised when the doorkeepers at the Borsodi Brothers' Auction House, Redanian by their accents, spat at him and barred his entrance. 

Geralt shouldn’t have bothered finding his way inside because Horst Borsodi, the current head of the family, was even more unpleasant than his guards. So it was not difficult for the Witcher to agree to help a dark-haired stranger, dressed all in black, to break into Horst Borsodi’s underground treasure vault on the chance that somehow, Maximilian Borsodi’s house would be inside.

Eskel had ignored the first notice and also the second. But when he saw the same contract posted at yet another Nilfgaardian outpost, alarm bells rang in his head. Someone was spending a lot of effort trying to get ahold of him. 

The message was explicitly crafted so he would know that it was from Geralt. But Wolf could not have posted all these contracts himself. Therefore, someone in Nilfgaard was trying to make it evident that Geralt needed to speak to him.

Was it about Ciri? Eskel had heard from Dandelion everything the bard managed to prod out of Geralt about what happened at Undvik. The details were sparse.

He meant to reach out to Wolf earlier, but he had been working through his feelings after Vesemir’s passing. Eskel did not think he could have been able to handle Geralt’s grief on top of his own bereavement. 

But now. 

Someone was trying to get his attention that his brother needed him. Or it was some sort of trap.

There was only one way to find out.

Eskel steered Scorpion in the direction of Oxenfurt.

“Make sure you bow properly. Nilfgaardians are very particular about that sort of thing. Leg extended, hand flat. Head down, chin to chest.”

Lambert nodded and rolled his eyes as soon as Kiera turned away. The blonde sorceress continued to worry about the sudden summon from Emperor Emhyr var Emreis. Then she asked the question that had been on both of their minds. “Why would the Emperor of Nilfgaard also summon you?”

“Don’t know,” Lambert scratched his head. Internally, he wondered if it was something to do with Ciri, which invariably meant that Geralt was involved. And things tended to get complicated whenever Geralt was involved. 

Even odder was that they were instructed to come to an out-of-the-way manor outside Oxenfurt instead of presenting themselves at the Imperial Palace. 

They were shown to the drawing-room. Another traveler was already there, muddy and smelling of horse.

“Eskel!” Lambert walked over to embrace his brother but then thought better of it when he saw Kiera wrinkling her nose. He grasped Eskel’s forearm instead. “You have any idea what— “

He was interrupted by the appearance of a mousy-looking courtier. “His Imperial Majesty would like to speak to the Witchers now.”

“But what about me?” Kiera asked.

“ Only the Witchers,” the courtier said with finality.

“Witcher Eskel and Lambert, as your Imperial Majesty ordered.” The courtier announced and retreated immediately.

Lambert hasty dipped his head to his chest in a bow. He saw Eskel clumsily do the same out of the corner of his eyes.

When he raised his head, Lambert found himself staring into the piercing gaze of (arguably) the most powerful man on the Continent. He had learned from experience that official portraits were exaggerations, borderline fantastical caricatures, of the person they depicted. An armored duke was, in reality, an overweight, balding effete who couldn’t even get on a horse without a step stool. A beautiful countess was, in fact, a bucktoothed gossip.

Emperor Emhyr var Emreis however, defied expectation. 

Tall and broad-shouldered, the official portraits did not do justice to the man’s sheer physical presence. 

The aura of imperial might was further reinforced by the sight of three massive wolfhounds lounging nearby. Their golden yellow eyes carefully tracked the Witchers’ every movement.

Lambert scoffed internally at the vanity of nobles, thinking that they could keep such beasts as pampered pets.

The Emperor immediately got to the point. “I have a contract for you. Fifty-thousand Florens each upon completion.”

Lambert’s eyes nearly bugged out of his skull at the astronomically large sum. Eskel shared his amazement, but the older Witcher was more cautious.

“What is the work?” he asked and crossed his arms.

“Geralt of Rivia has been kidnapped. You are to find him and kill his kidnappers.”

Lambert fucking called it.

And if he and Eskel were lucky, Geralt would have dealt with the kidnappers himself when they found him. Easiest money ever made.

Lambert was about to agree when Eskel said no. The youngest Witcher stared at his brother in disbelief. And here, he had always thought that Eskel was the most sensible one of them all.

The Emperor’s mouth turned down, clearly unaccustomed to such a forthright refusal.

“Witcher can smell bullshit,” Eskel tapped the side of his nose with a grubby finger. “And your contract stinks worse than a pile of decaying rotfiends. Wolf would never need the Emperor of Nilfgaard to save his hide. So tell us what is really going on.”

The Emperor stood up and walked away to gaze out of the lone window in the study. He was silent for so long that Lambert thought he had somehow forgotten their existence entirely.

When he finally turned back around to face them, there was a noticeable change in his demeanor. 

He looked aged, weary. 

Lambert was reminded of the fact that the Conquerer of the North was also Ciri’s biological father. And the last time he saw her, she was no longer a mischievous little tyke that barely came up to his waist.

“Geralt and I are lovers,” the Emperor admitted quietly. 

He then continued to tell a story about a demon seeking to claim his soul. And Geralt, as was his wont, bravely (stupidly) intervened and traded his own freedom to the demon instead. 

It was a fantastical tale, sounding more like the fevered dream of an overly imaginative bard.  Though lambert supposed that heavy magic must have been involved if the tale that Emperor Emhyr var Emreis lived for years as a cursed man-hedgehog before he killed the Usurper and reclaimed his throne was true. 

Lambert’s mind, however, was still stuck on the unexpected revelation that Geralt had somehow managed to trip into bed with the Emperor of Nilfgaard.

He turned to look at Eskel’s equally bewildered face. 

Though yeah, between the three of them, Geralt would be that idiot.

There was a stubborn set to Eskel’s mouth that Lambert knew meant that he was still skeptical. Indeed, the scarred Witcher’s following words were, “prove it.”

The Emperor looked startled for a moment.

“Prove it?” he said with a barking laugh. “I am willing to pay you a king’s ransom to save Geralt, and you’re asking if we had exchanged love notes or some such trinkets!”

The two men glared at each other stubbornly. Lambert felt the urge to walk over and shake Eskel until he came to his senses. He was facing off with the Emperor of Nilfgaard. What was he going to do if it was a ruse, kill the man?

Sensing the tension, the wolves roused from their lazy sprawl on the rug to gather closer to their master. The lines on the Emperor’s face softened when one of the hounds bumped its head gently against his hand. 

“Geralt saved these pups for a werewolf when he collected Ciri’s medallion.” A tender look appeared on his face as he petted the soft grey fur underneath his hand. The Emperor then unlatched a hidden compartment in his massive oak desk and carefully took out a silver wolf head medallion.

Lambert instantly recognized it as Vesemir’s, the same one that Ciri had taken from the pyre. Eskel reached out and carefully stroked the beaten, century-old medal.

“Wolf’s in trouble,” he grunted as he met Lambert’s gaze. Lambert heaved a sigh and nodded his assent. 

Staring straight into the eyes of the Emperor of Nilfgaard, Eskel said, “we will take the contract.”

Chapter Text

The Witchers thought that taking the contract meant they would be on the Hunt. However, the first location the Emperor directed them to was the Oxenfurt Academy library. "The Academy is well-known for its scholars and book on the occult. Go and see if anyone has any knowledge of Gaunter O'Dimm or a Master Mirror."

"I'm a Witcher, not a librarian. We should be tracking Geralt," Lambert complained for the umpteenth time as they walked through the hallowed hallway of one of the most renowned places of learning on the Continent.

Thankfully, their presence went unnoticed. The Academy was still mostly deserted, scholars having only recently started returning to the classrooms. 

"The Emperor said that this Gaunter O'Dimm has some sort of magic, makes him and Wolf nearly invisible to folks some time,” Eskel explained patiently once again. He knew Lambert was as concerned for Geralt as he, so he did not begrudge the younger Witcher's complaints.

The Emperor’s recount of Gaunter O’Dimm alarmed him. They were not on a hunt for a beast or fiend. Eskel did not have the faintest idea of what to do even if they managed to find him, nor did Lambert. If only Vesemir were still alive.

The Witcher turned the corner in a hurry and felt someone bounce off against his chest. A tower of books clattered to the ground. 

"Ow."

An apology rose immediately to Eskel's lips, but surprise waylaid his initial reaction— he immediately recognized the supine figure before him. 

"Shani??"

"Eskel?!" The medic exclaimed in surprise and recognition. "What are you doing here?" Her eyebrows went up even higher when she saw Lambert behind him. The scarred Witcher reached out a hand to help her while Lambert gathered the fallen books. Eskel was still debating how much to tell her when Shani said, "Are you here to help Geralt?"

"What about Geralt?" Lambert asked. "Did you see him recently?" 

"Yes, he was here about a week ago, in the service of someone named Gaunter O'Dimm. But, whatever he is, he is not human.”

Eskel and Lambert looked at each other. "Where is Wolf now?" Eskel asked in alarm. 

Shani shook her head. "He did not say, only that it was too dangerous for me to be involved." She squared her shoulders at the ridiculousness of that notion, "I made some discrete inquiries into a Redanian nobleman named Olgierd Von Erec and Gaunter O'Dimm. It turned out that one of our foremost expert scholars on black magic, Professor Premethine Shakeslock, was visited by Olgierd a decade ago. Since then, the professor had been inflicted with some terrible malignancy, so he never left his house anymore. I am on my way to see him. Come with me!"

The hair on the back of Eskel's neck rose at the sight of Professor Shakeslock's dilapidated house. It looked like a strong breeze would collapse the structure. The little garden in the front, which must have been full of fragrant blooms once upon a time, was filled with dead and blackened plants.

Shani's hand went to her mouth in shock. "I had no idea."

"Better stay out here, Shani and let us investigate," Eskel told her.

She nodded in agreement.

The front door was locked by a series of latches, surprisingly well-maintained given the state of everything else. Eskel was afraid that forcing their way through the door would cause the entryway to collapse. So instead, they entered through a second-floor window that was not completely shut.

The interior of the abode looked as neglected as the exterior. Dust and spiderwebs covered everything. Oddly, all the mirrors in the house were shattered.

The floors creaked loudly as they moved about. They heard a quivering voice inquire from the first floor, "Franco? Is that you? Leave the bedpan in the usual spot. And take the platter. I shan’t be eating today."

At least Professor Shakeslock was still alive. 

The Witchers’ descent prompted an instant outrage. "Who the blazes—? How’d you get in? Get out! I know nothing. Don’t wish to know anything. Understand? No, no, no. Out!"

"Hey! Calm down, old man, we're not here to hurt you," Lambert yelled back.

"That demon sent you. I’m sure of it!"

Eskel saw the professor, a blind, bearded old man, standing inside a runic circle drawn on the floor.  A plate of moldy food, a wine bottle, and a chamber pot was placed just within his reach. Professor Premethine Shakeslock was a shattered man. His beard and hair were unkempt; his clothes were in tatters. 

"What demon?" Eskel asked as he came to a stop just outside the circle.

"Gaunter O’Dimm. Evil Incarnate." The professor’s cloudy irises stared straight at Eskel.

Perhaps it had been a long time since Franco visited, but once Professor Shakeslock learned that they were Witchers and, therefore, he had nothing to fear from them, he became highly talkative. He explained that it was Olgierd von Everec who set him on the trail of Gaunter O’Dimm.

"I pored over countless tomes, delved into obscure incidents and analyzed folk legends. There are records of encounters dating back thousands of years, in many cultures, under many names. But always as Evil Incarnate. In this land, we call him Gaunter O’Dimm. At times, Master Mirror, or the Man of Glass. In deciphering the ancient scrawling, I went blind. Yet I learned a great deal. For example, he plays with his victims and thrives on pacts above all else. Gaunter O’Dimm is no man! He is Evil! Evil which assumes various forms. Forget about him, or die."

"Well, you're alive," Lambert pointed out.

The professor shuddered. "Alive…yet I live in constant fear born of what I’ve learned about him. I can not leave these runes," he gestured to the circle around his. "It was a gift from Gaunter O'Dimm, you see. He paid me a visit once. A fascinating meeting that was. I was blind already but saw him clearly. He smiled at me. Said he was honored I’d taken such an interest in him. He wished to thank me and explained he’d taken a similar interest in me. He drew the circle and said I’d be safe within it."

"Safe yes.. safe," the professor continued to repeat, seemingly trapped in his thoughts.

"Is there any way to kill Gaunter O'Dimm?" Eskel quickly asked.

It took a moment, but the professor managed to gather himself. "Kill Evil?" he asked in disbelief and shook his head. "No. There was, however, a case where a man dissolved his contract. He defeated O'Dimm by challenging him to a duel of wits. He is, perhaps, susceptible to word-traps, but not to steel nor silver."

Eskel cursed the Nilfgaard Emperor in his mind. Even the man admitted that it had been foolish of him to make the pact, thinking that he could have somehow outsmart a being like Gaunter O'Dimm. 

It sickened Eskel to know that it was his brother who was paying the price for the Emperor's past mistake. 

The first thing they need to do is to find Geralt and tell him what they just learned. This Olgierd Von Everec must have a way of contacting Geralt.

"Where would we find Olgierd von Everec?" he asked the professor.

"It's been so long, I don't—" the professor rubbed his brows. "I think he has a  manor, around some farm. Faille or Feuille, something like that."

Lambert and Eskel nodded to each other. It was their best chance of finding Geralt.

"Thanks, helped us a lot," Eskel shook Professor Shakeslock's hand. The old man trembled at the touch, perhaps the first in years.

"Good. Very good. Ah, to feel useful after so many years locked up, living in fear—why it’s pleasance itself."

Suddenly they were showered in dust. Lambert tapped Eskel on the shoulder, pointing to a long crack spreading across the ceiling. A beam fell and unbalanced the heavy bookcases behind the professor. The Witchers rushed forward to prevent them from falling. 

Amidst the chaos, the blind man tripped over his wine bottle and fell over, cracking his skull against the staircase. He died a few feet outside the circle.

Eskel bent down and closed the professor's eyes with his hand.

“What was that?” Shani asked when Eskel and Lambert rushed through the front door. Within seconds, the entire entryway collapsed in on itself. “Professor Shakeslock?” she asked tentatively.

Eskel shook his head. “Dead. Cracked his skull.” He pulled the medic away from the house. “Listen Shani, Lambert and I are going to search for Geralt. So we need you to deliver a message to the Aeramas manor outside the city.” He recounted everything Professor Shakeslock told them and asked her to repeat everything verbatim to their employer.

“Who is your patron?”

Eskel answered succinctly, “Emhyr var Emreis.”

“What!”

Geralt returned to Oxenfurt with the deed to Maximilian Borsodi's house. He hoped that he would never have to deal with the likes of the Borsodi brothers ever again.  

He found Olgierd and his men, bawling in a tavern.

"Third wish, time you stated it."

Olgierd considered the papers with hooded eyes. "Perhaps we ought to go sit down, have a good chat over some fiery water."

"Not about to drink with you,” Geralt said and crossed his arms. “Third wish, still waiting to hear it."

"My, aren’t you stubborn. Fine, listen well. I had a wife once. The day I saw her last, I gave her a rose, a violet one. Bring me that bloom. Wouldn’t mind remindin’ myself what it looks like."

Like all of Olgierd's requests, it sounded innocuous enough. But as experience has proved, there was always a catch. So Geralt asked, "Mhhh, when was that? How long has it been? Flower must have wilted and turned to dust by now.” 

The Redanian nobleman shrugged. "You wished to hear a wish—now you have. Fulfill it."

"Least you could do is to tell me where your wife is."

"In my old manor, east of Martin Feuille’s farmstead. I’d wish you godspeed, but, well, you understand, I’m sure. Goodbye, Geralt."

Chapter Text

A heavy fog, like those that foreshadowed the presence of foglets, covered the entirety of von Everc's manor. A man paced around the perimeter of the estate, looking for signs of his partner, who had snuck in through the locked gate to look for things to take. The man hurried away as soon as Geralt agreed to keep an eye for the other thief.

Despite the foreboding atmosphere, the ground of the estate was surprisingly well-maintained. A black retriever suddenly appeared in front of Geralt. It sat down quietly, as if waiting for a command.

“What are you doing in a place like this? Best shoo before you get hurt,” Geralt told the dog and waved it away.

Closer to the manor, he began to pick up clues that something unfortunate had happened to the missing thief— a busted lamp, cleated boot prints, and drag marks. He bent down to examine what looked like dried blood when a small black cat crossed in front of him. Like the dog, the cat simply stared at him.

“I’d scooch along, kitty. This place—" The sound of digging drew Geralt's attention toward the garden in the back.

A massive figure in a hooded robe was bent over with a shovel. The bloody, mutilated body of the thief laid to the side. The Witcher drew his sword and stepped lightly, but his arrival was discovered anyway. The figure drew back its hood to reveal a nightmare. Its face was featureless ruin save for an angry mouth. The creature roared and lunged at Geralt with the shovel. 

The Witcher dodged multiple attacks, looking for an opening to strike with his sword. Despite its size, the creature was surprisingly quick. Geralt took a glancing blow to his side. He heard the crack that indicated a couple of broken ribs and tasted blood when he bit his lips. Eventually, he feinted to the right but quickly shifted rightward to strike his sword through the creature’s heart. It collapsed with a thud.

Geralt dropped his hands to his knees and rested for a moment. He muttered to himself, “what the fuck was that? Damn thing had no right to be alive.”

“Well… philosophers do still debate what It means to be alive exactly,” an airy voice said.

It was coming from the black cat.

The black dog trotted over to stand next to its companion.

“Normally, I’d be shocked, but not after what I just saw. Who are you two?” 

The cat answered, “Clearly not animals. Think of us as…friends of the house.”

They told Geralt that the creature he had just killed had been summoned to guard Lady Iris and the home. “He tended the garden, took care of unwanted guests,” the dog explained.

Geralt figured that the odd animals were there to serve the house. “So, Lady von Everec home? Could you announce me, say she has a guest?” he asked.

But the animals were less than helpful. The cat simply told him, “Iris is inside. In the bedchamber upstairs.”

It looked like Geralt would have to introduce himself.

Unlike the well-tended landscape, the manor’s interior was in complete shambles. A wraith dogged Geralt’s every step until he finally took it down. He wondered how anyone could have lived here still.

As it turned out, she wasn’t— living, that is. The skeleton of Iris von Everec, dressed in mourning black, laid across her bed.

Conveniently, the black cat and dog appeared next to the nightstand.

"This some sick joke? Why didn’t you tell me she was dead right away?" he grumbled at them.

"You didn't ask," the dog said.

"Why hasn’t anyone buried her?"

"We can’t. As for the Caretaker, the one you cut down, while still alive, she ordered him to stay away from her for all time."

Geralt checked over the corpse. He did not see any wounds nor signs of violence. "How did she die?" he asked the spirits.

"Her heart burst," the dog said. 

"One day, Iris locked the front door, lay down here and died. From grief, from lonliness. But that did not free us from her service. We will to leave these bodies and this plane," the cat replied. 

Which means that it was Iris von Everec's wraith that attacked him in the hallway. Geralt realized that this meant that he have to raise her ghost.

"I gotta bury her body," he told the spirits. 

Geralt gently lowered the skeleton into the grave he dug next to a decayed easel in the front garden. The cat told him that Iris used to paint there. It was just as good a spot as any.

He delivered her eulogy solemnly in the presence of the spirits. "I didn’t know Iris von Everec, so I can’t say much about her. Fate had it a stranger now lays her remains in the grave. At times fate muddles our path, and life turns toilsome, hard to bear. Yet all deserve respite and peace in death."

When Iris rose from her grave, properly this time, she did not attack Geralt on sight though she still refused his entreaties. Instead of speaking, she pointed to the easel where a painting of the manor in all of its former glory appeared on it.  

"Wait!" Geralt's fingertip went through Iris' ghostly image and touched the canvas. He felt an immovable force tugging him inside.

"Oh dear," the cat fretted.

"Be careful," warned the dog.

Chapter Text

“Do you think Ciri had something to do with it?” After a beat, Lambert exclaimed, “you don’t suppose they’ve been fucking since they first met, do you!?”

Eskel pulled on Scorpion’s reign to look at his brother in the face. “I don’t know, and I don’t care. Stop talking about Wolf and the Emperor,” he growled.

Lambert held up his hands. “Aright. Just making conversations to pass the time.” In sotto voce, he added, “Kiera is much more fun to travel with.”

The Von Everec manor was infamous in these parts, so it was not hard to find. They came across a man gibbering about monsters and a white-haired Witcher, so they knew they were only shortly behind Geralt. 

The estate ground bore signs of recent combat. “Shit, what is that?” Lambert said as he pointed at the cutup carcass of a faceless monstrosity laid next to a set of rose bushes. They found another corpse, human this time, nearby. 

The Witchers unsheathed their swords and moved carefully. But the place was seemingly deserted until they came across a pair of black dog and cat, sitting patiently next to a painter’s easel.

Eskel immediately noticed the odd intensity of the animals staring at the canvas. He stepped closer. It was an odd picture; a white-haired figure with two swords on his back appeared to be trapped inside a burning room.

“Geralt?” Lambert reached out on instinct.

“STOP!”

A voice called out. He looked down and saw that it was indeed the dog who spoke.

“If you touch it. You will be pulled inside like he was,” the dog said.

“The Painted World is rife with danger.” This time, it was the cat who spoke.

Eskel looked back at the painting, only now it was nearly completely obscured by smoke and flame. Wherever Geralt had ended up, he was in danger.

“How do we get him out of there?”

“You need to find our mistresses’ forgotten memories, restore them. Summon the fears that tormented Iris von Everec and destroy them,” the cat said— though most of it made little sense to the Witchers.

“Should we?” Lambert asked, but he knew as well as Eskel that they would always do anything and everything in their power to save Geralt— and he for them. 

They touched the painting together.

Geralt felt the fire’s heat pressed against him on all sides.

One moment, he was watching an image of Olgierd von Everec trying and failing to summon Gaunter O’Dimm in his library. The next moment, the entire room was suddenly engulfed in flame.

Unlike the memories and scenes he had encountered earlier, the fire was very real. The smoke stung his eyes as he scrambled to find a way out. But the doors to the library were locked shut. They did not budge when he slammed into them. They did not open even when he tried to splinter the wood with an Aard sign.

Geralt could feel himself losing consciousness due to a lack of oxygen, but he could not die here.

He had to get the rose.

Got to make sure that Emhyr was safe from O’Dimm.

Ciri...

...

He was suddenly hauled up over someone’s shoulder. He heard more bashing noises and felt the relief of fresh air.

As he was set down, Geralt realized that he recognized the brawny shoulders. “Eske—“ he began to say but was interrupted by a coughing fit. 

“Take it easy, Wolf.” A pair of strong hands maneuvered him into a sitting position.

Geralt saw a second pair of dirt-covered boots. “Lambert,” he said when he finally recovered.

“Don’t go and die in some weird painting, pretty boy. Your Emperor is paying for your weight in gold,” the youngest Witcher said as he reached out a hand to help Geralt stand up.

Geralt smiled at his brothers, but it dropped away when he realized what Lambert had just said.

“Ah,” he rubbed the back of his neck. “Emhyr gave you a contract. What else did he say about me?” he asked apprehensively.

Lambert threw an arm over Geralt’s shoulder. “Had to tell us everything so Eskel”— Lambert jerked a thumb in the scarred Witcher’s direction— “would stay and listen to what he had to say.”

“What?” 

“Got to say, Geralt, I knew you liked royalties. I just didn’t know how much you like royalties. Can you get the Emperor to make me a duke?” Lambert asked before Geralt shoved him away.

Eskel, in a more serious tone than Lambert, asked, “is he treating you right?”

Geralt’s nod was enough for Eskel, the most level-headed of the brothers. Then he declared, “we’re not taking the Emperor’s money. This isn’t a contract; this is for family.”

“What?!?” Lambert sputtered. “Are you daft? We can retire with that money. Heck, we’d be able to buy—“ his voice echoed through the painted hallways of Iris’ memories.

The demons that Iris’ feared were readily dispatched with the combined might of three Witchers. Geralt stood solemnly when Iris handed him a fragile violet rose and disappeared.

They returned to the real world, standing next to a decayed painter’s easel. 

“Our service thus ends. Thank you, strangers, for freeing us,” the cat announced, and the odd creatures vanished into the air. 

Eskel and Lambert told Geralt what Prof. Shakeslock had said before his untimely death. Geralt told his brothers about his exchanges with O’Dimm. The Witchers mulled over all information but could not agree on what to do next.

Ultimately they had to part ways. Geralt needed to give the rose to Olgierd while Eskel and Lambert reported back to the Emperor. 

Gaunter O’Dimm was waiting for Geralt at the academy inn. He sat cross-legged atop a table, but none of the patrons took notice of him. The self-styled merchant waved jauntily at Geralt.

A drunk, however, waylaid the Witcher at the door. 

“Oi, whitey-locks! You’s the look of a man who knows how to drink!” Alcohol wafted from the man’s breath as he wavered unsteadily in front of Geralt. He was about to push the man aside when— 

everything.simply.stopped.

O’Dimm had a self-satisfied look on his face as he waved at a Geralt to have a seat in front of one of Olgierd’s men, who was also frozen in time, with a spoon full of soup in his hand.

“Show off.” 

"Of course I am. Wouldn’t you be? Time’s marvelous plaything," O'Dimm said.

Geralt grunted. Neither Yennefer nor Triss had the power to stop time. No one in the Lodge of Sorceress could. “You’re not human; that’s clear. So what are you? A demon? A djinn?” Geralt asked. 

“Do you really wish to know?” The merchant narrowed his eyes.

“Yes.”

“No, Geralt, you don’t,” Gaunter O’Dimm smiled without humor. “This one time, I shall spare you and not grant your wish. All who have learned my true name are now either dead or have met an even worse fate. You are still useful to me. Tell Olgierd von Everec to meet you at the Temple of Livani. Then we’ll see about your next little task.”

He patted the Witcher on the cheek and sauntered toward the door. O’Dimm stopped next to the frozen drunk.

“That was the last time you interrupted me while I was talking to someone,” he said angrily as he took out a wooden spoon and inserted its handles first through the man’s left eye.

When time returned to normal, the tavern patrons went into a frenzy at the sight of a dead man with a spoon through his head.

Chapter Text

"The Temple of Livani," Emhyr pointed at the marked location on the ancient map on his desk. "What do you know about it?" he asked the Redanian doctor that delivered Geralt's message.

"It’s in ruin. Livani was the goddess of the moon and secrets. But people around here stopped worshipping her centuries ago. The temple is in the mountains, out of the way,” Shani explained. 

“Perfect for an ambush,” Lambert added.

Eskel crossed his arms with a frown, “Wolf also wrote that O’Dimm could freeze time. How do you beat someone like that?”

The little war council, consisting of the Emperor of the North and South, two Witchers, and a medical doctor, stared at one another in silence.

“Strange choice of locale. Guessing there’s a reason for it." Olgierd said as he trudged up the crumbled stairs of the temple ruin.

“Wasn’t me who chose it,” Geralt told him. In fact, it had taken some effort even to find someone in Redania who remembered the Temple of Livani.

Olgierd stopped before the Witcher and said, "but since we’re here. I believe you have something for me." He held out his hand expectedly.

Geralt gently placed the violet rose Iris had given him into the open palm. By the sharp intake of breath, he knew that the man recognized it immediately. Olgierd cupped his hand protectively over the petals. “Iris, what a mess we made of it all. If I’d only known then how it would end,” he muttered to himself.

Suddenly, he dropped the rose to the ground. “What…what’s happening. I feel as though.. a hot iron is piercing my chest,” Olgierd gasped and clutched his chest.

From above, they heard the sound of clapping. Gaunter O’Dimm floated in the ai,r with the full moon at his back. “Sorry to have kept you waiting,” he said to Olgierd as he descended to the ground, as easily as a person would walk down a flight of stairs. “So glad to see everyone’s made it. How do you feel, von Everec? A little less troubled, lighter on the heart?”

Geralt heard fear in Olgierd von Everec’s voice for the first time as he asked, "O’Dimm. What do you want?"

"What do you mean, what? Your soul. "

Olgierd quickly interjected, “you forgot. The pact states that you can take it only once you’ve fulfilled three wishes and —." 

"And we stand together on the moon. Well, what do you know." A sudden gust of wind swept up centuries worth of dust and dirt to reveal the crescent moon carved into the stone beneath their feet. 

Olgierd's mouth dropped open in shock. 

O'Dimm smiled gleefully as he advanced on the nobleman. "I gave you what you wished for. Here, on the moon, our contract you fulfill," he said darkly and grabbed Olgierd by his neck. O'Dimm's hand glowed red, then white hot. 

"Whoreson," the Redanian spat before he started screaming.

Geralt could only watch as Olgierd withered away until the only thing left of him was a smoking skull. Gaunter O'Dimm tossed it back and forth in his hands like a ball. He turned to the Witcher with a satisfied smile. "You and me work so well together, Geralt. Where would you like to go next? Kovir? Kaedwen? Hahaha, Nilfgaard? So many possibilities, so many—"

Suddenly Geralt heard a whooshing noise, and a cloud of dimeritium dust exploded across O’Dimm’s back. It was a perfectly aimed bomb. 

“Wolf, dodge!”

Geralt rolled away to take cover behind a headless stone statue just seconds before an enhanced Dragon’s Dream landed at O’Dimm’s feet. Fire engulfed the merchant immediately. Eskel and Lambert jumped out of cover to crouch defensively next to Geralt. It took minutes for the flames to die away. 

The Witchers gripped their silver swords tightly as the smoke finally cleared away to reveal Gaunter O'Dimm grinned from ear to ear.

"My, my, now this is a surprise. Geralt, you should have told me we're expecting companies today." 

"Release him!” Eskel growled at the merchant.

O'Dimm's genial demeanor disappeared.  "Do not interfere, Witcher. Geralt, remember what I did to the last fool who interrupted me. You would not want something like that to happen to your—”

Lambert interrupted with a snort, “yeah, yeah. Whatever.” He twirled his sword expertly in his hand. "Are we going to get to fighting or what? Because I've got places to be." 

Eskel swung his sword at the merchant while Lambert attacked from the other side. The Witchers were fast, skilled fighters, but Gaunter O'Dimm always dodged away at the last second. 

Coming from behind, Geralt quietly unsheathed his silver sword. He watched the fight carefully. Eskel remained strong and steady, but it was clear that Lambert was increasingly becoming frustrated with their inability to close in on the merchant— his swings became controlled and wasted more effort on his part than necessary. As O’Dimm turned from Lambert’s wild swing one more time, Geralt struck. It was a neat, quick fatal blow, which would have cleanly cut through O’Dimm’s neck were it not for the fact that Geralt’s body froze mid-action and his blade stopped a hairsbreadth from its target.

Gaunter O’Dimm looked straight into Geralt’s eyes and said, “you didn't think that I'd let you run around all over the place without a failsafe, did you?" 

A burning pain emanated from his brand and through the rest of his body. Geralt’s jaw locked in pain. 

Lambert and Eskel growled in frustration but lowered their swords. "Fuck," Lambert cursed. 

Geralt dropped onto his hands and knees in front of the merchant right like a puppet with its strings cut loose. O'Dimm grinned wider and called to the shadow, “it’s about time that you’ve shown yourself, Emperor Emhyr var Emreis.”

Geralt’s head snapped up in alarm.

What? Emhyr, here? 

He watched Emhyr, clad in black plate armor embossed with the sun, walk to stand next to Eskel and Lambert. Geralt waited for the banners of the Impera Brigade. But an army did not appear except for three snarling wolves that stood protectively by the armored man. The Emperor of the North and South came to settle a personal score.

The merchant bowed mockingly and yanked the silver-haired Witcher up by his hair.

“Gaunter O’Dimm,” the Emperor said, “I challenge you for Geralt’s freedom.”

“Ho ho,” O’Dimm laughed. “But we’ve been having such an enjoyable time together, haven’t we, Geralt?”  Geralt shuddered as O’Dimm breathed next to his ears. Still, however, the merchant’s curiosity was piqued. “A challenge? And what do I get if I win?”

Emhyr remained stone-faced. “My soul,” he said simply.

But O’Dimm merely waved his hands. “I’m afraid that is no longer enough.

“I would have said yes earlier, but”— he bounced Olgierd’s blackened skull from hand to hand— “Geralt’s service is much more valuable to me right now.”

“Then mine as well,” Eskel suddenly said.

“I must be crazy. Ugh, why did I let you all talk me into this? Kiera is going to kill me,” Lambert slapped his forehead. “My soul as well,” he muttered.

“Three souls, O’Dimm. An Emperor and two Witchers’ for collateral. But if I win, you release all of us.” Emhyr stated.

O’Dimm stroked his chin. “Well, this is an interesting offer. Hmm, very well. But we shall do this my way.”

Emhyr grabbed onto Geralt.

Then everything went dark.

Chapter Text

Geralt woke to a wet tongue laving his cheek. Hutchen let him lean against her as he struggled to rise from his supine position. His body ached from O'Dimm's little demonstration of control.

“Thank you. Good to see you too,” Geralt petted her softly.

The Witcher drew a sharp breath when he saw Emhyr blearily sitting up. Gudgeon and Ruffe crouched protectively around the Emperor. 

“Emhy—“ Geralt tried to say but was immediately pulled into a kiss. A gauntleted hand gently weaved through the Witcher’s silvery white strands as they reacquainted themselves with each other's taste.

“Sorry. My fault. Sorry, it was my fault,” Emhyr gasped when they finally pulled apart. “Don’t ever put yourself before me ever again, Geralt.”

The Emperor's hand hovered over the brand on the Witcher's cheek, afraid to touch the painful-looking mark. “I’m alright,” the white-haired man reassured him and leaned his face into the other’s palm. “Had worse.”

Emhyr touched his forehead to the Witcher’s.  “I love you. I will fix this,” he promised.

“Well, isn’t this touching.” Gaunter O’Dimm’s voice boomed through the air. “But this is the end of the line. Say your farewells while you still can.”

The Emperor and the Witcher looked around but could not find the merchant anywhere in the desolate wasteland. They were no longer at the Temple of Livani. The moonless sky somehow glowed with a bloody red hue. The leafless and malformed branches of the trees around them looked like limbs aching in agony.

“Where are Eskel and Lambert?” Geralt shouted.

“Oh they are around,” O’Dimm said. “But you wished to play, so let us play. I shall tell you a riddle. Solve it, and you will find me. Find me, and you will win.”

“Give us the riddle,” Emhyr ordered as Geralt grabbed his hand. Emhyr crossed his arms.

O'Dimm's disembodied voice echoed through the air.

“To all things and men I appertain, and yet by some am shunned and disdained.

Fondle and ogle me, till you’re insane, but no blow can harm me, cause me pain.

Children delight in me, elders take fright, fair maids rejoice and spin. 

Cry, and I weep. Yawn, and I sleep. Smile and I shall grin.

What am I?”

If Emhyr was as confused as Geralt, his face did not show it. The Emperor was serious as he looked back at the Witcher. Geralt would have happily given him all the time he needed to figure out the puzzle, but O'Dimm had a different idea. 

Black smoke gathered ominously and solidified into phantom monsters of all shapes and sizes. 

"Shit," Geralt muttered. He drew out his silver sword as Emhyr unsheathed his. "Monsters weren't part of the deal, O’Dimm!” he shouted into the air.

"My world, my rules!”

“Stay alert,” he told the other man and gestured for the wolves to gather in a defensive circle around the Emperor.

Huchen, Gudgeon, and Ruffe raised their muzzles to the sky and released a trio of warning howls. The massive wolves bared their teeth in readiness, growling at the bad-wrong haze surrounding them. Geralt let the phantoms attack first so he would not stray too far from Emhyr's side. Drowners, water hags, and ghouls came forward like a tidal surge.

Geralt was reminded of the hoard of creatures that fell upon him in the hut of the Last Crone and the despair he had felt. Back then, he was a man with no future. But now, there was so much for him to look forward to— Ciri’s return and her tales, wrestling with the pups, enduring his brothers’ inevitable teasing, harvest season at Corvo Bianco and seeing everyone’s satisfied and smiling faces, and all the moments still to come with Emhyr.

The Witcher yelled as he cut through the enemies in a whirlwind of strikes and slashes, purposefully leading away as many creatures as he could from the Emperor. Huchen, Gudgeon, and Ruffe tore through the mass of monsters with their teeth and claws. The creatures disappeared like smoke as they were slain.

Seeing a decrease in the enemy number, Geralt spared a glance to look at Emhyr. The well-armored Emperor was holding his own. His swordwork was proficient and testified to the hours he still spent with his sword master each week. Fighting side by side, the Witcher was reminded of the last time they had fought together, so many years ago. 

“We got to move. No way to find O’Dimm staying here!” Geralt yelled. “Got to find Eskel and Lambert if we can.” 

“Agreed,” the Emperor said as he stabbed the last ghoul in the chest before Geralt took its head off with a sweep of his sword. 

Emhyr beckoned the wolves to him. He took out two pieces of cloth, which Geralt recognized as part of Lambert and Eskel’s gambeson, and directed them to Huchen, Gudgeon, and Ruffe. “Find them,” he commanded.

The three wolves sniffed the air and ground, trying to catch a trace of scent. Gudgeon let out a howl as he picked up a trail.

The pack followed.

They ran, but Geralt could not even be sure that they were making any progress in the desolate nightmare landscape. All the while, Emhyr repeated lines of the riddle. “Cry, and I weep. Yawn, and I sleep. Smile, and I shall grin… something that repeats….”

"An echo?" Geralt guessed. But he knew that was not it as soon as he said it aloud.

O’Dimm's disembodied voice laughed. “No dice. You can’t possibly ogle an echo.”

“Time is running out,” he reminded them gleefully.

Meanwhile, a dense fog had slowly gathered until it was so thick that the Witcher could barely see his hand in front of him. But he could hear the sounds of fighting a short distance away.

“Might be them,” Geralt said. “But we risk drawing the monsters to us if we call out now.” 

"It's the only way." 

The Witcher gripped his sword tighter. "Stay close to me," he told Emhyr before he drew deep breaths and shouted. "Eskel! Lambert!! Eskel!! Lambert!!!"

His voice echoed far into the distance. 

They held their breath, waiting for a reply. But what answered did not sound remotely like a pair of Witchers. The ground shook as another group of monsters appeared from the fog. Gudgeon leaped at the throat of a drowner without hesitation.

Slash. Step. Dodge. Stab. 

Emhyr's body moved on its own in motions that were drilled into him from years of practice. But he has not participated in actual combat for decades now. He was getting tired. Sweat beaded on his forehead and followed the sharp planes of his face to drip to the ground.

All awhile, he thought about Gaunter O'Dimm's words over and over. His irritation cost him his focus, which turned out to be a dangerous mistake. Seemingly out of nowhere, a monster with the head and antler of a buck but the body of a demon charged at the Emperor and threw him into the air. The mastercrafted cuirass was the only thing that prevented him from being gored by the antlers. The Emperor landed on his side with a loud crack. His helmet flew off. Blood filled his mouth as his vision blackened.

Get up, get up. 

He shouted at himself and choked with frustration at how slowly his limbs obeyed.

Somehow, Emhyr managed to not only hold onto his sword but was able to rise to his knees and swing it toward where he expected the creature to be. 

His strike hit nothing. 

A stabbing pain ached through his chest every time he breathed. It had been a very long time since he experienced such intense physical pain.

Would it not be easier to just let go? Something with a single glowing eye asked from the darkness. You don’t need to fight so hard anymore. 

He saw the bruised and bloodied reflection in his sword frowning back at him. 

But the longer he stared into the darkness, the more the words made sense. 

The Emperor dropped his sword.

A warm and furry body nudged insistently at him before rushing away. 

He thought he heard someone calling his name. But everything was muffled as if he was hearing everything in a dream.

It only took a moment for Geralt to lose sight of Emhyr when a swarm of drowners rushed at him. As he hacked his way through a multitude of torsos and limbs, he shouted desperately for the dark-haired man. 

The Witcher’s jaw clenched in fear at the sight of Ruffe fighting to keep a monstrous fiend away from an unarmed and motionless Emhyr. 

He ran.

"Emhyr! Move! Get out of the way!" The Witcher did not spare any time dodging. He used Aard to blast the monsters in his path away when he could. Other times, he simply took the blow. Even so, he could only watch with wide, fearful eyes as the fiend finally grabbed and tossed Ruffe against a tree.

The black-furred wolf crashed to the ground and did not get up. 

“Damn it,” Geralt gnashed his teeth and leaped. He crashed into the beguiled man like a meteor just as the fiend's claws lashed out at where the Emperor's head had been. The Witcher wrapped his body protectively around Emhyr as they rolled away. They came to a stop, not a second too soon for Geralt to put up a Quen shield as the fiend roared and attacked again. 

Geralt's knees buckled under the assault. His stamina was nearly completely depleted. Even so, he made the sign for Igni, and as soon as the Quen dropped, he blasted the fiend’s third eye with flame.

It screeched and charged blindly at Geralt. The Witcher used the creature’s momentum to lead it far away from Emhyr. Unfortunately, his Igni spluttered out sooner than he expected, and the fiend’s antler scraped his left side. 

Geralt gasped and dropped into a crouch.

The fiend roared to attack again when a grapeshot exploded against its back. “Get out of the way, Wolf!” Eskel and Lambert yelled as they jumped in between him and the monster.

The white-haired Witcher immediately scrambled to get to the Emperor, who was still unconscious. Geralt dropped his head to the other’s chest and was relieved to hear a steady heartbeat. He took note of the bruises and a still-bleeding cut across Emhyr’s forehead. His fingers found the beginning of an egg-sized lump on the back of his head. And judging from the dents on his cuirass, Geralt guessed that Emhyr broke a few ribs when he fell.

“Got to wake up, Emhyr,” Geralt muttered, even though he wanted nothing more than to stop and rest. 

Lambert’s triumphant whooping drew his attention away briefly. He looked back to find Emhyr’s amber eyes staring intently at him. “I solved the riddle,” the Emperor said. 

“Shit,” Lambert spat two broken teeth onto the ground. He twisted the sprained fingers on his right hand back into position. Eskel’s right eye was swollen shut, and it was clear from the way he held himself that his left arm was broken. “Where the fuck did these things come from? How did O’Dimm manage to conjure up all these creatures? Geralt, what the fuck are we —“

He turned around and saw the white-haired Witcher and the Emperor by one of the wolves. Of the three wolves, Ruffe remained curled on the ground. His black fur was heavy with blood from where sharp branches had pierced his side. “Thank you,” Emhyr said as he gently stroked the whimpering pup. Huchen and Gudgeon nuzzled their wounded brother in comfort. 

"Give me a Swallow and Tawny Oil. I'll carry him." Geralt said. He ignored the pain from the still bleeding wound on his side as he hefted Ruffe into his arms. “It will stop bleeding soon. Be careful with your ribs,” the Witcher told the Emperor when he looked over in concern. 

Emhyr nodded. “We need to find a mirror. Find it, and we will find O'Dimm and end this madness."

"Out here?" Lambert gestured to desolation around them. 

"Isn't that a house?" Eskel pointed. As the fog cleared away, they could see the roofline of a manor in the distance. 

"Could be another trap," Geralt said, but they all knew there was little else they could do. 

Surprisingly, they were not waylaid by any more attacks. However, Emhyr grew more and more pensive as they approached their destination. He paled when he saw the massive entrance. “I know this place. This is my father's hunting lodge," he gasped. "The Usurper burnt it down after he killed him.” 

The Witchers looked at him oddly. “It can’t be. This is one of the outer gatehouses at Kaer Morhen. It was destroyed during the pogrom," Eskel said definitively. 

They stared at each other in confusion.

“More of O’Dimm’s dark magic,” Lambert said. 

The front door creaked ominously when he pushed it open. The only thing they could see was a long hallway, dimly lit by the occasional candles. 

One by one, they carefully stepped across the threshold.

They walked in silence. Their footsteps echoed surprisingly loud.

And yet, Eskel thought that he could hear the wind whistling through tree leaves. His ear wiggled. Then he heard someone say his name in a low whisper. 

He recognized the speaker immediately. He heard it often in his nightmares.

Deidre!

But how, Eskel wondered. He looked to his right, and in the darkness, he saw a path stretching into a familiar forest. Though he did not have any plans, Eskel stepped onto the trail.

Lambert heard two men talking about payment for a contract involving a cursed daughter. One was unfamiliar to him, but he recognized the other's voice very well. 

"Aiden, don't take the contract!" he shouted and took off in a sprint.

"Geralt! Help me!!!"

The Witcher looked around in the dark. 

"Help me! Please!! Geralt, I need you!" The hair on the back of Geralt's neck stood up when he recognized the owner.

"Ciri?! Ciri, where are you?"

"Here! I'm right here! Just follow the sound of my voice!" she called back. 

There was a door to his right. And behind it, Geralt could see a snowy landscape. He wondered if he should tell Emhyr that Ciri was back. 

But it sounded urgent. 

There would be time yet to tell Emhyr.

…

Sharp teeth nipping his hand made him look down. Ruffe was growling weakly at the darkness. When he looked back up again, the door had disappeared.

Geralt remembered Ciri’s letters. 

She was safe. But they were not. He turned to Emhyr.

Where are the blasted mirrors, Emhyr wondered as he surveyed the elaborately decorated hallway. A large number of paintings and hunting trophies hung on the wall. But he could not find a single mirror nor any reflective surface in sight. 

The hunting lodge had been one of his favorite places of escape as a child. He did not have the heart to rebuild it after reclaiming his throne. 

To his left, he suddenly heard the hurried and heavy footsteps of someone in full armor. He only saw a glimpse of the person before the turned around a corner, but Emhyr knew, to his bones, who it was. 

The Usurper, on the night he killed his father.

Emhyr’s knuckles whitened as he tightened his grip on his sword. Huchen and Gudgeon bared their teeth and growled, low and deep. Now was his chance, Emperor realized, to personally exact his vengeance on the Usurper, to show him that— 

His arm was grabbed. "Emhyr! Snap out of it!" 

The Emperor blinked and found himself staring into Geralt's golden cat eyes, pupils blown wide with worry.

"What the..." The walls and floor disappeared in a puff of smoke. 

Gaunter O’Dimm cackled, “I can’t believe you all fell for that! Time is running out!” He reminded them.

Geralt cursed when he could find no sign of Eskel and Lambert. He could only hope that they were safe.

"We have to keep moving," Emhyr said. 

Although there was no way to be sure, Geralt was certain they were getting close to the heart of O'Dimm's nightmarish realm. Ominous clouds gathered overhead in the blood-red sky.

There was something familiar about their surroundings. Geralt realized the reason when they came upon the ruins of a massive palace. They had been walking through the Imperial Garden. What had once been an architectural marvel of stone and glass was completely destroyed. Only a few walls and stairs of the Imperial Palace remained.

Geralt glanced over at Emhyr. The Emperor's face was grave but resolute. Suddenly, his eyes lit up.

"There!" He pointed at the top of a set of broken stairs. Geralt saw a mirror sitting in the ruins of a drawing room. He gestured for Emhyr and the wolves to stay and raced up. The glistening surface was tantalizingly close, but something felt odd to Geralt. The moment the tip of his finger touched the mirror, it shattered into a million pieces. 

O’Dimm laughed uproariously. "Awful! You’re doing terribly. Remember, you can always give up,” he taunted.

Geralt spotted another mirror nearby, but it exploded in a similar fashion. 

Five shattered mirrors in total.

Geralt growled in frustration. Huchen and Grudegen snarled at O’Dimm’s disembodied voice as they paced around Emhyr. Even the normally self-assured Emperor was beginning to lose his composure. “O’Dimm,” he began to say. 

“The rules, remember! You still have to find me! I am salivating at the thought of supping on your pathetic and flawed mortal souls!” A heavy wind began to blow.

In the ruins of his palace and with his hair whipping at this face, the Emperor of Nilfgaard realized that this might be the one battle he would lose. “Geralt,” he turned to his Witcher. “I want to—“ but the Witcher raised his hand. 

“Do you hear that?” 

Geralt cocked his head and realized that the faint trickling sound was coming from behind a wall. 

Water! 

“Time’s up!” O’Dimm’s disembodied voice announced just as Geralt blasted the wall apart with Aard. A jet of water surged through the hole and poured into a stone fountain. 

Emhyr found his reflection in the shallow pool. “Mirror. There you are,” he said with satisfaction.

The Witcher reached into the water and dragged out the angry, hissing merchant, who no longer looked human. His skin became grayish while his eyes turned red. He struck first.

Time slowed for Geralt. 

He watched as the demon’s talons inched closer toward the Emperor's chest. It was easy to shift his position, so he was between O’Dimm and Emhyr. 

An incredible force punctured through Geralt’s armor. O'Dimm grinned with sharp teeth as his clawed hand enclosed around the Witcher's heart.

“I have your heart in my hand, Geralt. Looks like I —" 

Geralt spat a mouthful of blood at him just as a new voice, young and female, cried out from behind O'Dimm.

"Begone, you've lost!"

There was a flash of light as Ciri grabbed the demon. 

Chapter Text

The Emperor of Nilfgaard found himself standing in a small antechamber. His mind scrambled to figure out what had happened. Thankfully, the room was empty as the castle’s occupants were all in the great hall nearby. An enormous celebration was taking place. 

O’Dimm was well aware of who attacked him. He felt a novel sensation prickling his skin. It was his first taste of fear. The demon shuddered from head to toe. In reluctance, he let go of Geralt and turned to face his new foe.

“Geralt!” Emhyr yelled as the Witcher collapsed into his arms. He stared in horror at the gaping wound in the other’s chest and felt ill. The dark-haired man pressed as hard as he dared to stanch the bleeding.“ I told you never to put yourself before me.” 

Against all odds, the Witcher was still cognizant. He mumbled something that Emhyr vaguely made out to be “stupid order.” Then the Emperor realized that the idiot was trying to sit up, 

“Ciri!” Geralt gasped through blood-specked lips. “Got to help her!”

Rivers of blood gushed through Emhyr’s fingers. He pushed down harder to hold the Witcher still. “You’ll bleed out, you fool! Let me look.” He raised his head so he could tell Geralt how Cirilla was faring

The Emperor had never seen his daughter fight before, having only read reports of her battles. 

She did not fight like a Witcher; she did not fight like anyone. 

Cirilla and O'Dimm fought with inhuman speed. The movements were too fast for his eyes to follow. He only saw glimpses of their motion when they entered normal time. However, it was clear that his daughter was holding her own against the demon. 

As he looked more carefully at their surroundings, his blood turned cold. Screams and shouts suddenly erupted from the great hall. Emhyr closed his eyes when he realized exactly where and when they were. 

This was Queen Calanthe’s castle. On the very night when the still cursed Emhyr, as Duny, crashed the betrothal of Princess Pavetta, won her hand in marriage, and had his curse broken. The first time he and Geralt crossed paths and the night that Geralt asked for the Law of Surprise. It was an anchor point in space-time, the crossroad of so many destinies.

A weak touch drew him out of his shock. “It’s that night, Geralt,” the Emperor whispered and wondered why of all place and time, his daughter took them here. He became alarmed when the Witcher’s grip slackened.  

“Cirilla!” He shouted, but he knew there was no risk of anyone in the great hall rushing to check on them. “Geralt needs medical care. Now!”

Green eyes widened with alarm as she glanced over.

O’Dimm smiled triumphantly at her distraction. He slipped in front of her like a snake and posed to strike when a surge of light swept from the other room. The light gathered like a glove around Ciri’s right hand, which she clamped on O’Dimm’s shoulder. 

“Ouw se on coq e coq la se rwa an le pil fimie ay,” he hissed as he twisted in her grip like a bug.

Ciri drew upon another wave of power and opened a dark void in the air. O’Dimm screamed as she shoved him into the hole. 

“Stay out!” she shouted triumphantly.

As she hurried toward Geralt, Ciri felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up. She glanced into the light from the great hall and met the gaze of another pair of emerald green eyes.  

She knew exactly who was looking at her.

How could she not when they looked so much alike. 

Ciri took a step toward the great hall.

“No, Cirilla,” the Emperor— her father— called out to her. “You must not interfere. All of this has already happened.” 

Ciri closed her eyes. She knew better than anyone else why this night could never ever be changed.

The Lady of Time and Space did not dare to look back again as she helped the Emperor lift the unconscious Witcher into his arms.

“Ciri!” Geralt gasped as he sat up. He immediately collapsed again when it felt like a herd of shaelmaars was stomping on his chest. 

Slender, sword-calloused fingers soothed his brows as a cup of thick concoction was gently tipped into his mouth.  The pain faded to a dull ache after a moment. 

“Ciri!” 

His not-so-little-anymore girl beamed at him. She looked just as he remembered, though she carried an air of maturity that she did not possess before. “Ciri,” he cried again, voice thick with emotions. “I thought I lost you to the White Frost.”

“Oh, Geralt. I am sorry to worry you! Perhaps you will understand once I’ve explained,” she said. “I want to hug you, but —“

A deep voice interrupted them, “he is not to move.” Geralt looked to the side and found Emhyr rising slowly from a chaise longue. There were heavy shadows under the Emperor’s eyes. His face was covered in bandages, and a thick brace encircled his ribs. “The healers said that your heart stopped beating twice and that you very nearly bled out,” he said through clenched teeth. “Until that gaping hole in your chest heals, you are confined to bed rest.”

Geralt swallowed.

“But Cirilla can visit you if she wishes,” Emhyr added in a softer tone. “As will I, when I am done with my work.” 

The Witcher jutted his chin at the dark-haired man. “You are not working,” he said. “Your ribs are clearly broken. Did they check your head? Mererid will not let you set foot into your office if I tell him what happened.”

Emhyr glared back.

Then Geralt remembered. “What about Eskel and Lambert? The pups? What happened to O’Dimm?”

“They are safe. General Morvran found them all at the Temple of Livani. Your Redanian doctor friend personally took care of their wounds. They are on their way here,” Emhyr explained.

“I sent O’Dimm to the void between worlds,” Ciri said simply.  

The Witcher leaned back into the stack of plush pillows with relief. Then he looked meaningfully at the large space in the bed next to him. “Come here already. You need to rest too,” he told Emhyr, who, after a moment of resistance, shrugged and carefully laid down next to Geralt. 

His hand found the Witcher’s immediately.

Ciri looked at them quizzically. “How did that happen?” She gestured to their joint hands. 

“I’ll tell you the story later,” Geralt said with a yawn. “Tell me what happened in your fight with the White Frost. And how did you write a bunch of letters to Emhyr from the past?”

Ciri nodded. “But first, there is something you should know, Geralt. I’ve agreed to Em—“ she corrected herself— “Papa’s offer. I believe I have a way to defeat the White Frost. To do so, I will become the Empress of Nilfgaard.”

The End