Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Geralt

He hated these kinds of gatherings. Perfumed nobility swaying between goblets of wine and half-whispered secrets, all pretending they weren’t ankle-deep in someone else’s blood.

Geralt stood with his back to the stone wall, arms crossed, jaw set. The room stank of magic and sweat. Mages twirled across the polished floors in embroidered robes, laughing too loudly. The air shimmered with enchantments barely veiled under the scent of incense and wine.

And then there was Jaskier. Playing some jaunty tavern tune on his lute, plucking like the damned thing owed him money.

The bard caught his eye briefly. He was grinning, of course, but Geralt just scowled in return, not bothering to hide it. His gaze swept the room again, sharp and assessing, pausing on every twitch of a robe or flick of a wand too close to his space. A low growl rumbled under his breath.

His hand automatically reached to his side, attempting to rest on the hilt of a sword that wasn’t there.

No weapons. 

He could feel its absence like a phantom limb. That grated worst of all. Silver and steel left in some velvet-lined guest room. For the comfort of the other guests , they'd said. Mages were twitchy around armed witchers, despite begging them for protection every time their experiments went rogue.

Then someone moved differently.

Not dancing. Not posturing. Purposeful.

A figure broke from the crowd and cut straight toward him. No hesitation, no announcement, just a low voice under the hum of laughter and lute strings.

“Geralt of Rivia.”

Geralt’s eyes narrowed.

The man was cloaked, face shadowed just enough to irritate. Not Nilfgaardian. Not northern noble. Something... in between.

“I have a proposition.”

Of course you do.

The stranger leaned in slightly, cautious. “There’s a forest. Remote. Near a village that’s been all but abandoned. People call it cursed. They say the trees move. Beasts not seen in centuries are stalking it. Creatures that shouldn’t coexist.”

Geralt tilted his head. The bard’s music faded in his ears. Monsters drawn together, protecting something. A convergence. Could be magic. Could be worse.

“No one’s survived entry. Those who return are... wrong.” The man’s voice dropped further. “The villagers speak of a dark presence, a sickness in the land. Something old. Dangerous.”

That got a flicker out of him.

From beneath his cloak, the stranger pulled a satchel. Heavy. It thumped softly against his palm.

“This is just half,” he said. “The job pays well beyond that. My employer needs someone to get in, locate the source— or the treasure , depending who you ask—and bring it back. Quietly.”

Geralt didn’t take the coin. Not yet.

He looked the man over again. Posture stiff, a practiced mask of calm that didn’t quite reach his eyes. The stillness felt forced, like someone holding his breath too long.

And not afraid to lie through his teeth.

“What kind of treasure draws monsters like that?” Geralt asked, voice low, guttural.

The man hesitated—barely, but it was there. “That’s what we need you to find out.”

Geralt glanced at the gold, then back to him.

“Strange forest, unnatural creatures, secret employer, and you're asking me to babysit your lot while we poke at something no one else has survived.” His lip curled. “You understand I don't walk into death traps for sport.”

“No,” the man said, almost smiling. “But you do walk into them for gold. And this one pays better than most.”

Geralt considered it. The coin, yes. But also the pull—the itch of something ancient scratching against the edge of his instincts. Not a hunt. A puzzle.

He took the satchel. Felt the weight. Real gold. No illusions.

“I’ll take the job,” he said, voice flat. “But if your story’s false, or you leave out anything else… I’ll know. And when I do, your neck’s the price you’ll pay in addition to the gold.”

The stranger nodded stiffly and handed Geralt what looked like a brothel flyer. His eyes, sharp with restrained impatience, didn’t match the casual gesture.

“We’ll be at the Hoof N’ Foot Inn. Ready to leave by first light. You can call me Yohan.”

Geralt gave a short grunt and tucked the flyer into his coat without looking at it.

At least something interesting was finally happening. 

Better than watching mages get drunk on power and wine.

Later that night, the halls of the guest wing were quiet, save for the distant hum of drunken laughter echoing off marble. Geralt pushed open the door to his room, the heavy wood creaking softly behind him. The fire had been stoked already. Jaskier lounged in a chair beside it, a glass of wine in hand, halfway through some wanton tale he was probably composing in his head.

The bard glanced up, eyes narrowing slightly. "Who was that?" He didn’t need to elaborate; Jaskier’s attention was always on Geralt, even if it looked otherwise. 

Geralt didn't bother answering right away. He unbuckled his coat and tossed it over the back of a chair.

"Took a job."

Jaskier blinked. "Here? In Aedirn? Gods, Geralt, you're meant to be relaxing for once. Not everything has to be a monster contract the moment you step into a room with walls."

Geralt’s voice was quiet, but firm. "This one's different."

Jaskier set the wine down with a soft clink. "So? We’ve done different before.” The bard sighed, seemingly already resigned to the task. “I’ll come with."

Geralt didn’t look at him. "No."

There was a pause.

"No? Come on, don’t be ridiculous. Knowing you, it’s probably dangerous, which means you’ll need someone watching your back. Or playing a distraction. Or making sure you don’t brood yourself into a pit."

Geralt turned, and his eyes met Jaskier’s, steady and unflinching. "It’s too risky. I'm going alone."

Jaskier’s brows drew together. "Geralt…"

"No."

The word hit harder than it should’ve. Jaskier stared at him for a long moment, then stood slowly.

"You’re doing that thing again," he said, voice softer now. "Pushing everyone away. Ever since Yen, since Sodden. You’ve been—"

Geralt stepped closer, slow and deliberate. The movement alone cut Jaskier off.

"You're not going," Geralt said. His tone was cold steel. "That’s final."

Jaskier looked like he wanted to argue. But he didn’t.

The silence between them lingered. Not cruel. Just… tired.

Geralt turned toward the fire, jaw set. He didn’t need to explain himself. And Jaskier, for once, didn’t ask him to.

Jaskier didn’t speak again. Just nodded once, too sharply, and stepped past him out the door.

Geralt stayed there a while, alone in the silence.

The fire crackled low. His wine left untouched on the table, long since gone warm. He stripped down to his linen shirt, laying his armor out with quiet, practiced care, then lowered himself onto the edge of the bed.

He didn’t sleep.

He didn’t think about Yen.

Not out loud. Not in ways that would make it real.

Instead, he stared into the dark, listened to the wind rattle the high windows, and waited for morning. 

And whatever new hell the job had in store for him.

Chapter Text

Geralt was at the Hoof N’ Foot Inn before dawn had broken. It was the exact type of place you’d stay in for one of two reasons. You were a mercenary looking for a no-questions-asked place to rest your head and wet your whistle, or you couldn’t afford anything nicer. 

He’d slept in his fair share of establishments like these. 

His boots hit the ground in soft thuds as he entered, soft, sensual lute music being played in the corner. Barmaids in short blouses and even shorter skirts were tending to delirious and half-drunk patrons. Bent at the waist, bosoms pressed against their shoulders as they whispered into their ears. 

Geralts' nose crinkled in thinly veiled disgust, his senses unable to ignore the nauseating combination of Bodily fluids and heavy perfume. He quickly glanced at the corners of the room, assessing exits, other patrons. He found the Madam of the establishment wiping used cups behind the bar lazily, her eyes gleaming with interest the moment they met. 

“Well, well, well,” her voice was a thick purr, years of smoking giving it a roughened edge. “It’s not often we find ourselves in the presence of a Witcher. Looking for something in particular, sweetheart?” 

“I’ve got ale, food, women, and a nice bed with your name on it.” She bent over the bar slightly, her voice lowering to a light whisper as if she were letting him in on a secret. “I’ve also got a girl here that’s just your type. Thin, pretty, and all yours for a price. Whaddya say?”

Geralt stared at the woman, face a mask of disinterest. “No… thank you. I’m looking for one of your patrons. Goes by Yohan. Know of him?”

Her face pinched—just for a second. Easy to miss. Unless you were Geralt.

He grunted, raising an eyebrow. 

“Something wrong? Not a fan of his for any reason in particular.” His voice was measured, even, probing without pushing too much. If he was walking into trouble, he needed to know.

The madame looked a bit startled. “No,” She said quickly, too quickly, her throat bobbing slightly, seemingly surprised at being caught. “Just a skittish freak— Makes the girls uneasy, but the money’s good, so he stays… for now at least.”

Something to be wary of, perhaps, but not immediately alarming.

She snapped back into a smoother, more businesslike tone. “In any case, he’s staying up in room six for now, Sugar. You could go straight there, or—” She let the word draw out, fingers creeping on the table in what he assumed was supposed to be seductive. 

“You could go ahead and take me up on my offer? If thin and pretty ain’t yer type, I got an endless variety for you to take your pick from.” Her tobacco-yellow teeth baring a crude smile. “I’ll even throw in a discount for a handsome thing like you.”

Geralt’s features tightened as he leaned back, just slightly.

“No,” he said, voice rough. “Just Yohan. Please.” He tried to soften it with a smile. It didn’t take. 

The Madame pulled her hand back, the savvy businesswoman persona dropping, seeming to finally understand she wasn't getting a sale from him. “Alright, alright,” she sighed, “Upstairs, third door on the right.”

Geralt nodded once with a terse grunt, making his way past the patrons. His jaw ticked once, blocking out the various wanton sounds of pleasure emanating from the various rooms on this floor and the ones above, focusing instead on the familiar voice of Yohan from the sixth room, followed by a new voice he’d yet to meet. He stilled, zeroing in on their conversation from the closed door.

“Do we really need to drag a Witcher into this?” The new voice whispered uneasily. 

Nice to be welcomed, he thought coldly. Always a pleasure to be summoned like a tool and talked about like a curse.

“Yes, yes, we do.” Yohan’s voice rang slightly louder. “From the very limited reports I got from our employer, that gods forsaken forest kills anything that sets foot in it. And I don’t know about you, Grigor,” he hissed, “but I’d like to live long enough to actually spend some of our money. And if that means we have to have a monster in our group to fight the monsters, then so be it.” 

Geralt’s fist clenched hard, lips upturning in a scornful sneer before he schooled his face into a picture of perfect pacivity. 

He didn’t need them to like him— never did— he just needed their gold.

“Whatever,” Grigor scoffed, “Gotta pay the Madam, hopefully before the freak gets here.” The door opened, and he froze instantly, eyes wide as saucers, mouth opening and closing like a fish. Geralt stepped into the room, not breaking eye contact. Just enough to make Grigor flinch.

Geralt bared his teeth in a wolf-like grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

“Monster, at your service,” he bit out in a humorless rumble. 

Grigor’s eyes opened wider, the acrid scent of fear burning Geralt’s nostrils. He didn’t need signs. It was thick enough to chew through. 

Yeah, I heard you. Easier to hate something from far away, isn’t it?

“R-right,” Gregor wheezed, unable to meet his gaze, tongue thick with nerves. “I’ve gotta take care of some things. Meet you outside, Yohan.” He didn’t even bother addressing Geralt, just ducked past him as quickly as possible, disappearing down the hall. 

Yohan awkwardly cleared his throat. “Don’t mind Grigor. He’s just—”

“Don’t.” Geralt cut him off coldly, “I’ve heard worse from better men.” He stepped deeper into the room, eyes scanning the open map on the table. It was haphazardly marked and annotated with circles, X’s, and question marks. 

They didn’t even know where the supposed treasure was, did they?

“What I need…” His voice was a low grumble, like the first signs of an oncoming thunderstorm. “Is for you to tell me what the hells this supposed treasure is you’re searching for. ” He pointed to the map with a slight flick of his head, “because from where I’m standing, it doesn’t look like you know where it is.”

Yohan’s face paled slightly, his throat bobbing nervously. “Look, I was just given a location and enough money not to ask questions. I was told ‘I’d know it when I saw it.” 

Geralt stepped closer, a dissatisfied grunt leaving him. Yohan’s back bumped the edge of the table, rattling the map. He didn’t move forward again. “That usually means no one’s lived long enough to see it.”

Yohan stepped back slightly, withering under Geralt’s gaze. “That’s why I hired you. What I do know from the intel I gathered is that our odds are better with you than without. Alone we stand no chance, with you—”

Geralt cut him off again, “contrary to popular belief,” he grumbled gruffly, “I don’t take suicide missions. I need some kind of plan, something more than half-truths and maybes. No matter how much coin you offer. Won’t be of any use if we’re dead.”

Yohan seemed to shrink even more, wringing his hands in a self-soothing gesture. “The village that borders it has more information. We need safe passage to get there and aid gathering intel. That’s what the first half of the gold is for; the other half is if you accompany us into the woods, completely up to you.” 

Geralt sniffed the air once. The smell of desperation clung to Yohan like a second skin, sweat beaded at his brow, yet Geralt sensed no lies. 

As far as he could tell, the man was telling the truth. 

Worth the trouble? Maybe.

Geralt sized him up. Not built for survival.

Short. Twitchy. Light callouses on fingers. Minor experience with the blade. Stupid.

“You plan on taking this job even without me?” Geralt's face gave nothing away as he peered down at the spindly man. 

“Unfortunately, yes. Money’s too good to pass up.” Yohan’s fingers twitched as he wrung them nervously once more. “I'd feel a lot more confident with your aid. Just, be our escort to the village, help us gather a bit more intel.” 

Yohan licked his chapped lips. “After, you can decide whether or not you'd be willing to take the second half of the task, and double the gold.”

He wiped the sweat off his brow with a subtle movement before his eyes lit up, seemingly remembering a detail that slipped his mind.

“Ah!” He raised a finger. “I’ve got a few other traveling companions. They went ahead to scout the road. They’re skilled,” he laughed—it was a dry, choked thing. “Better with a blade than I ever was.”

Yohan’s hands flexed tight. Couldn’t seem to stop fidgeting. 

Rat-like. Desperate. 

All he had to do was escort them, maybe gather more intel. If he didn't… They'd die without him.

“Hmm,” Geralt let out a stoic grunt, “I'll escort you to the village. Whether or not I accompany you further depends on what we find.”

Yohan straightened immediately, his beady brown eyes darting quick and sharp. His chest puffed out, his left hand splayed out between them. “That’s all I ask for, lad, just get us to the village. Anything else is up to you. Do we have a deal?”

Geralt glanced down at Yohan’s outstretched hand, then back up to the man. Trim beard, crisp coat, fingers jerking with nerves. Not a survivor—an opportunist.

Still. A job’s a job. 

Geralt clasped Yohan’s hand firmly. The man flinched, as though the touch burned. “Deal. I escort you safely to the village. Nothing else— ” his grip tightened, pulling him closer by a fraction and glaring down at him. “ —Until I get more intel. Understood?”

There was that scent again.

Fear. Good. 

Yohan cleared his throat. “Understood. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me.” Geralt let his hand go with a low grunt. “You still may lose your head yet if this forest is as deadly as rumored. I’m just the escort… for now.”

Yohan pulled his hand back quickly, too quickly . Swiping the map on the 

He didn’t look back as he muttered, low and flat, “Get your men ready. Dawn’s the only safe time to move.”

As if anything about this world was ever safe.

Chapter Text

Geralt, Grigor, and Yohan left the inn at first light.

The road to the village was tedious, winding, and so remarkably uneventful it made Geralt’s teeth itch. Hours passed in stillness. Boots crunched over brittle leaves and icy mud as they traveled. The surrounding woods were corpse quiet, save for the occasional snap of a twig or the low hoot of an owl.

A handful of nekkers showed themselves on the second night—more nuisance than threat. They were gone in minutes, scattered and broken. By the fourth day, the air grew damp with the tang of river water.

Too quiet. Too easy. Even the monsters seemed half as strong.

Geralt’s boots crunched against gravel as they approached the final ridge. The village sprawled below.

The village was more rot than wood. Thatched roofs sagged under the weight of moss and time. A few thin wisps of smoke drifted from crumbling chimneys, but no voices carried on the wind. Seemingly dead. No chickens in the dirt paths, not even the faint laughter of children. Hardly anyone was in the square, a merchant, maybe two. Listless. Quiet. As if they couldn't care less if someone came or went.

Still. Too still.

Geralt slowed his pace on Roach, yellow eyes scanning the warped fences and slanted doorframes. His nose upturned slightly as he inhaled.

Fear.

It clung to this place like mildew. It wasn’t the kind of quiet that came from peace. It was the kind that came from waiting, unease.

Just a small distance from the village was the supposed forest.

Green against the muted grays and sickly browns. It was a thick wall of lush shrubbery and trees. Even from here, Geralt could smell the unmistakable scent of Ozone and life. It contrasted the village’s decay-like appearance—like fresh blood on snow.

Yohan’s voice broke Geralt from his reverie. “This is it, eh?” He sniffed once, giving the small town a once-over. “Laz and Bog were right; this place is a shitehole.”

He scratched his face, his chin fuzzy with stubble from the long journey as they rode deeper into the village. “Looks normal enough. Don’t it?”

Geralt’s eyes flicked from Yohan to the bright green of the forest in the distance, then finally swept over the village clinically.

Their façade of normalcy didn’t fool him; beneath it, tension hung heavy in the air. It was subtle, a whisper of something raw and unspoken. The townspeople cast wary glances to the tree line, their eyes skirting the edges of the forest as if it were alive — watching, judging.

“Stay sharp,” Geralt whispered quietly, “something’s not right.”

He could feel eyes on him, several pairs, their gazes making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on edge. They kept their heads down, gait even. No words. No warnings. Pretending Geralt and his companions weren’t even there.

As if they were already dead.

A bad omen.

Bad signs. Stacking up like corpses.

His medallion had been at a constant light buzz the moment they’d stepped into the village. Not enough to signal immediate danger, but enough to have him on edge. Enough to tell him this place wasn’t right. The kind of wrong that settled in your gut and stayed there.

Geralt scanned the sparse crowd for someone, anyone, willing to talk. A chance at answers.

The fishmonger stood near the river’s edge. Weathered skin, rough hands. Eyes dull as stagnant water.

The man’s gaze flicked up. Met Geralt’s for a heartbeat. Then dropped again.

“Always the same. Fools.” The words were soft, but Geralt heard them clear as a bell.

Geralt’s jaw tensed. The old man knew something. Knew and didn’t care enough to warn them.

Without sparing Yohan a glance, he swung off Roach and tied her to a post. Striding forward, he left the mercenary behind with a curt nod.

“Stay here.”

Geralt approached the fish merchant's stall. The old man seemed solid, a bulwark against time and tides, yet the weariness in his eyes betrayed him.

"Heard the forest’s got a bad reputation." He kept his tone flat, let a thread of curiosity slip in. "Just stories to scare children? Or something more?"

The fishmonger’s knife stilled mid-slice. A soft shhck of metal against bone. He didn’t look up right away.

“All you adventurers,” the man muttered, voice rough with smoke and brine. “Always the same. Poking ‘round where you don’t belong.”

The knife came down. Thock. He shoved the fish aside and spat into the dirt.

“That forest ain’t no playground. It’s wicked. Vile. Cursed. So long as you leave it alone, it leaves you alone.”

He held up his knife slowly, not threatening, just pointing with it, like the gesture had grown from habit more than intent.

“And I suggest you do so, young man. You ain't the first group to look for the ‘so-called treasure.’ Won't be the last neither. I'll tell you what, anyone that goes in, never comes out in one piece."

The Witcher's nostrils flared ever so slightly.

A faint tang of ozone mixed with decay. Life and rot tangled together.

"A cursed forest that respects boundaries?" Geralt said dryly. "Never encountered that before.”

The old man’s eyes flicked to Geralt. Flat. Measuring. Then he turned back to his work, spitting again.

Bored. Indifferent. But he knows more.

Geralt reached into his coin pouch. A few silvers clinked against wet wood.

“We’ve coin,” he said. “For any tale worth telling. Your discretion’s appreciated.”

The fishmonger’s eyes flicked to the silver on the stand. He sighed, shaking his head.

“All you adventurers, all the same. Drop a few coins and think that buys you safety.”

He pocketed the silvers with a resigned huff.

“Fine. I’ll tell you what I know. But it ain’t much, son.”

The man wiped his hands on a grimy apron, knife still resting in his palm.

“That forest’s older than the hills and meaner than a sea storm. Crawling with beasts—bigger, stronger, nastier than anything out here. But they don’t leave the trees. I don’t think they can. Why? Don’t ask me. I just know as long as we keep out of the forest’s business, it keeps out of ours.”

The knife tapped wood. Thock. Thock.

“You want a story? Fine.”

He leaned in, breath thick with fish and tobacco.

“Years back, when I was a lad, there was a hunter named Lothar. Bold as brass. Thought he could tame the forest. Make it his hunting ground.”

Geralt’s medallion hummed faintly against his chest.

“Went in with traps, snares, poisons. Confident bastard. Days passed. Weeks. Then he staggered back out… half-mad. Muttering about eyes in the dark. Voices that weren’t human.”

The fishmonger's eyes grew distant, glassy, as if he could still see Lothar's haunted face. "Said the trees whispered to him, told him secrets he was never meant to hear. Saw creatures twisted in ways no living thing should. He'd set traps, but come morning, they were gone, dismantled, as if something knew exactly how they worked."

A pause. The fishmonger’s jaw worked.

“He never was the same after that. Took to drink, couldn't sleep for the nightmares. Died not long after, some say from fear, others say the forest had marked him, and it came to collect."

Geralt’s jaw tightened. Cowards often dressed their own failures as curses. But the buzz in his medallion hadn’t stopped since they entered the village.

His gaze locked on Geralt, voice dropping low.

“That forest’s alive, son. It breathes. It listens. And it don’t like intruders. You won’t see it coming, not the claws, not the teeth. It’ll break you without laying a finger on you.”

He spat to the side, the act punctuating his warning. "You might think yourself different, stronger, smarter. Hells, maybe you are. But remember, everyone who goes in there—” He jerked his head in the direction of the forest, “—thinks they're the exception. And yet, it still stands, hungrier than ever."

The knife rose again. Thock. Back to work.

“That’s all I got. Heed it or don’t. Makes no difference to me. Now, unless you’re buying, move along. Got fish to gut and tales to forget.”

Geralt filed the tale away, his expression a mask of neutrality. Sentient forest. Either the old man’s imagination or something worse.

Could be a drunken tale. Could be something real. Worth remembering.

Geralt nodded once—more curt than courteous— and turned away, making his way back to Yohan and Grigor.

His medallion pulsed once as his hand brushed the hilt. Grigor hadn’t said a word to him the whole trip. Only had the stones to whisper in Yohan’s ear.

Coward.

“Gonna meet up with Laz n’ Bog. Got a room at the inn,” Grigor muttered. He glanced toward Geralt, then back to his companion. His fingers flexed once. He leaned closer to Yohan, back still turned to Geralt, and muttered. “He, stays in a different room.”

Bastard.

Grigor brushed past Geralt like he was a flea-bitten mutt. His jaw clenched for a fraction of a second, turning back to Yohan. “Got a story from the merchant. Could be the ramblings of an old man, could be something else. Need to find out more.”

Yohan nodded once, eyes quickly darting from the fishmonger’s stall across the village yard then back to him. “Good, the boys paid for a room at the inn.” His throat bobbed nervously, avoiding Geralt’s gaze; his fingers twisted and twitched every so often.

Geralt already knew what was weighing down the man's tongue.

“I’ll get a room,” he grumbled out. “You focus on getting me some information I can actually use.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. Just turned and stalked toward the only building that wasn’t rotting through.

Chapter Text

The inn smelled like mildew and piss. 

Wood-rotting, paint-peeling, tobacco-stained walls and floors. But it would serve.

Geralt’s boots creaked against the warped floorboards as he crossed to the counter.

The woman there was aged, haggard; deep frown lines were etched into her face as she glared at him.

Geralt nodded once. “Three nights. Paid nightly.”

The woman snorted. “No.”

Geralt’s yellow eyes narrowed. “No?”

The innkeeper leaned on the counter, wiping a stained rag over a mug. “Don’t work that way here. Payment’s upfront. All of it.”

Geralt tilted his head slightly, a gruff grunt leaving him. “And why's that?”

The innkeeper placed the wooden mug down with a muffled thud as she threw the rag over her shoulder. “Because folk like you don’t always make it to the second night. Or the third. And corpses don't settle tabs.”

She crossed her arms over the other in a challenging stance. “Don't like it? Sleep outside for all I care. Next village is a day's travel that way.” She jerked her head quickly, staring Geralt down with a defiant gaze.

He grunted, resigned. Fear had a tendency to harden into defiance in a place like this.

“Fine.” He bit out. “How much?”

The innkeep sized him up silently before coughing into the rag on her shoulder. “Thirty crowns for three nights.”

Thirty crowns. A steep price for a bed of straw and piss-stained sheets. But cheaper than freezing in the mud.

Geralt’s jaw worked once before he reached into the inner pocket of his gambeson, pulling out a pouch worn soft from years of use. The silver clinked across the wood like falling teeth.

The innkeeper's glare didn't falter as she inspected the coins, counted them, and tucked them into her apron.

She coughed again, pulling out a key. “Room two. Stables out back. Meal bell rings at dawn, noon, and dusk.” 

Geralt nodded once and turned away, pausing only when the innkeep called out to him.

“Oi!” She snorted once before spitting into a nearby bucket. “No refunds if that forest tears you to shreds.”

“Never asked for one.” 

Room was small. Barely qualified as a room at all.

Straw lined the floor, piss-yellowed in patches, like the stables out back. Beneath the boards came the scuttle of roaches and rats, claws clicking over warped wood. The bed sagged in the middle, more trough than mattress. Either the innkeeper didn’t care for maintenance, or too many travelers had left their mark.

Geralt dropped his saddlebags near the door but kept his sword belt slung across his shoulder.

This wasn’t the sort of place you left your belongings lying about.

His eyes swept the room again, splintered floorboards, a window clinging to its shutters like loose teeth, then he grunted.

“Secure enough.”

Time to see if the others were still breathing.

He didn’t need directions to find them. They were more than loud enough for him to find their room.

They argued like children. 

“You don’t understand Yohan,” a new voice hissed, low and sharp. “The stories from this place, about that gods damned cursed forest, if what the locals say is true, we won't live to see the rest of our money.”

“Really Laz?” Yohan scoffed, “You mean to tell me you truly believe that there's a witch in the woods that steals souls and can turn people into mutant monsters?”

A gruff voice chimed in, sounded like falling rocks. “Superstition. That's all. Had a woman tell me the ‘witch’ turned her son into a raven.”

Yohan chuckled, “See! Ridiculous. Besides, we already took the Job. Money’s spoken for. We ain't got a choice.”

Another voice, Grigor, this time. “You two find any intel we can actually use, or just bedtime stories to keep idiots and babes out the forest?”

Geralt didn’t bother with knocking as he stepped into the room, “he’s right, we need something more than tall tales and old wives’ stories.” Everyone in the room tensed slightly, unmoored by his sudden appearance. “Need something that can actually help us in there. Not superstition.”

The witch. The soul-stealer. The forest that breathes.

Geralt rolled the words around in his head like bitter herbs, tasting them for truth.

Most of it was useless. Bedtime stories to keep drunks and children from wandering too far past the treeline. Turning men into birds? Nonsense. But there was something in Faefell. He could feel it in the air, smell it in the soil. The villagers’ fear wasn’t just old wives’ tales—it was the kind that grew from loss.

That was enough to warrant a closer look. But he needed an actual plan.

“Who’re you?” A tall, spindly man stood up, looking at Geralt. “Hans, who’s this? I don’t remember anyone else being hired ‘sides us.” Lazlo didn’t glare. He studied Geralt with a thin, wary stare, fingers drumming against his leg.

Geralt’s eyes flicked to the corner. A broad, scarred man watched him in silence—Bog, steady as a boulder. He looked to Geralt, silently sizing him up before addressing Yohan. “Don’t like surprises, Hans. You know that,” he bit out gruffly. “Start talking.”

Yohan couldn’t seem to sit still, his eyes darting to each man in the room silently, like a cornered rodent. “Look—Lazlo, Bog. We needed some extra help. I hired him so we actually had a chance in those woods.”

Grigor huffed once, mumbling under his breath, “Told you they wouldn’t like it.”

Yohan turned his head to Grigor quickly, his face turned up in irritation. “Shut it, Grigor. I’m handling it,” he held his palms up as if he were trying to calm feral animals. “Look, whether you like him or not—we need him around.”

He turned his head to the stocky man who was glaring at him from the corner of the room. “Bogdan, hear me out on this. We need someone who can deal with whatever hellspawn’s in that forest.” He turned to the spindly man, Laz. “Nothing’s comin’ outta your, Bog, or Grig’s cuts. I promise. But we need all the help we can get. Understood?”

Bog and Laz looked at each other silently before flicking between Geralt and Yohan, seemingly coming to an agreement. 

“Fine, Hans. S’long as it don’t mess with our reward.” He sniffed once, looking over to Bogdan. “Good with that, Bogs?”

Bogdan’s eyes hardened, crossing his arms over his chest with a terse grunt, nodding his head once. 

Yohan let out a short breath, throat bobbing in relief, “Right, back to the task at hand. Any info on that forest we can actually use?”

Geralt finally chimed in after that ordeal, with a low rumble. “Something more useful than ghost stories.”

Lazlo sighed and carded his fingers through his hair, “Most’a what we’ve got’s drunken rambling or the kind of babble you hear from droolin’ idiots.” 

Bogdan grunted quietly in agreement. 

“They say the forest breathes,” Laz continued, “That the mushrooms’re a warnin’. Once you pass em’ you’re prey.”

Geralt filed that away under ‘peasant fancy’. Forests settled. Air moved like lungs, sure. But trees didn’t exhale.

Mushrooms. That could mean something. Mushrooms thrived in rot. And rot attracted corpse-eaters. Nekkers. Maybe worse.

Possible sign of danger. Worth noting.

Bog interrupted, “Got a few that said there were carvings in the forest.” He fixed his leather chest plate, calloused fingers gripping the straps tightly. “Hexes from the witch of the woods. Flowers mean her path, but no one can find more ‘an one.” 

Now that caught his ear.

His voice sounded like iron over coals. Reserved. Short sentences as if speaking anything longer was painful. “Crosses lead to dead ends. Circles with X’s mean death. Some say she watches through ‘em.”

Carvings. Flowers. Crosses. Circles.

Wards? Trail markers? Or panicked villagers scratching bark? Either way, it was useful enough to keep in mind.

Geralt had been leaning against the doorframe casually up until that point. He pushed off it with a soft grunt.

“Half of that is horseshit. The mushrooms, carvings”—he nodded once—“Those we focus on.” He crossed his hands over his chest, the medallion pulsing once. “This forest is surrounded by superstition, but all stories start somewhere. Get rest, be ready by tomorrow. We leave at first light.”

Bogdan grunted. His version of an agreement. Quiet .

Lazlo nodded once, slouching in a chair passively with a yawn. Lazy.

Yohan tapped his fingers against his thigh before focusing on the map. Twitchy.

Grigor? Mumbled something about him. Didn’t care enough to listen. Asshole. 

Geralt left it at that, leaving the room and making his way back to his own.

He had a forest to prepare for.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Come morning, they were all standing at the forest’s edge.

“Looks normal,” Lazlo sniffed, looking back at the group. “Don’t it?”

Bogdan didn’t answer at first, adjusted his grip on his holstered sword, and grunted. He eyed the treeline. “Don’t like it.”

Yohan’s body was coiled like a spring, hands gripping his shortsword like it was trying to run away. He looked from Geralt to the forest, then back again. “Witcher… what’s the plan? You’ve done this before, right?”

Geralt’s medallion hummed low against his chest. His fingers tightened on his sword as he drew a slow breath.

Too green for late autumn. Damp. Ozone.

A growl rumbled under his breath as he picked up another scent.

Rot under the moss. Something sick hiding under all that life.

“We go in, stick together, stay alert.” His voice was gruff, cautious. “See anything off, say something. Understood?”

Each member of the party nodded in agreement. That was all he needed.

“Let’s move,” Geralt took to the front of the group, flanked by Lazlo and Bogdan.

Grigor kept to the back. Furthest away from him.

Yohan kept to the middle, safe and furthest from danger. Typical.

The moment they passed the treeline he could feel it, the air thickened. Almost like a pressure fighting against them. His medallion thrummed harder against his chest, a faint warning buzz that set his nerves on edge.

Not a threat. Yet.

Grigor hummed quietly, rolling his shoulders, “Don’t like that, feels like we ain’t welcome.”

Lazlo looked back at him, “We ain't ,” he chimed in, “S’why we grab what we’re here for and get the hell out.”

Geralt said nothing. The forest was wrong . Breathing wrong. Smelling wrong.

It was as if the forest was mocking him. It was dead quiet one moment—not even a birdcall in the distance. Then the next moment it was too loud— A crow’s call in the branches above felt like it was screaming in his skull. The smells fought each other. Too sweet one moment, sour and rotting the next.  

One moment it smelled too vibrant. Ozone, Life, Growth The next moment it smelled like it was rotting. Dirt. Decay. Rot. 

He couldn’t even trust his own senses anymore.

Lazlo’s head snapped to the left, his fingers tightening on the hilt of his dagger. “See that?” he hissed warily, eying the treeline. “Saw somethin’ out the corner of my eye—movement, quick. But…”

The four men paused, following Lazlo’s gaze to the treeline.

Nothing . Just trees. But the forest felt too quiet to trust that.

Bogdan huffed, “Nothin’ there, Laz.”

Lazlo shook his head, as if to banish the unease. “Guess you’re right, Musta’ been the wind.”

Grigor countered from the back, “No, there ain’t no wind. Feels like the air’s dead.” His fingers flexed on the trigger of his crossbow slightly, shoulders squared as if he were expecting the trees themselves to lunge at him.

Geralt adjusted the grip on his sword, a pensive grunt leaving him. “Forest plays tricks. Stay sharp, keep moving.” 

They resumed walking. Grigor was mumbling a prayer under his breath. As if there were any gods here to listen. Bogdan was stone silent, eyes scanning the trees for hidden threats. Something practical. Yohan and Lazlo were tense, jittery. Lazlo had taken to shifting his daggers from hand to hand. Yohan’s hand never left the hilt of his sword. But his fingers wouldn’t stop shaking. 

Geralt didn’t know how long they’d been walking, but the longer they were here the more he felt like prey being toyed with. The sun had barely moved in the sky, yet it felt like it had been hours. Their shadows were too long, stretched out as if the sun were setting. The temperature dropped quickly, then rose just as fast. The air would mist out in front of them, then steam would rise from their skin. 

Then came the fog. 

It started out as thin wisps of mist, reaching out like arms to curl around their ankles.

Lazlo backed away from it as it reached his boot, lips curling in an uneasy sneer. “Feels like it’s…holdin’ on.”

Yohan’s face was as pale as a ghost. “Is… Is it moving against the wind?” He sounded like he didn’t believe it, even as he said it. 

He’s right . Geralt thought as he examined the fog. Moving against the wind and rising higher.

The fog stank faintly of flowers. Or was it blood? He couldn’t tell anymore.

They stopped, turning their backs to each other. The fog had already swallowed the forest floor, curling thick around their legs. Higher still, it dulled the world until even Geralt could barely see ten feet ahead.

The forest fell quiet— too quiet. Even the fog muffled their breathing.

Bogdan jerked and gripped his crossbow, aiming into the distance. “Damn it!” His lip curled into a snarl, “Somethin’s in the damn trees. Saw it. I swear.”

Grigor cursed and shoved Yohan, “This ain’t worth it, Hans. We’re playing with our lives for what? Gold?” He shook his head, “Not worth it. Let’s leave. While we still have our lives.”

Yohan spun around, sweat beading on his brow, pupils blown wide as saucers. 

Fear. Desperation. It clung to him more than the fog. 

“Not an option!” Yohan hissed, “This is just a trick by the witch.” He turned to face Geralt, “Tell them, Witcher. Tell them it’s just tricks.” 

Geralt’s hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. The medallion buzzed faintly against his chest, then went still.

His senses lied. The fog-smothered sound wrapped the world tight. Like drowning with his eyes open. Voices sounded too far away. Too distorted. He couldn’t think—couldn’t see. Then these damn mercenaries.

Brawling like monkeys instead of men.  

“Tricks,” he said flatly. His voice cut through the fog like steel. “The forest plays with your senses. That’s all.”

Geralt let his gaze sweep over each man, slow and deliberate. Bogdan’s jaw was clenched, Grigor’s lips moved soundlessly—still praying. Lazlo avoided his eyes entirely.

“If there really is a mage here, they’re using illusions to deter us. Scare you.” He growled. “You want out alive? Stay sharp. Stay together. Panic will get you killed.” He shifted his weight, rolling his neck. 

No one answered, but they all shifted, shoulders stiffening like men bracing against a wave. They were fraying at the edges. And the fog was too thick to continue. He couldn’t sense danger properly. Better to call a rest early and regroup rather than have one lose their nerve and split from the group. They were covered by the trees. It was as good a place as any.

“We stop here.” He didn’t wait for the group to agree, just dropped his pack. “Rest, calm down. We wait for the fog to clear, then we resume. We keep watch in twos. Understood?”

Yohan was the first to speak for them, “Understood. We could use the rest. Right men?”

No one bothered to answer, but the tension from their shoulders dissolved. 

They moved like men twice their age, packs falling to the ground with dull thuds. No talk, no grumbling. Just the dull scrape of boots, feet dragging with exhaustion and weariness. By the time they’d set their bedrolls, the fog had thinned slightly, clinging low to the ground. Enough to see the trunks, enough to mock them.

The fire was slow to catch—the wood was soft, damp. Choked, like everything else here. 

Geralt settled with his back to a gnarled oak, medallion still at a low hum, but muted. No movement. No sound but the occasional crack of firewood. He’d let them rest. For now.

Chapter Text

Night was no less disorienting than the day had been.

By the time the sun had set, the smog had thinned to faint wisps clinging to the ground. But now ? Now it was too dark to move. All the men were huddled around the campfire. Lazlo spun his dagger from hand to hand, Bogdan glared into the fire silently as he sharpened his sword, more self-soothing habit than need. 

Yohan and Grigor? They’d broken off from the group, not too far, but far enough for some privacy. 

Geralt could still hear them, clear as day, from where he was reclining against the trunk of a moss-covered tree. They were bickering like an old married couple. 

“Hans, we need to turn back. This place… it ain’t right.” Grigor’s voice was a quiet plea, strained and frantic. “I know the gold’s good, but no amount of money’s worth our heads.”

Yohan dragged his hands down his face, looking more haggard by the hour. “No, you don’t know.” He barked back, trying to keep his voice low. “Ten thousand crowns. Thousand, Grig. We’d never have to work another job. Never. ”

Geralt paused. That much coin? Either the prize is worth it, or they don’t care who crawls out alive to bring it back.

Grigor shoved Yohan, trying to knock some sense into him, “We can’t spend the money if we’re dead, Hans!” He ran his hand down his face, fingers scraping on his thick beard. “You even know what we’re here for? What this supposed ‘treasure’ is?”

Yohan’s heartbeat raced. Still didn’t know. Just fear and greed driving him.

“I know we have to get further down to get it. Just trust me, Grigs, I have it all under control.” 

Liar.

Yohan gripped the back of Grigor’s neck, pulling him closer. “Come on, Grigs, trust me on this, why don’t you? The Witcher’s here for a reason; he’s got more experience with this stuff.” Yohan’s hand slid from Grigor’s neck to clamp down on his shoulder. “If it gets too much, we can turn tail n’ run. Promise.”

Grigor exhaled, shoulders sagging. “Fine, Hans, but I still don’t like this. Not that freak, not this place, none of it. Feels like the damn trees’re watching us. And who knows,” he grumbled lower now, “That thing might eat us before the forest does.”

Nah, Geralt thought, closing his eyes and leaning against the tree. Too gamey. Not worth it. 

The two men slunk back to the center of the camp, settling on their bedrolls with stiff movements. Lazlo’s leg was jerking nervously, dagger flipping from hand to hand before he sheathed it. 

“Gonna go for a piss.” He stood, looking at Bogdan, “Oi, Bog, come with. Don’t trust these woods not to bite me in the ass while I’m busy.” 

The large man stilled, looking up from his sword to Lazlo. “Need me to hold it for you, too?” Bogdan’s face was stone still, yet the corners of his lips pulled up into the barest hint of a smile.

Lazlo’s face upturned into an irritated sneer, “Shut it. Just watch my back.”

Bogdan grunted once, sheathed his sword, and stood. 

Lazlo snatched up a torch, holding it to the fire. Even wrapped in cloth and soaked in oil, it took too long to light. 

“Let’s go, wanna be in these damn trees for as little as possible.” Lazlo grumbled and stalked into the trees, Bogdan following close behind.

Each step crunched louder than it should’ve, until even that sound was gone.

The forest swallowed their footsteps too quickly.

Lazlo and Bogdan’s boots crunched over dead leaves, the sound thinning fast. Then nothing.

Geralt didn’t move. He didn’t open his eyes. Didn’t need to.

Too quiet.

Not the kind of silence that came with nightfall. This was heavier. Denser. Like the whole forest was holding its breath.

The fire cracked behind him. Muffled.

Even that felt like it didn’t belong.

Then—too loud.

Wind rushed through the canopy all at once. Branches groaned. Leaves shivered loose and scattered in brittle waves. The fire popped, sharp and metallic. Yohan flinched hard.

The forest had a rhythm. Not natural. Deliberate.

Dead silence stretched long enough to crawl under the skin.Then sound again—louder, too loud, like something shaking its cage.

The others hadn’t noticed. Or maybe they just weren’t admitting it yet.

The air shifted again.

Heavier. Damp. Thick with ozone.

Light bent strangely between the trees. Torchlight blurred in faint halos like the air itself was pressing in.

Even the smells were off. Bogdan’s leather oil, Lazlo’s sweat. Too strong. Then too faint.

Geralt’s medallion gave a short, sharp buzz against his chest. Not constant.

A warning. Not a threat.

He opened his eyes.

The firelight looked smaller now.

Then it came.

A scream.

“HELP! HELP!”

Lazlo’s voice. High. Panicked.

Geralt was on his feet in an instant, fingers brushing his sword hilt.

Behind him, Grigor shot upright.

“Lazlo?” His voice cracked halfway through.

Yohan stumbled forward, face pale.

“Bogdan! Laz!” He yelled, cupping his hands to his mouth, shouting into the trees.

“Don’t.” Geralt’s voice cut through low and hard. A command.

The group froze.

The forest went still again. Too still.

Geralt strained his hearing. No crashing boots. No breaking branches. No sweat-scent on the air.

Not real.

His medallion gave a faint shiver, then softened back down to a low hum.

The scream came again. Closer this time.

“Help me! Please—”

Geralt’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not him.”

Yohan turned, wild-eyed.

“What do you mean it’s not him? You heard that—”

“Listen.”

No running. No struggle. No scent trail.

“If something had him, we’d hear more than screaming.”

The forest creaked above them. Slow. Almost like laughter.

“It’s playing with us.”

Grigor growled in frustration, knuckles white where he gripped his sword. “Bullshit, Witcher. I know Lazlo’s voice. That's him, plain n’ simple. I ain't gonna wait here while they're callin’ fer help.”

Geralt turned to look at him, lips upturned in a sneer. “They're not dead, might not even be hurt.” He stepped closer, “you go out there alone? You will be .”

Grigor stared him down, defiance flashing before his eyes flicked to the treeline. “Those are my men out there. They're like family to me. I ain't gonna sit by while they're out there.” His eyes flicked to Yohan, “You comin’ with ot not?”

Yohan’s breathing wouldn't settle, his fingers twitched at his side, gaze passing between Geralt, Grigor, and the forest itself. He closed his eyes, took a breath, and nodded once. “Aye. Let's go, Grigs.”

Fools. All of them.

Yohan grabbed his sword and a torch, holding it to the fire. “We find them, bring em back if they're still breathing, if they're not…”

“Don’t.” Grigor barked suddenly, “Let's just look for ‘em first.”

Yohan swallowed his words and nodded. Torch in one hand, sword trembling in the other.

They're going to get themselves killed.

The two of them stared out into the treeline, darkness peering back. Then…

“Oi! S'goin on here?” Lazlo's voice rang out from behind them. “Looks like ye’ seen a ghost.”

Bogdan followed close, silent as ever, but there was a flicker of curiosity in his eyes.

“Bogs! LAZ!” Yohan stumbled, fumbling the sword for a second. “We heard you scream, thought somethin’ got to you two.”

The two men looked at each other, puzzled, before staring at the group. 

“No? Felt like I was being watched the whole time, but nothing outta sorts. Right, Bog?” Laz up at the man over his shoulder.

Bogdan nodded once. 

Grigor was white as a sheet. “We heard you. I swear on my pa's grave.” He lowered his blade slowly looking to Geralt. “Tell ‘em Witcher. Tell ‘em what we heard.”

All four men's attention turned to Geralt, looking to him for answers. 

“Told you,” he huffed.“Trick of the woods. Whoever, whatever's in here. Wants you frantic. Scared. Don't drop your guard. Don't stray too far.”

Grigor said nothing, just tightened his grip on the sword still hanging in his hands.

Yohan’s eyes darted to the treeline, torchlight flickering wildly in the damp air.

Even Laz and Bog were quiet now.

Geralt watched them all for a moment. Fools, every last one of them. But they’d make it through the night… if they kept their heads.

He turned back toward the fire.

“We move at first light.”

The forest didn’t let them sleep.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

By dawn, the fire had burned low. No one spoke. No one joked. Even Lazlo kept his mouth shut.

Geralt adjusted his sword belt as the group packed up.

“Stay sharp,” he said, voice low. “Stay close. We don't need a repeat of last night.”

The men marched slowly, each one no more than ten paces from the other. It was quiet, too quiet. 

When they'd first arrived, the forest tried to frighten them out. Warped time. Warped air. Hallucinations.

Now?

Nothing. 

Predators don’t snarl forever. Sooner or later, they strike.

The air smelled clean for the first time. Too clean. It was as if the forest had pulled back. Like a predator in the bushes, waiting to strike. Even his medallion was the quietest it had ever been since they'd arrived. That made the hair rise on the back of his neck.

The others seemed to notice as well. 

“Seems like the forest’s outta tricks.” Lazlo mumbled under his breath, yet the grip on his dagger had his knuckles sheet‐white.

“No. Still being watched. I can feel it.” Grigor grumbled out slowly eyes shifting from left to right.

Even Bogdan slowed his pace. Not out of fear. Instinct.

“You lot need to relax. If there was something to be worried about, I'm sure our friend here would notice first…” Yohan’s voice cracked slightly on the last word, gesturing to Geralt. 

Not your friend. 

“Isn't that right?” Yohan looked to him for reassurance. 

Not my job.

“What part of ‘keep quiet’ do you lot not understand?” Geralt didn’t even turn to address them, just scanned the trees for threats.

The group went silent after that.

They walked on, boots crunching soft earth, breaths misting faintly in the morning air.

The light cut through the trees here, pale and soft, falling in dappled patches on the moss. The smell of rot had thinned. Even the damp was gone.

Geralt didn’t relax.

Predators don’t snarl forever. Sooner or later, they strike .

Ahead, the trees widened just enough to reveal a line.

A near-perfect row of pale mushrooms, their caps slick and gray, winding around the trees in both directions. The border didn’t break—it just kept going, vanishing into the distance as the forest swallowed it whole.

The soil beyond looked darker somehow. Wetter.

Bogdan stopped first.

Lazlo slowed, eyes fixed on the ring. His voice came quiet, stripped of its usual bite. “Teeth of the Witch.”

Geralt glanced over his shoulder.  “What?”

“That’s what they call it in the village.” Lazlo nodded toward the mushrooms. “Say once you cross, she can lay claim to your soul. Her beasts drag you to her den and rip you apart.”

Yohan scoffed, but there was no humor in it. “It’s just a border. Monsters don’t like to cross it.”

Grigor grunted. “Monsters or not, doesn’t feel right.” His hand flexed over the hilt of his blade.

Geralt crouched low near the edge of the ring, running a gloved finger over the caps.

Clean. No spores disturbed. But the smell was off…

Rot. Sweet and heavy.

Then he saw it.

A carving.

A rose, deep and deliberate in the bark of a nearby elm. Old enough, the tree had begun to grow around it.

The medallion at his chest thrummed faintly, then stilled.

“Predators have borders,” Geralt said, standing. “If there’s a witch in these woods, this is where she stops warning you.”

“Well?” Yohan asked. “It safe to cross?”

 “Safe?” Geralt huffed. “No. Nothing in here is safe. But staying here isn’t smart either.”

He stepped over first.

The air changed. Cooler. Still.

The others followed.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Quiet . 

That was the only word that could be used to describe this place.

No birds. No animals underbrush. Not even wind through the trees. It was dead.

The air smelled… wrong. Cleaner than before, too clean, like blood that had been washed away.

The unease seemed to affect the rest of the party as well. No one spoke as they walked. No one dared.

No one except Lazlo.  

“Quiet as a grave out here.” He said it loud. Bravado dripping thin and sour.

Too loud. 

“Maybe this supposed witch's scared of little ol' us.” His fingers eased on the dagger hilt. Just for a moment.

The forest creaked overhead. Slow. Deliberate.

Geralt’s medallion gave a faint, stuttering buzz against his chest. Not enough to warn of magic, just enough to tell him the predator had stopped pacing.

It was hunting now.

The first nekker came from above.

Geralt caught movement in the canopy, too late to warn. A flash of pale muscle and claws before it slammed into Lazlo, knocking him off his feet with a sickening crunch of underbrush.

“SHIT!” Laz’s voice pitched high as he struggled, dagger flashing wildly in the gloom.

The forest answered.

A chorus of guttural clicks and rasping hisses erupted from all sides.

“Left!” Geralt barked, already pivoting as two more nekkers burst from the undergrowth, claws outstretched.

Bogdan roared, swinging his sword in a heavy arc that split one clean in two. The thing screeched as it fell, black ichor splattering the moss.

But there were more.

Dozens of glinting eyes blinked open in the shadows.

Lazlo screamed again.

The first nekker had him pinned, jaws snapping inches from his face. Another latched onto his leg, teeth sinking into his calf with a wet, tearing sound.

“Get it off! Get it off me—”

His voice cut short as claws raked across his throat.

“Laz!” Yohan staggered forward, torch raised high. His hand shook so hard the flame sputtered.

“Stay back!” Geralt barked, drawing steel.

The silver blade gleamed for only a moment before he drove it through a charging nekker’s skull. It shrieked, convulsed, and went limp.

Grigor’s voice was hoarse as he swung his blade. “There’s too many!”

He was right . They’re moving smarter. Not random. Coordinated.

The nekkers weren’t attacking like the chaotic scavengers Geralt knew. They moved in coordinated bursts, one distracting, two flanking. Smarter. Faster.

The forest had changed them.

Lazlo’s screams turned wet. Then they stopped.

When Geralt chanced a glance, all he saw was a tangle of bodies—gray limbs tearing, claws raking. The torch Laz had carried lay guttering in the moss, the flame flickering out.

The forest had them now.

Chapter Text

“Laz! Lazlo! NO!” Grigor’s roar shredded his throat, breaking on the last syllable. The click of the nekkers died down as they retreated into the trees, dragging Lazlo’s limp body with them. The rest of them made no moves to attack the rest of the group.

They had their kill. That was enough.

The stench of blood and fear was thick in the air. Bogdan stopped fighting the moment the nekkers stopped attacking, staring at where Lazlo lay just a few moments ago. Yohan was as white as a sheet, shaking like a leaf in a storm as he dropped to his knees and puked.

Rot and bile hung heavy in the moss.

Grigor was destroyed. Screaming. Yelling. Cursing every god he could name as he barreled after Lazlo's corpse.

Geralt held him back by the arm. Grigor's arm strained against his iron grip, muscles quivering like a trapped animal.

"Let go of me, you mutant freak!" He snarled, baring his teeth like a rabid predator as he pulled against him. "Lazlo's hurt; he needs me."

For a moment, the forest went silent. No claws scraping bark. No breathing but Grigor's ragged sobs. Geralt tightened his grip, not to comfort, but to stop the man from running straight into the jaws waiting beyond the trees.

Geralt didn't loosen his hold. "He's dead." No malice, no kindness. Pure fact.

"Don't! Don't say that! Laz...Laz is a fighter. He could still..." Grigor started to shake, sword slipping from his fingers. "He could still..."

"He's gone," Geralt repeated, looking Grigor in the eye.

No heartbeat. No struggle. Only the scrape of claws in the distance and the stench of blood thick in the air.

He was dead within minutes. The nekkers had seen to that.

Grigor dropped to his knees, the wet moss squelching softly. His sword lay forgotten next to him. Bogdan's heavy footsteps stopped behind him as he bent down on one knee, gripping Grigor's shoulders silently. His grip was firm, reassuring, yet his eyes were hard, blank. Geralt took a step backward, giving the two men some time. Yohan didn't move, didn't dare speak.

We should keep moving.

The air felt heavier now. The moss seemed to drink in their words, muffling them like a shroud.

There were no sounds in the forest to signal that anything was immediately nearby. No howling. No screaming. No scent in the air to hint at any more enemies. But staying put in a place such as this was a death sentence.

"We need to keep moving." Geralt sheathed his sword, looking to the remaining party blankly.

Yohan's eyes snapped to Geralt, voice cracking, "lad, give us a moment." His breath shuddered as he spoke, "Laz... Laz was family. We—" His voice splintered. "We loved him."

Grigor paused, fingers digging into the soft peat before he stood. He seized Yohan's collar, knuckles white. "No! There is no 'we,' you coward!"

Spit flew into Yohan's eyes as Grigor shook him violently. Moss tore under their boots as Grigor slammed Yohan down, the wet earth sucking at his shoulders with a sickening squelch.

Geralt's hand hovered near his hilt. Not for the forest. For them.

"I told you this place was too dangerous. I told you we needed to turn back." He threw Yohan down, glaring at him. "Now, Laz is dead. And it's all your fault."

Bogdan stepped between the two men before Grigor could grab Yohan once more.

"Stop." He crossed his arms over the other, glaring at Grigor. "Beating the piss out of him won't bring Laz back. We cut our losses. We go home." His voice was even; it wasn't a request. It was a command. Sure, final.

Grigor's hands were still shaking. He closed his eyes, took a single breath, and nodded.

"Aye, let's go home." He turned away from Yohan, moving to pick up his dropped sword. "You coming with Witcher, or you gonna sit here and babysit that coward?" His voice was low, stripped raw, but resolute. He sheathed his sword with a sharp, metallic scrape. The sound rang too loudly in the oppressive silence.

For half a heartbeat, the forest seemed still again.

Then came the growl.

Low. Vibrating. Felt more in the soles of their boots than heard. The moss shuddered beneath them, faint ripples spreading like something massive was breathing just under the surface.

"Did you hear that?" Yohan whispered. His voice cracked, and his eyes darted wildly between the trees.

Pale lights began to flicker in the undergrowth. At first, they looked like clusters of mushrooms, their faint green glow spilling like lanternlight through the fog.

Then one of them blinked.

Geralt's medallion rattled violently against his chest.

A creature lurched from the shadows, a wolf-shaped husk, its fur patchy and crawling with fungal growth. Its ribs jutted out at impossible angles, and where its eyes should have been, there were glowing pits of sickly green light.

Geralt's sword flashed silver in the gloom. He stepped forward, slicing cleanly across the creature's neck.

The blade cut deep, but the wolf didn't even stagger. Instead, the wound hissed and stitched back together, pale fungal threads weaving across torn muscle and skin.

Geralt's jaw tightened. "Run."

The others didn't need telling twice. Yohan bolted first, Grigor dragging him upright as he stumbled on moss-slick boots. Bogdan backed toward them, swinging his blade wildly as more shapes emerged from the fog—eyes glowing, jaws slack, their movements jerky and wrong.

The creatures didn't pounce immediately. They paced in an arc, snapping at their heels, cutting off every escape but forward.

"They're not hunting," Geralt realized aloud, voice grim as he ran. "They're driving us."

"Driving us where?" Bogdan growled through clenched teeth.

The forest seemed to tighten. The air grew heavy, sweet, and fungal like rot hidden beneath honey. As they crashed deeper, mushrooms exploded from tree trunks and moss, releasing dense clouds of spores that burst like smoke bombs.

Yohan doubled over, coughing, choking as his lungs burned. Each breath felt like glass scraping his throat. His eyes watered violently, vision swimming.

"Cover your mouths!" Geralt barked, dragging Yohan forward with a firm grip. "Don't breathe deep, keep moving!"

More spores burst nearby, the clouds clinging to their faces and clothes. Grigor tore a strip of cloth from his sleeve and pressed it to his mouth, but it barely helped. Bogdan swore under his breath as he shielded his nose with an arm, leading the way through the suffocating fog.

Up ahead, a stone jutted from the earth, half-swallowed by moss—easy to miss. Two symbols were etched deep into its surface: a circle with a cross through it—danger—and an X gouged below. Dead end.

"Witcher!" Bogdan shouted hoarsely. "The stone—"

"I see it," Geralt snapped sharply, eyes scanning the treeline. "Keep going. No choice now."

The sound vibrated through their ribs, wet and choking, as if the forest itself was howling through the wolves.

As they passed the stone, the wolves surged closer, snapping and lunging. One clamped onto Yohan's pack, nearly dragging him down before Grigor's sword cleaved through its neck. It didn't stop. The fungal threads in its flesh twisted, holding the head in place as its glowing eyes rolled toward Grigor.

"Keep moving!" Geralt roared.

Bogdan swung wildly, his blade flashing silver as he held the rear. "Go! I'll hold them off!"

"Don't be stupid!" Grigor shouted back, but Bogdan didn't answer. He stood his ground as the others stumbled through the choking spores ahead.

A wolf lunged. Bogdan drove his blade through its skull and kicked it back—but another slammed into his side, knocking the wind out of him.

"Bastards!" he spat, hacking at snapping jaws as the pack swarmed. Teeth tore through his armor. One clamped onto his shoulder, dragging him down. As he fell, a burst of thick, glowing spores erupted from his wounds, filling the air with a sickly-sweet haze. His scream gurgled into silence.

The last thing they heard was his guttural scream as the moss seemed to swallow him whole, spore clouds erupting violently around his thrashing body.

"Bogdan!" Grigor screamed, but Geralt grabbed his arm before he could stop.

"He's gone!" Geralt snarled. "Move or you'll join him!"

Ahead in the fog, something stirred.

Two towering silhouettes emerged, antlers tangled with vines and fungal growths that pulsed with faint, sickly light.

The first moved like a tree uprooting itself. Massive and deliberate, its wooden frame wrapped in vines that slithered like snakes. Mushrooms sprouted from its limbs, bioluminescent caps flickering faintly with each step.

The second was smaller, twitching with animalistic energy. Bone charms rattled softly from its antlers. Its cracked skull face seemed stitched together with fungal threads. Around its feet, wolves padded in formation, eyes glowing in unison.

The air vibrated with creaking clicks and guttural tones, passing between them like a language.

Geralt ducked as a vine lashed out, slamming into a tree where his was a moment ago. A wolf darted in, claws slicing a shallow gash across his arm. His eyes widened in realization.

"They're... communicating," he murmured.

His blood ran cold. That's not right.

Leshens weren't supposed to move like that. Weren't supposed to work together. 

Grigor snarled, hacking at snapping wolves and whipping vines. "Come on, you bastards! COME ON!"

The first Leshen raised an arm. Vines erupted from the ground, twisting into a jagged spear that shot forward, impaling Grigor clean through the chest.

He screamed, raw and animal, as the vines lifted him off his feet. Wolves tore at his legs, dragging them in opposite directions. Another vine wrapped tight around his neck and yanked, snapping vertebrae like dry twigs.

"GRIGOR!" Yohan screamed, frozen in place.

Geralt's medallion shrieked against his chest—louder than it had in years. Louder than any Fiend, any wraith. 

A stray vine slammed Geralt across the back, throwing him hard against a tree. Pain lanced through him as his sword slipped from his grasp, skidding to a stop at Yohan's feet.

"Yohan! The sword!" Geralt barked, voice raw with pain and authority.

Yohan's terrified eyes darted from the blade to the Leshens, to the snarling wolves, and back.

"Sorry, lad..." he stammered, face paler than a wraith's. "This is more than I signed up for. More than I paid for..." One foot staggered backwards. He looked to the sword, then to the forest behind him. "I... I can't do this."

And then he turned and fled.

Coward.

Geralt gritted his teeth and shoved himself upright, muscles screaming in protest as he ducked under a vine, diving for his weapon. Blood soaked through his shirt, dripping in steady streams down his arm and chest. Each ragged breath burned like fire.

Before he could react, a vine shot forward, spearing through his shoulder. Another sliced across his ribs, hot blood spraying the moss.

A third struck his back, slamming him back into the tree.

His vision blurred as the Leshens loomed over him, fungal lights pulsing in their bodies like twin hearts. He could still see his sword. All he had to do was get to it.

Can't move.

No matter how much he willed it, Geralt couldn't seem to make his body move. He was fading fast. He coughed once, the coppery tang of blood coating his tongue.

This was it.

Things like him never saw old age. No heroic tale, no ballad of his deeds would cover this.

Knew it'd end like this. Just another corpse in the dirt. No song. No glory.

The Leshens tilted their heads in unison, fungal lights flickering like thought.. Clicks trilled back and forth—quick, decisive, like a verdict.

Finish it already, damn you.

Their glowing antlers shifted as if listening to something he couldn't hear. Slowly, deliberately, they began to retreat, their massive forms folding back into the fog. The wolves melted after them, silent now.

Geralt's body jerked once. His vision darkened at the edges, the forest spinning as his blood pooled beneath him.

No...

His fingers twitched toward his sword, but they felt distant, detached, as if they belonged to someone else.

Move. Dammit, move.

But his body didn't listen.

Pain flared once, twice, then dulled into a suffocating numbness. His head slumped against the moss, the smell of earth and rot filling his senses.

The medallion's furious hum sputtered... then died.

And then everything went black.

Chapter Text

???

The forest had gone still.

No claws scraping bark. No snapping of jaws in the dark. The medallion on Geralt’s chest was silent now, its faint hum choked to nothing.

Blood soaked into the moss beneath him, pooling thick and crimson as light filtered through the canopy above. His chest rose and fell in shallow, stuttering motions. Silent as a grave. No birds. No animals. Not even the sound of rustling leaves.

Then, the air shifted. His medallion rumbled softly with a low hum.

A figure emerged from the trees, boots soundless against the damp earth. Their body cloaked in green, face obscured by their hood. They knelt beside a corpse, its head lying several feet from its slack-jawed body—open in a silent scream.

“Stupid,” the voice whispered, reaching into their cloak. “They never learn.” They pulled out a single small herb and placed it on the man’s tongue, closed his eyes, and stood, gaze tracing the deep bootprints in the mud.

There was another body near a tree, blood pooling from it, the moss drinking it in like water. They spoke to no one in particular as they moved about the gory scene.

They knelt near a particular set of tracks, eyes following them back into the treeline. “Hm… abandoned by your friends, huh?” they whispered to the white-haired man, standing and brushing the dirt from their fingers.

They made their way to the face-down figure. “Should’ve had better ones,” they murmured, reaching into their cloak and pulling out another small handful of herbs. They grabbed the man’s face, prepared to repeat the same ritual as before.

But he twitched with a light, wheezing groan instead.

Not as dead as he seemed.

“Oh…” The voice came out in a higher pitch. “You’re alive… You shouldn’t be.” They grunted with effort as they slid their arms under the man, flipping him over. Blood gushed from a large wound in his abdomen, flowing freely.

“Not good,” they whispered, tilting their head as they looked at the dying man.

Reaching into the cloak once more, they pulled out a thin dagger, the metal glinting in the light. The blade hovered over the man’s face, steady. They paused for a breath, the forest seeming to still to a crawl with them.

Then they let out a sharp breath, gripped the edge of their skirt, bringing the blade down against the fabric, ripping it in long, thin tears. They wrapped one strip around his arm, shoving another wad into the hole torn into his abdomen.

"Hold on, just hold on," they muttered, more to themself than to the not-so-dead man.

They wrapped their arms under his, a low whistle leaving them as a white horse pulling a small cart slowly appeared from the brush.

“Come on, Max, let’s make some poor decisions.” With a strength belied by their frame, they maneuvered the man’s heavy body, dragging him toward a small wagon attached to the horse. The effort was immense; their breaths came sharp and shallow, their arms trembling with strain. Finally, with a thump, his body landed among the fruits in the wagon.

They winced at the sound. “Just hold on a bit longer.”

The figure climbed back onto their horse, giving one last glance to the clearing before urging the steed forward. They moved deeper into the forest, the trees closing in around them like silent sentinels. The mysterious stranger disappeared into the depths of the ancient woods, their green cloak blending with the foliage as they carried the unconscious witcher toward an uncertain fate.

Chapter Text

Juniper

The horse huffed as the cart rolled to a stop at the dark rose border to her clearing. The hedge loomed like a wall of thorns, dew slicking its heavy branches.

“Hold still, Max,” Juniper muttered, swinging down from the cart with stiff, aching legs. She adjusted the hood over her curls with one hand, brushing a few stubborn coils from her forehead before tugging the rope of the hidden pulley system. Above, the trees groaned faintly as a section of the hedge creaked upward, just high enough for her horse and cart to squeeze through.

Max stepped forward obediently, his hooves muffled against damp earth.

The clearing was still, the air heavy. Her cottage hunched under the trees like a wary animal—small, weather-worn, ivy clawing at its sides.

“Home sweet home,” she muttered. It came out flat.

Her eyes flicked to the cart’s other passenger.

His chest barely rose. Blood had soaked through the makeshift bandages and seeped into the fruit beneath him.

“This is a mistake,” she whispered, but her hands were already moving.

Dragging him from the cart was worse than she’d expected. His body was all dead weight—muscle and bone, heavy as sin. Even stripped to his ruined clothes, he felt denser than any corpse she’d hauled before.

“Gods above, you’re dense,” she grunted, muscles straining as she got him through the door. Her wide hips brushed against the frame, rattling a hanging bunch of dried lavender. Across the narrow living space, over creaking floorboards that groaned under her weight, and finally onto her bed.

His arm slipped free and flopped off the edge with a dull thud, nearly taking her shoulder out with it.

“Hells,” she groaned, rolling her neck until it cracked. “You’re heavier than you look.”

The medallion at his neck buzzed violently as she leaned over him, sharp and insistent, like a nest of hornets under her skin.

Her lip curled in irritation, talking to the unconscious man as if he could hear her. “Of course,” She muttered, “because I needed more noise in my head.”

She yanked the nightstand drawer open and fished out a pair of sharp scissors.

“Sorry,” she muttered, more bitter than apologetic. “If I’m going to help you, these’ll have to go.”

The blades whispered through fabric as she sliced away the blood-soaked shirt, peeling it back from his skin.

Juniper’s eyes swept over him.

Claw marks scored his side, raw and deep. His abdomen had been punctured straight through—flesh jagged, weeping slow, dark blood. Burns ringed one shoulder where the vines had bound him tight, blisters rising angry and red.

“This is bad,” she murmured. “This is beyond bad.”

A sweet, rotting scent clung to him, thick enough to make her stomach twist.

“You’re as good as dead, stranger.”

Yet, her hands kept working.

Steam curled from the kettle over the hearth. Juniper poured it into a basin and dropped in sprigs of yarrow and marigold, sharp herbal scents biting at her nose. She pressed a clean cloth to the worst wounds, her fingers aching as she worked to stem the bleeding. He flinched faintly but didn’t wake.

Hours of bandaging and meticulous care later, Juniper wiped sweat from her brow. Her dark skin shone faintly in the firelight, hands stained red to the wrists.

Then she heard it.

A faint rattle in his chest—wet, uneven. His lips parted slightly, and she caught the first bubbling choke.

“Damn it,” she hissed, leaning close. The sound was unmistakable: his lungs were full. Not just with blood.

Spores. They were choking him from the inside out.

Juniper crouched beside the bed, staring at the man’s pale face. His lips were cracked, his breathing shallow, each inhale pulling wet and gurgling like water caught in his lungs.

“Great,” she muttered bitterly, standing stiffly. “Just what I needed—fungus in your lungs.”

She grabbed bushels of mullein and lungwort from her drying rack, stuffing them into her arms—sleeves pulled tight across her shoulders as she moved.

“This is why you don’t go wandering into cursed woods, idiot,” she snapped, not sure if she meant it for him or herself. She stomped to the kitchen, dumped the herbs onto the counter, then shoved the door open to the moss-covered well outside.

“No one ever pays attention to the signs,” she muttered, voice sharper now. “No one ever turns back before the border.” The bucket rattled as she lowered it. Muscles burned as she hauled it back, water sloshing over her skirts.

“Noooo,” she drew out the word as she filled her copper kettle and shoved it over the fire. “They just have to pass it. Glory, honor, pride… whatever gets them killed fastest.”

She left the kettle to boil and stalked out to her herb garden, cold air stinging her face and catching on her curls.

“Fools,” she muttered, fingers tearing at the hyssop stems. “All of them fools.”

Her fists clenched around the herbs. “And here I am, the biggest fool of them all. Trying to keep one alive for gods know what reason.”

The kettle screamed from inside. Wiping her hands on her skirt, she stood, making her way back, and fetched the steaming pail of water from the fire. A sharp, herbal scent filled the room as she dropped in sprigs of mullein, lungwort, and hyssop into a deep bowl. The steam curled thick in the air, clinging to her hair and lashes.

“Let’s hope this works. Otherwise, I’m wasting my best stock on a corpse.”

She turned him onto his good side carefully. His body felt too warm now, almost burning under her hands, as she held a damp cloth near his mouth.

“Breathe, stranger,” she muttered, voice low but firm. “Come on. Out with it.”

A wet cough shook his chest, violent and sudden. Dark mucus splattered the cloth in her hand, tinged with black streaks and flecks of deep green. She wrinkled her nose as the foul smell hit her.

“Lovely. Absolutely lovely.”

The next cough sent more spore-laced sludge spraying into the cloth. Some of it seeped through, hot and sharp, stinging her fingers faintly.

Over and over, she repeated the motion: steaming herbs, turning him gently, pressing the cloth to his lips as his chest convulsed with coughs. Each time, he gagged up another mouthful of black-red sludge. Her fingers burned faintly where the mess seeped through the rag.

“You’re a nightmare of a patient,” she growled, tossing another rag into the basin. “Not even awake to keep me company.”

The medallion at his neck buzzed louder each time she leaned in, the sound sharp enough to make her jaw tighten.

“Shut up,” she growled at it as if it were a living thing. “You’re not helping.”

Her hands brushed it once as she adjusted him back down to the bed, her skin flaring with irritation where the chain touched her wrist.

“Damn it,” she huffed once, “Of course. Because you couldn’t make one thing easy for me, could you, huh?”

The buzzing wouldn’t stop.

Okay. Enough was enough.

“You won’t miss it even if you live,” she growled, tugging the medallion free. She wrapped it in a thick scrap of cloth and stuffed it into a cedar box.

The buzzing continued faintly until she buried the box under her attic floorboards.

And then—silence. Blissful silence. For the first time since she dragged that strange man here. She let out a slow breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

Peace at last.

That was until a laborious cough rattled from the lower levels of her home.

“Oh right…” she muttered dryly, rubbing her face. “You.”

Juniper trudged back down to the nearly-dead troublemaker she’d dragged into her home, now toting a surgical needle and thread. She threaded it with steady hands. His flesh resisted her efforts, too thick, too strange. Each stitch fought her like a pulled seam snapping back into place.

“This isn’t normal,” she whispered. “You’re not normal.”

The thread tugged hard against his skin. Her fingers ached.

“This is a waste of thread.” She pressed her lips together, knuckles white. “You should let him go. This isn’t your fight. He’s trouble, whatever he is.”

Would you want it to stop? If it was you? The thought rose against her will. She answered aloud, shoulders sagging with a sigh as she looked at the sickly pale man.

She swallowed hard, “No, I’d want to survive. You deserve at least a chance to.”

And so, she went back to work.