Viking and The Witcher: Year 3 1.6

(8 Months Later)

Thorfinn crouched on a rooftop, his cloak blending with the night, the city's hum a distant murmur below. Sophia and Bilal flanked him, their hooded figures poised as they leapt to a lower roof, their movements silent. The manor lay ahead, its white stone walls lit by torches, its tiled roof sloping under the starlit sky. Earlier Idris had briefed them in the bell tower's main hall, their target was finally in the open and now was the time to strike. As they traversed the city, Thorfinn's mind replayed that briefing.

"Your target is Strategos Kastor," Idris had said, pointing to a sketch of a lean man with a hooked nose. "High-ranking Templar, he oversees the city's blood supply for the vampire. He's responsible for every captive drained in the palace."

Thorfinn jumped, landing on a narrow ledge, his fingers gripping the edge as he pulled himself up, his body fluid, no trace of the clumsiness that had plagued him months ago. Sophia followed, flipping over a gap, her cloak fluttering as she landed beside him. Bilal swung from a beam, his boots hitting the next roof with a soft thud. They moved in sync, their training honed to near perfection.

Idris had leaned over the map, his finger tracing a district near the harbor. "Kastor's always in Templar strongholds or in the palace, hr was untouchable. But our scouts found him at a manor, outside their territory. He's personally selecting captives for the palace, overseeing the process himself."

Thorfinn vaulted over a chimney, his legs bending to absorb the impact, then sprinted, leaping to a higher roof, grabbing a protruding stone to swing onto a balcony. Sophia wall-ran beside him, her body twisting to catch a ledge, while Bilal slid under an overhang, rolling to his feet. The manor's walls grew closer, its guards patrolling the perimeter.

"This is our best chance," Idris had said, his braid swinging as he straightened. "Kastor's exposed, away from his usual escorts. Take him out, and we cripple their supply chain. But he's guarded—archers on the roof, swordsmen at the gates. Plan carefully."

Thorfinn reached a sloped roof, crouching as he scanned the manor's layout. Sophia and Bilal joined him, their breaths steady despite the run. They hid behind a stack of tiles, the vantage point giving a clear view of the manor's courtyard, where torches illuminated guards and a line of bound captives kneeling in the dirt. Thorfinn's jaw tightened, his mind flashing to Arwyn, still trapped with Niketas, possibly facing a similar fate. 'I'm coming for you... soon,' he thought, his resolve hardening.

Sophia tapped his arm, whispering, "Plan?"

Thorfinn nodded, his voice low. "Bilal, you're the distraction. Disguise as a beggar, make a scene at the main gate, draw the swordsmen out. Sophia and I infiltrate from the roof, take out the archers, find Kastor."

Bilal grinned, pulling a tattered cloak from his pack. "I'll give them a performance they won't forget. Shout, throw stones, maybe cry about my lost donkey."

Sophia stifled a laugh. "Don't overdo it. We need them distracted, not arresting you."

Bilal adjusted his cloak, smearing dirt on his face. "Trust me, I'm the best beggar this city's seen."

Thorfinn pointed to a tall building across from the manor, its balcony facing the roof. "We'll cross from there. Rope to the manor's chimney, slide over, cut the line. Once we're inside, we split to find Kastor."

Sophia checked her crossbow, nodding. "I'll take the east wing, you take the west. First one to spot him wins."

Thorfinn's lips twitched, a rare smirk. "Agreed."

Bilal slipped away, descending to the street, his cloak dragging as he shuffled toward the gate. Thorfinn and Sophia sprinted, leaping to the next roof. Idris's voice echoed in Thorfinn's mind. "Kastor's cunning," he had said, pinning the sketch to the table. "He'll have escape routes, hidden guards. Don't underestimate him."

Thorfinn jumped, grabbing a rope strung between buildings, swinging to a higher ledge, his arms pulling him up effortlessly. Sophia followed, wall-running to catch a beam, her body twisting mid-air to land beside him. They reached the tall building, its balcony overlooking the manor. Thorfinn pulled a crossbow from his back, loading a rope arrow, its tip barbed to grip stone. He aimed at the manor's chimney, firing, the arrow embedding with a faint thunk, the rope taut across the gap.

Sophia went first, clipping a metal ring to the rope, sliding across, her cloak billowing. Thorfinn followed, the rope sagging under his weight, his hands gripping the ring as he glided, landing on the manor's roof with a soft roll. He cut the rope with a dagger, letting it fall into the shadows. Sophia crouched beside him, scanning the roof. Four archers stood at the corners with their eyes on the courtyard.

Thorfinn signaled, pointing to the two nearest archers. "I'll take left, you take right."

Sophia grinned, her hidden blade extending. "Bet I drop mine faster."

Thorfinn crept forward, his boots silent on the tiles, his body low. He reached the first archer, a stocky man scanning the street, and grabbed his neck, twisting until it snapped, the body slumping without a sound. He dragged it behind a vent, then moved to the second, a taller man adjusting his bow. Thorfinn hooked his arm around the man's throat, squeezing, lifting him off the ground, the archer's legs kicking briefly before going limp. He lowered the body, hiding it in a shadow.

Sophia finished her targets, her blade flashing as she stabbed one archer's neck, blood spurting, then threw a knife into the other's chest, the man collapsing with a gasp. She dragged them behind a stack of crates, wiping her blade. "Two for two," she whispered, smirking. "Still think you'll find Kastor first?"

Thorfinn snorted, crouching beside her. "I'm not losing to you."

She punched his arm lightly. "Maybe if you can keep up, Northman."

They moved to the roof's edge, peering into the manor's open skylight, where lamplight flickered from a grand hall below. Thorfinn's mind flashed to the briefing. "He's selecting captives tonight," Idris had said, his finger tapping the map. "Likely overseeing the process. Get in, kill him, get out before reinforcements arrive."

Thorfinn dropped to a lower ledge, his fingers gripping the rough stone as he swung through a narrow window, landing silently on the polished marble floor of a dark corridor. Sophia slipped through a different window, her body twisting to avoid a creaking floorboard, her cloak settling around her as she crouched. Thorfinn moved forward, his cloak brushing the tapestry-lined walls, his steps light, his senses sharp enough to hear the faint drip of wax from a distant lamp. He cast Axii, and a passing servant—a middle-aged man carrying a stack of linens—froze, his eyes glazing over before he turned and walked away, oblivious to Thorfinn's presence. Sophia darted down a parallel hallway, her hidden blade extended, each step dine to avoid the smallest sound.

Thorfinn paused at a corner, peering into a hall illuminated by brass lamps, their flames casting flickering shadows on tapestries depicting naval battles. He signaled to Sophia, pointing to a spiral staircase which led to the upper floors. "I'll check the office," he whispered. "You take the quarters."

Sophia nodded, slipping past him, her boots silent on the marble. "Don't get lost, Northman," she said, her voice carrying a teasing edge.

Thorfinn moved down the corridor, testing door handles, finding locked studies filled with dusty scrolls and empty storage rooms stacked with crates of wine. He knelt by a locked door, inserting a thin blade into the keyhole, twisting until the mechanism clicked, and pushed it open, revealing a small chamber cluttered with wooden boxes and rolled carpets. No sign of Kastor. His patience wore thin, and he spotted a servant—a young woman in a gray dress, her arms laden with a tray of silver goblets—walking toward him. He stepped behind her, his hand clamping over her mouth, dragging her into a shadowed alcove behind a heavy curtain. The tray clattered softly, a single goblet rolling to the floor, and she struggled, her heels scraping the marble. He pressed his hidden blade to her throat, the tip nicking the wall behind her, grazing her cheek, a thin line of blood welling up. She screamed into his hand, her body trembling, her breath hot against his palm.

"If you scream, I'll slash your throat," Thorfinn said, his voice low, his blade steady. "Nod if you understand."

She nodded frantically, her eyes wide with terror, and shook her head to signal she wouldn't scream. Thorfinn eased his hand off her mouth, keeping the blade close, its edge glinting in the dim light. "Where's the lord's office? Where's Kastor?"

She swallowed hard, her voice trembling as she spoke. "The office is upstairs, third door on the right, past the blue tapestry. I don't know if Lord Kastor's there."

Thorfinn nodded, lowering the blade. "Thank you." He pressed his hand to her temple, channeling a faint pulse of his quake power, a controlled vibration that rattled her skull just enough to knock her out. Her body went limp, and he caught her, lowering her gently to the floor behind the curtain, dragging a crate to conceal her. He moved quickly, climbing the staircase, his cloak trailing as he ascended, his senses alert for any sound.

The office door was heavy oak, its lock yielding to his blade in seconds. Inside, a mahogany desk sat under a high window, piled with scrolls, a silver inkwell, and a lit candle casting light on a detailed map of Constantinople's districts. Thorfinn searched, opening drawers, flipping through ledgers and letters. He found a parchment sealed with the Empress's crest, addressed to Kastor. It read: "Lord Kastor, secure three hundred virgin widows, their husbands deceased on their wedding day, for our honored guest's arrival. Their blood must be pure for our guest will accept nothing less." Thorfinn's grip tightened, his mind racing. 'Another vampire coming to Constantinople,' he thought. 'Likely this one's childe, here to tighten their grip on the city.' The scale of the operation—hundreds of women, selected for their blood—made his stomach churn.

He dug deeper, finding a letter for the Colosseum's reopening, detailing plans to recruit skilled warriors for "the Order" during the event, with a note to ensure a "good supply" of captives for the occasion. 'They're building an army,' Thorfinn thought, his jaw clenching. 'Using the pits to find fighters, maybe for the Templar's forces.' It was the first concrete evidence of the vampire's broader plans. He stuffed the documents into his satchel, rifling through more papers, but his ears twitched, catching the soft tread of footsteps approaching. He moved to a corner, pressing himself against the wall beside a bookshelf, and channeled his divine power, pushing the light away from his body. His form faded, blending into the shadows, a technique he'd refined over months of training, though it only worked when he remained still.

A servant entered, a man in a velvet tunic embroidered with gold thread, carrying a leather ledger. He muttered about missing reports, flipping through the desk's papers, oblivious to Thorfinn's presence. Thorfinn waited, holding his breath, and slipped out as the servant turned to a shelf, his invisibility fading as he moved. He headed toward the main hall. He reached a balcony overlooking the hall, crouching behind a stone railing carved with floral patterns, and peered down.

Below, twelve naked women stood in a line, their bodies varied—one thin with protruding ribs, another heavy with sagging skin, a few with smooth curves, others marked by scars or some just beautiful. Over half a dozen guards in dark armor stood around them, swords drawn, their faces stern. Kastor, a lean man with a hooked nose and fine silk robes, walked among the women, his hands clasped behind his back, his posture rigid. His personal servant, a short man with a wax tablet, read from a list in a monotone voice. "This one's from the merchant district, married two summers ago, widowed the same night. Purity confirmed. This one's from the harbor, married last month, widowed before consummation."

Kastor nodded, stepping to a woman with clear skin and dark hair, lifting her chin with his finger, turning her face side to side. "Kill the unattractive ones," he said, pointing to three women—one with crooked teeth and a gaunt frame, another with pockmarked cheeks, and a third with a limp and thinning hair. "They'll displease our master. Beauty is as vital as blood."

Thorfinn's hand twitched toward his sword, his blood boiling. 'He's sorting them like livestock,' he thought, his rage barely contained. He glanced up, spotting Sophia on an opposite balcony, her hooded figure crouched behind a pillar.

*Target the guards,* Thorfinn signed,

*You take the guards,* Sophia signed back, *I'll get Kastor.*

*Guards first, then Kastor together,* Thorfinn signed.

Sophia hesitated, then she signed, *Fine, but don't try to cheat.*

Thorfinn's mind flashed to Idris's briefing. "Kastor's a master of throwing weapons," Idris had said, pinning a sketch of the ghoul to the table. "As a ghoul, his strength and speed are far beyond human. His senses are heightened, and he's cunning. He'll be dangerous, even for you."

Thorfinn readied himself, his hand on a smoke bomb at his belt, and nodded to Sophia. She mirrored him, pulling her own bomb, and they tossed them into the hall, the devices bursting with a hiss, thick gray smoke flooding the room. The women screamed, running blindly, their bare feet slapping the marble, while guards shouted, coughing, their swords swinging uselessly through the haze. Thorfinn leapt from the balcony, landing on the floor with a roll, and channeled his quake power, sending a subtle tremor through the ground. The vibration rippled out, mapping the room in his mind like sonar—guards scattered in a loose circle, women fleeing toward the exits, Kastor standing near a central pillar.

Thorfinn fired his crossbow, the bolt piercing the smoke, hitting a guard's chest, the man collapsing with a choked grunt, blood pooling under him. He threw three throwing knives in rapid succession, the first lodging in a guard's throat, blood spurting as he clawed at it, the second hitting another's eye, the blade sinking deep, the man dropping instantly, and the third striking a guard's heart, his body slumping forward, blood staining his armor. Sophia moved opposite, slipping behind a guard, her hidden blade thrusting into his spine, the point emerging from his chest, blood dripping as he fell. She rolled over his body, kicking another guard's knee, forcing him to the ground, and drove her blade into his throat, blood gushing as he gurgled and collapsed.

Thorfinn drew his sword, its runes glowing with Baldr's light, the blade humming with power, and charged a guard, slashing across his arm, the blade cutting through muscle and bone, severing the limb, blood spraying across the floor. The guard screamed, clutching the stump, and Thorfinn spun, kicking another guard's chest, the impact snapping ribs, the man gasping as he fell. He drove his sword through the fallen guard's stomach, twisting the blade, blood pooling beneath, and yanked it free, moving to the next.

Sophia threw a knife, the blade spinning through the smoke, lodging in a guard's neck, blood streaming as he staggered and fell. She dodged a wild sword swing, her body twisting, and slashed the attacker's thigh with her blade, blood welling, dropping him to one knee, then finished him with a stab to the heart, the blade piercing clean through, blood dripping from the wound as he slumped.

The smoke began to thin, and Thorfinn faced the last guard, who charged with a yell, his sword raised high. Thorfinn sidestepped, grabbing the guard's wrist, twisting until the bone cracked, the sword clattering to the floor. He headbutted the guard, shattering his jaw, blood and teeth scattering, and plunged his sword into the man's chest, the blade sinking deep, blood gushing as he yanked it free. The guard collapsed, and Thorfinn spun, sensing danger, the hairs on his neck rising. He ducked, a knife sailing over his head, embedding in a wooden beam with a thunk.

The smoke cleared, revealing Kastor standing in the center of the hall, twirling two daggers in his hands, his silk robes pristine despite the chaos. "The Brotherhood," he said, his lips curling into a sneer. "Skulking rats, finally out of your holes. You've come to die, haven't you?"

He threw two daggers, their paths curving as they bounced off the walls, aiming for Thorfinn's chest and shoulder. Thorfinn swung his sword, deflecting one, the blade sparking on impact, but the second grazed his arm, slicing through his cloak, blood welling from a shallow cut. He cursed, rolling behind a marble pillar, the smoke now a faint haze. Kastor laughed, throwing three more daggers, one ricocheting off a chandelier, another deflecting off a wall, their paths converging on Thorfinn's position. Thorfinn dove, his sword flashing, knocking one dagger away, but a second cut his thigh, pain flaring as blood trickled down his leg. The third missed, embedding in the pillar, splinters flying.

Sophia emerged from behind a pillar, throwing four knives in a tight arc, their blades spinning toward Kastor's chest. Kastor flicked a single dagger striking all four knives mid-air, sending them clattering to the floor. "Weaklings," he said, his laughter sharp. "Cowards. Your order plans for months to kill one ghoul, and I'll be replaced by dawn. You're nothing."

Thorfinn stepped out, flourishing his sword, channeling Baldr's light through it, the runes blazing bright, the blade glowing with divine energy. "Maybe before," he said, his voice steady, his hood casting a shadow over his face. "We didn't even need to plan for you. Ghouls mean nothing now."

Kastor's eyes narrowed, raking over Thorfinn's towering frame. "Your size is worthless, boy. Just a bigger corpse, let me show you true strength."

He charged, daggers slashing, one aimed at Thorfinn's chest, the other at his throat. Thorfinn caught Kastor's right wrist, stopping the chest strike, but Kastor's left dagger slashed toward his neck. Thorfinn tilted his head, the blade grazing his cheek, blood beading, and tightened his grip, his boots sliding back across the marble under Kastor's ghoul-enhanced strength. Thorfinn channeled light through his body, his muscles tightening, his power surging, and he stopped the slide, his stance unyielding. Kastor's face twitched, shock flickering, and Thorfinn smirked, slamming his forehead into Kastor's, the impact splitting the ghoul's brow, blood streaming down his face. He drove a fist into Kastor's stomach, the ghoul sputtering, and a second impact—quake energy rippling through—sent Kastor skidding across the floor, crashing through a wooden table, splinters scattering.

Sophia leapt from a pillar, her hidden blade extended, aiming for Kastor's back. Kastor twisted, catching her wrist mid-air, and roared, throwing her into a stone pillar, her body hitting with a thud, her breath escaping in a gasp. He scooped three daggers from the floor, throwing them in a flurry, their paths curving, two bouncing off the walls, one deflecting off a fallen shield. Thorfinn spun his sword in a spiral arc, the glowing blade knocking three daggers out of the air, sparks flying, and caught Sophia as she stumbled, her arm trembling. "Thanks," she said, steadying herself, her blade still ready.

Kastor stood, his face contorted with rage, and pulled a vial of blackish-red liquid from his belt, downing it in one gulp. His eyes turned feral, pupils dilating, his movements blurring, his body trembling with unnatural speed. Thorfinn nodded to Sophia, kicking his sword up from the floor, catching it in a smooth motion, and rushed to meet Kastor, who wielded two daggers, their blades flashing faster than any human could move.

Thorfinn matched him, his sword weaving a complex pattern, parrying Kastor's left dagger with a downward flick, countering with a thrust to the ghoul's chest, which Kastor sidestepped, his right dagger slashing at Thorfinn's arm. Thorfinn twisted, the blade cutting his cloak, and swung his sword in a diagonal arc, aiming for Kastor's shoulder, however it was just a feint and he knocked one of his daggers out of his hands. Kastor ducked, spinning, and threw a dagger, which bounced off a wall, striking his disarmed dagger mid-air, sending it back into his right hand while grabbing the other from the air with his left. He attacked, daggers slashing in a flurry, one cutting Thorfinn's forearm, blood dripping, another grazing his ribs, pain flaring.

Thorfinn ignored the wounds, his sword slashing Kastor's thigh, the glowing blade searing the wound, black blood oozing. Kastor roared, kicking a pillar, the stone cracking, chunks falling, and swung his left dagger at Thorfinn's throat. Thorfinn ducked, the blade whistling past, and countered with a horizontal slash, cutting Kastor's shoulder, the light burning the flesh, smoke rising. Kastor grabbed a marble bust from a pedestal, hurling it, and Thorfinn rolled, the bust shattering against the floor, fragments scattering.

Sophia slid in, her blade slashing Kastor's calf, blood spurting, and rolled away as he swung at her, his dagger missing by inches. Thorfinn seized the opening, radiating light from his body, the glow filling the hall, searing Kastor's skin, blisters forming, smoke curling. Kastor screamed, shielding his face, and Thorfinn flourished his sword, slashing in a smooth arc, cutting Kastor's right hand off, the dagger clattering, then his left, the second dagger falling. He kicked Kastor's chest, sending him stumbling backward, straight into Sophia, who leapt, stabbing her hidden blade into his neck, then spinning to slice his throat open, the blade cutting through muscle and sinew, nearly decapitating him. Kastor collapsed, his body twitching blood pooling across the marble.

Thorfinn exhaled, letting the light recede, his sword dimming, his body tingling with the afterglow of his power. Sophia wiped her blade on Kastor's robe, grinning. "I got the kill, Northman. You know what that means."

Thorfinn rolled his eyes, sheathing his sword. "Yeah, yeah, fine."

He knelt beside Kastor's body, picking up the vial, sniffing it, and grimaced at the metallic, rancid tang. "What is it?" Sophia asked, crouching beside him, her cloak stained with blood.

"Not sure," Thorfinn said, slipping the vial into his satchel. "Maybe vampire blood. We'll take it to Idris."

"What about the women?" Sophia said, glancing around the hall, now empty save for the guards' bodies, the women having fled during the chaos.

Thorfinn stood, scratching his chin, then sighed. "I'll distract the reinforcements. You get them out through the back."

Sophia nodded, her face serious. "Be careful, Thorfinn."

"You too," he said, heading for the main entrance.

Outside, thirty guards approached, their armor clanking, swords and spears gleaming under torchlight, their shouts echoing as they spotted the bodies in the hall. Thorfinn stepped into the courtyard, his hood up, his crossbow loaded, and fired, the bolt piercing a guard's throat, blood spurting as he collapsed. He threw a smoke bomb, gray clouds billowing, and the guards coughed, swinging blindly, their spears thrusting into the haze. Thorfinn moved, drawing a dagger attached to a thin wire, throwing it into a guard's chest, the blade lodging deep, blood welling. He yanked the wire, pulling the body into another guard, both falling, and swung his sword, slashing a third guard's arm, cutting through muscle, blood spraying as the man screamed.

He cast Aard, a telekinetic blast sending four guards crashing into a stone fountain, water splashing, bones snapping as they hit. A guard swung a spear at his back, and Thorfinn spun, catching the shaft, snapping it, and drove his dagger into the guard's eye, blood and fluid leaking as he fell. He grabbed a guard's shield, smashing it into another's face, breaking his nose, blood gushing, and slashed his throat with his sword, the blade cutting clean through, blood pooling. Thorfinn sprinted, leading the remaining guards away, leaping onto a low wall, then vaulting to a tiled roof. He threw another smoke bomb, covering his path, and ran, leaping across a narrow gap, grabbing a rope, swinging to a higher roof, his boots landing softly. The guards' shouts faded, their torches bobbing as they searched the wrong streets. He doubled back, sticking to shadowed alleys, his cloak hiding the bloodstains, and reached the bell tower, slipping through a side window into the headquarters.

The main hall was wuite busy despite the time, assassins honing blades on whetstones, stitching torn cloaks, or passing bowls of barley stew at a long wooden table. Hassan and Korinos spotted him first, leaning against a rack of swords and daggers, their hooded figures turning as he approached. "Back from the slaughter, Northman?" Hassan called, tossing a coarse rag for Thorfinn to clean his sword.

Thorfinn caught the rag, wiping the blade still slick with Kastor's blood, the metallic tang lingering. "Mission was successful," he said. "Where's the Grandmaster?"

Korinos jerked a thumb toward the upper floors, his cloak shifting. "In his study, buried in parchment as usual."

Thorfinn nodded, handing the rag back, the fabric now smeared with dark streaks. "Thanks."

He climbed the spiral staircase. The study's door was solid oak, carved with the Brotherhood's eagle emblem, its wings spread wide. He knocked twice, the sound sharp in the quiet corridor, and Idris's voice came through. "Enter."

Thorfinn pushed the door open, stepping into a room lit by a brass candelabra, its five flames casting shadows on walls lined with shelves of scrolls and leather-bound tomes. A large desk sat in the center, cluttered with maps, inkwells, and quills, Idris seated behind it, his gray braid neat, his hands folded over a parchment. Sophia stood by an open window, her hood down, her dark wavy hair cascading over her shoulders, her olive skin catching the candlelight as she smiled at him. "Glad you made it, Northman," she said, leaning against the sill, her fingers tapping the stone.

Thorfinn smirked, setting his satchel on the desk with a soft thud. "Easy, as usual."

Malik, sprawled in a wooden chair with his boots propped on a crate, chuckled, his shaved head reflecting the light. "Easy, he says. Bet you left half the city in pieces, you lumbering ox."

Cassian, standing by a wall-mounted map of Constantinople, snorted, his scar twitching as he crossed his arms. "He's not wrong, Thorfinn. You're about as subtle as a siege engine."

Idris raised a hand, silencing the room, his expression stern but not unkind. "Sophia and Bilal briefed us already. Your mission was successful, Kastor is dead, and the captives are safe. You've struck a significant blow against the Templars. Well done, all three of you."

Thorfinn inclined his head, his posture straight. "Thank you, Grandmaster, but I found something else." He opened his satchel, pulling out the folded letters and the vial of blackish-red liquid, placing them carefully on the desk beside a half-burned candle. "A letter from Empress Irene, ordering Kastor to collect three hundred virgin widows, specifically their husbands dying on their wedding day, for a guest arriving soon. Another document details the Colosseum's reopening, recruiting warriors for their order, for someone called the mistress."

The room fell silent, the weight of the words settling like a heavy fog. Sophia's smile vanished, her hand pausing on the sill, her fingers curling tightly. Malik swung his boots off the crate, sitting up, his brow creasing as he leaned forward. Cassian stepped closer, picking up the letter from Irene, his eyes scanning the elegant script, his lips thinning. Bilal, standing near the door, shifted his weight, his hand resting on the hilt of his dagger, his face unreadable. Idris lifted the letter, reading it slowly, his jaw tightening with each line, then set it down, his fingers tracing the words.

"This is deeply troubling," Idris said, his voice laced with concern. "Another vampire, possibly their childe, coming to Constantinople, and this mention of the mistress—our first real clue to the vampire's identity. Recruiting warriors for their order suggests they're building a force, likely ghouls or worse, to expand their control."

Malik leaned forward, his hands clasped. "Three hundred widows, specifically with husbands dead on their wedding day? Their taste gets stranger by the day."

Cassian nodded, setting the letter down. "The Colosseum plan... They're not just consolidating power—they're preparing for war."

Sophia crossed her arms. "And we're still one step behind. We need to know who this guest is, who the mistress is, and what they're planning."

Idris exhaled, rubbing his temple with two fingers, his eyes distant. "I'll need time to consider this. We'll reconvene tomorrow to plan our next move. For now, get some rest. You've earned it."

Thorfinn nodded, slinging his satchel over his shoulder. "Goodnight, everyone."

He turned, stepping into the corridor, the door closing with a soft thud behind him. Footsteps followed, and he glanced back, seeing Sophia, her hood still down, her wavy hair framing her face, her lips curved in a playful grin. "You lost, Northman," she said, stopping close, her hands on her hips, her body angled toward him. "You know what that means."

Thorfinn rolled his eyes, his voice dry but tinged with amusement. "You're on top."

Sophia's grin widened, her eyes sparkling, and she rushed him, her hands gripping the front of his cloak as she pressed her lips to his, kissing him deeply, her mouth warm, her tongue teasing his. Thorfinn stiffened for a moment, then relaxed, his hands finding her waist, pulling her closer, his fingers pressing into the curve of her hips as he kissed her back. She broke the kiss, grabbing his hand, her fingers interlacing with his, and tugged him up the stairs to his chamber, her laughter soft, echoing in the narrow stairwell.

Inside, the small room was dim, lit only by a single candle on a wooden table, its flame flickering, casting long shadows on the bare stone walls. A peg held his spare cloak, and a narrow cot sat against the far wall, its blanket neatly folded. Sophia pushed him against the wall, her hands sliding under his cloak, untying it, letting it fall to the floor in a heap. She kissed him again, her lips hungry, her tongue exploring his mouth, her fingers tugging at his tunic, pulling it over his head, revealing his broad chest, scarred from countless fights, his muscles taut. Thorfinn gripped her tunic, lifting it off, her arms raising to help, exposing her olive skin, her full breasts with dark nipples, her narrow waist curving into rounded hips, a faint scar tracing her left rib from a knife wound years ago. Her dark pubic hair was neatly trimmed, soaked with the juices of her sex.

Sophia's hands roamed his chest, her nails grazing his skin, sending shivers through him. "Gods, you're built like a fucking wall," she murmured, kissing his neck, her lips sucking gently, her teeth nipping, leaving faint marks. She slid her hand down, unbuckling his belt, yanking his trousers down, his cock springing free, thick and veined, already hard.

Thorfinn groaned, his hands cupping her breasts, his thumbs circling her nipples, feeling them harden under his touch. He leant down to kiss her collarbone, his lips trailing to her breast, sucking her nipple, his tongue flicking, making her gasp, her back arching.

"Gods, Thorfinn," she breathed, her hand wrapping around his cock, stroking slowly, her fingers tight, her thumb smearing precum over the tip, making him hiss. "You savage... this is so big, it's gonna split me open."

He lifted her, her legs wrapping around his waist, and carried her to the cot, laying her down, his hands spreading her thighs, exposing her wet sex, her lips glistening. He kissed her inner thigh, his beard brushing her skin, and licked her clit, his tongue circling, her hips bucking, a moan escaping her lips. "Oh, shit, yes," she gasped, her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, her thighs trembling as he sucked, his tongue delving into her folds, tasting her sweetness.

"Gods, you taste good," Thorfinn said, his voice muffled, his fingers sliding into her, curling, stroking her walls, her pussy clenching around him, her moans growing louder, "Nngh, yesss, don't stop!"

He worked her until her breath hitched, her body tensing, and she came, her cunt pulsing, her juices coating his fingers, her cry sharp, "Ahh, Thorfinn!" He pulled back, licking his lips, and climbed over her, his cock brushing her thigh, her hands guiding him to her entrance.

"Fuck me," Sophia panted, her legs spreading wider, her cunt dripping, her eyes locked on his. "I want that cock, now."

Thorfinn pushed in, the head of his cock parting her lips, stretching her tight entrance, her walls gripping him, warm and slick. She moaned, her nails digging into his shoulders, "Oh, fuck, so thick!" He sank deeper, inch by inch, spreading her, his cock throbbing, the sensation overwhelming, her hole squeezing him like a vise. "Gods, you're huge," she gasped, her hips rocking, taking him fully, his balls pressed against her ass.

Thorfinn thrust, slow at first, his cock sliding out, then plunging back, her pussy stretching around him, wet sounds filling the room. "You're always so tight," he growled, his hands gripping her hips, lifting her slightly, thrusting harder, his cock hitting her core, making her cry out, "Yes, like that!"

Sophia pushed him back, rolling them so she was on top, her thighs straddling him, her sex hovering over his cock. She lowered herself, impaling herself, her walls clenching, her moan loud, "Oh, shit, you're so deep!" She rode him, her hips rocking, her ass bouncing, her breasts swaying, her hands braced on his chest, her nails scratching, leaving red trails. "Fuck, Thorfinn, you feel so good," she panted, grinding her clit against his pelvis, her cunt squeezing, her movements faster, the cot creaking loudly.

Thorfinn gripped her ass, his fingers spreading her cheeks, guiding her, his cock slamming into her, "Ride it, take every inch," he said, thrusting up, meeting her movements, his balls tightening, the pressure building. Her pussy fluttered, her moans desperate, "Nngh, I'm getting close, fuck, don't stop!" She slammed down, her thighs quaking, her orgasm hitting, her sex pulsing, gripping his cock, her juices dripping, her cry sharp, "Ahh, yes, fuck!"

Thorfinn thrust once more, his cock throbbing, his orgasm crashing, seed spilling deep inside her, pulse after pulse, his groan low, "Fuck!" He filled her, his cock twitching, her walls milking him, their bodies trembling together.

She collapsed onto him, her breasts pressed against his chest, her breath hot on his neck, her body slick with sweat. He wrapped his arms around her, his hands stroking her back, her skin warm, her heartbeat slowing. She nuzzled his jaw, her voice soft, almost a whisper. "Was it worth losing the bet?"

Thorfinn chuckled, his fingers tracing her spine, her hair tickling his shoulder. "You're trouble."

She curled closer, her leg draping over his, her thigh brushing his softening cock. "The best kind," she murmured.

She then looked up at him and a smirk crossed her face. "You ready to go again?" She asked.

Thorfinn looked down at her, his cock hardening as he looked at her expression. "I'm on top now..." he said flipping her making her giggle before he plunged back inside of her.

...

The candle in Thorfinn's chamber had burned low, its flame a faint flicker casting long shadows across the stone walls, the air cool as night edged toward dawn. Thorfinn stood naked by the open window, his broad frame silhouetted against the city's faint glow, his arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the distant domes and spires of Constantinople. The Bosphorus shimmered under the fading stars, and the streets below were quiet, save for the occasional clatter of a night watchman's boots. His mind churned, thoughts of the mission, the letters, and the vampire's growing shadow mingling with older, deeper wounds—Arwyn, Morgyn, the gods who had shaped and abandoned him.

Soft footsteps broke his reverie, and Sophia approached, the woolen blanket draped over her shoulders, her wavy hair loose, her olive skin bare beneath the fabric. She slipped under his arm, pressing her side against his, her warmth a contrast to the chill seeping through the window. She tilted her head, looking up at him, her hand resting on his chest. "What's wrong?" she asked, her fingers tracing the scars crisscrossing his skin.

"Nothing," Thorfinn said, his voice low, his eyes still on the city.

Sophia reached up, gently turning his chin to face her, her touch firm but tender. "Hey," she said, her brows knitting. "We talked about this. Don't close off from me."

Thorfinn met her gaze, her hazel eyes gazing into his own. She stood closer, the blanket slipping slightly, revealing the curve of her shoulder. "I am yours, and you are mine," she said, her voice soft. "Nothing you tell me will send me away."

Thorfinn grunted, turning his head back to the window, his jaw tightening.

She slapped his chest lightly, the sound sharp in the quiet room, her lips curving into a smile. "Don't grunt at me," she said, her tone teasing, her hand lingering on his skin.

Thorfinn laughed, a short, reluctant sound, and gave her a small smile, his eyes softening before he looked away again, the city's lights blurring in his vision. The wind picked up, rustling his white hair, and Sophia shivered, pressing closer, her arm wrapping around his waist, the blanket brushing his hip.

"Is it Rebekah? Freydis?" Sophia asked, her voice gentle, her fingers stroking his chest in slow circles. "Do you miss them?"

Thorfinn stayed silent for a moment, his breath visible in the cool air, then nodded, his voice rough. "I do miss them, but it's not what troubles my thoughts."

She tilted her head, her hair tickling his arm. "Then speak your mind, Thorfinn, so I can ease it," she said, her hands sliding up to his shoulders, kneading the tense muscles.

He exhaled, his gaze distant, and asked, "Are you angry?"

She frowned, her hands pausing. "At what?"

"The gods," he said, his voice quieter now. "Your father. For abandoning you and your mother."

Sophia leaned her cheek against his arm, her breath warm on his skin. "For a while, I was, when I found out," she said, her voice steady. "I was sixteen, training with the Brotherhood, when an elder told me about Enlil, about my blood. I hated him, cursed him for leaving us in that slum, for letting my mother die weaving cloth until her hands bled. But after a time, I realized he wasn't worth my anger. Enlil is the wind, Thorfinn, and the wind never stays still for long."

She lifted her head, looking out at the city, her voice softening. "Gods aren't like us. Any love they feel for us is a grain of sand in their endless lives. They move on, and we're left to make our own way."

The wind gusted again, stronger now, whipping Thorfinn's hair across his face, making Sophia shiver and hug him tighter, the blanket slipping to her waist, her breasts pressing against his side. He wrapped an arm around her, his hand resting on her hip, and spoke, his voice low, almost a whisper. "When I was thirteen winters old, I believed the gods had grand plans for me. How else could a farm boy become a Jarl in so few years? I fought, I killed, I led, all because I thought they chose me."

He paused, his eyes tracing the city's skyline, the wind carrying the faint scent of salt from the sea. "When I was younger, I was content to place myself in their hands, to trust their path, but now I wonder where it all leads. Was I just a tool in plans that go beyond my understanding? Was I cast aside for the weakness I showed, for failing Hild, Morgyn? Or are they not done with me, and I have some higher purpose I can't see?"

Sophia listened, her hand sliding down his chest, her fingers brushing the coarse hair above his navel. Thorfinn continued, his voice growing quieter. "Sometimes, I wonder if life would've been better if I'd stayed on the farm, if I'd never picked up a sword, never heard the gods' call."

Sophia leaned against him, her cheek resting on his chest, her voice soft. "We all wonder what our purpose is, Thorfinn. Few are born knowing it, and even fewer fulfill it. All we can do is make the best of what we're given, take the path in front of us, and keep moving."

She lifted her head, her eyes meeting his. "Soon, we'll finish this fight in the city, and you'll go back to your home, to your daughter waiting for you. Does your purpose need to be more than that?"

Thorfinn looked down at her, the wind rustling the blanket, her hair fluttering against her neck. "No," he said, his voice steady. "I suppose it doesn't."

Sophia cupped his face, her thumbs brushing his bearded cheeks, her smile widening. "For a northern brute, you've got the mind of a Greek philosopher," she said, giggling, the sound light, making Thorfinn's lips twitch into a broader smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

She stepped back, letting the blanket fall to the floor, her naked body exposed, her olive skin glowing in the candlelight, her curves soft yet toned from years of training. "Now come back to bed," she said, her voice dropping. "My hole's starting to tighten, and I'm aching to be stretched again."

Thorfinn rolled his eyes, but his smile lingered, and he bent down, scooping her up over his shoulder, her laughter bursting out as her hair dangled, her hands playfully swatting his back. "Put me down, you oaf!" she said, giggling harder, her legs kicking lightly.

He carried her to the cot, tossing her gently onto the blanket, her body bouncing once, her laughter fading into a grin as she propped herself on her elbows, her thighs parting slightly. Thorfinn climbed over her, his hands bracing on either side, his lips finding hers, kissing her deeply, her tongue meeting his, her arms wrapping around his neck.

___________________________

Arwyn walked through the streets of Constantinople's Galata district, her burgundy silk dress swaying with each step, gold embroidery catching the midday sun. She wore her blonde hair in an updo, secured with pearl pins, her movements graceful, honed over eight months of training under Thea's guidance. Lysandros, walked to her left, his sword sheathed. Lieutenant Phokas, stocky with a shaved head, strode to her right, clutching a scroll. Commander Zoe, wiry with a scar on her cheek, followed, her armor clinking. Merchants arranged figs and cloth at stalls, children chased hoops, and women balanced baskets of bread, all nodding respectfully as Arwyn passed.

Over the past eight months, Arwyn had mastered etiquette, dance, and Greek, becoming a noblewoman in every sense, while excelling in sword, throwing knife, and bow, surpassing her instructors, her natural talent combined with the natural speed and strength of her body allowed her to push herself far beyond that of a normal peslrson. She had also transformed Galata, as district in the city that was once a haven for thieves and disease. Niketas initially hesitated to let her lead the project, but Thea persuaded him, citing Arwyn's drive. With Thea, Arwyn eliminated crime, employed beggars, and restored health to the district.

Healers' buildings stood on every other corner, whitewashed with red crosses, funded by Niketas, offering free care. Arwyn passed one, nodding to a healer wrapping a boy's sprained ankle, the mother bowing in thanks. Lysandros spoke, bowing slightly. "The granary you ordered is nearly finished, my lady. It'll hold enough grain for winter."

Phokas unrolled his scroll. "Aqueduct repairs are ahead of schedule, my lady, thanks to the extra workers you assigned."

Zoe stepped forward, holding a sealed letter. "Lord Niketas requests your presence urgently at the manor, my lady."

Arwyn nodded. "I'll go after visiting the orphanage. The children expect me."

"Yes, my lady," Zoe said, bowing, the others mirroring her, their deference signaling Arwyn's high Templar rank.

Walking, Arwyn's chest swelled with pride. 'Eight months ago, this district was a pit of despair,' she thought, watching a girl skip past with a basket of apples. 'Thieves roamed, children starved, disease spread. Now, kids play, people are happy, and criminals fled to other districts.' She smiled, her purpose clear. 'I delayed finding Geralt, but this is worth it. Kattegat offers nothing—no family, no future. Here, I've found my calling.' The Templars' vision, a world without chaos, where no child would see their family butchered or sisters violated. 'This proves their work matters,' she thought. 'Soon, we'll spread this to the whole city, then the world.'

Her ears twitched, catching the scrape of blades unsheathing and a crossbow stringing from a rooftop, her enhanced hearing pinpointing the threat. She scanned the alley they'd entered, carts blocking both ends, men shoving them into place. "Trouble's coming," she said, her hand slipping to the dagger in her sleeve.

A crossbow bolt shot from above, aimed at Lysandros's heart. Arwyn flicked her dagger, the blade spinning, hitting the bolt, sending it arcing skyward. She locked eyes with the rooftop assassin, a cloaked figure reloading. Five more assassins vaulted over the front cart.

Lysandros drew his sword, stepping forward. "Stay back, my lady. We'll handle these Brotherhood filth."

Phokas and Zoe unsheathed their blades, forming a barrier. Arwyn gripped her dagger, cursing. 'No sword today.' Another bolt flew, aimed at her chest, and she sidestepped, the shaft grazing her arm, embedding in the cart.

Two assassins broke past the Templars, swords raised, targeting Arwyn. "Monsters!" she shouted. "We are trying to create a lasting peace, why can't you see that!"

A lean assassin with a scarred jaw sneered. "You serve the monsters, Templar. We'll stop your control."

Arwyn met them, deflecting the scarred man's sword with her dagger, metal sparking as she parried with her right hand. The second, a woman with a braided ponytail, thrust at Arwyn's stomach. Arwyn switched her dagger to her left hand, blocking the strike, her enhanced speed matching both assassins. A crossbow bolt whizzed past, nicking her cheek. She spun, catching the bolt mid-air, her fingers closing around it, and stabbed it into the scarred man's thigh, blood spurting. She kicked his chest, sending him crashing into the wall, his skull cracking, body slumping.

The braided woman lunged, her hidden blade snapping out toward Arwyn's throat. Arwyn grabbed her wrist, twisting, and swung her down, slamming her into the ground, dust rising. She stomped on the woman's neck, snapping it, the body going still. Another bolt flew, and Arwyn caught it, throwing it back, the shaft piercing the rooftop assassin's eye, blood spraying as he fell, his crossbow clattering.

Phokas grunted, an assassin's sword in his gut, blood pooling as he collapsed. Lysandros parried a blade, but another slashed his shoulder, blood welling. Zoe dodged a strike, but an assassin pinned her, his sword at her throat. Arwyn grabbed three throwing knives from the dead woman's belt, aligning them, and threw them in one motion, the blades spinning—one curved around a cart, another bounced off a wall, the third flew straight, each hitting an assassin's neck, blood gushing as they dropped.

The last assassin raised his sword to kill Zoe. Arwyn partially shifted, her legs thickening with muscle, claws sprouting, her speed surging. She leapt, blurring across the alley, and grabbed his neck, slamming him into the wall, stone splintering. He stabbed with his hidden blade, but Arwyn caught his wrist, twisting, forcing it toward his throat. He kicked, his boot grazing her ribs, but she held firm, her eyes blazing. She triggered the blade, piercing his neck, blood spurting, and dropped him, the body crumpling.

Lysandros panted, clutching his wound. "Are you okay, my lady?"

Arwyn nodded, her dagger dripping blood. "Search them for anything useful," she ordered, her anger flaring. 'The Brotherhood's destroying my work,' she thought, glaring at the corpses. 'This peace, this safety—they're tearing it apart.'

...

Hours later, Arwyn entered Niketas's manor, her dress mended, her composure restored. The courtyard was calm, servants pruning jasmine bushes, their shears clicking. Thea greeted her at the entrance, her green dress flowing, her dark hair pinned up, her face tight with worry. "Arwyn, are you hurt?" she asked, her hands checking Arwyn's arms.

"I'm fine," Arwyn said, brushing back her hair. "Phokas didn't make it."

Thea's hand rested on Arwyn's shoulder. "I'm sorry. I know you were close to him."

"They're avenged," Arwyn said, her jaw set. "Soon, we woll end the rest."

Thea nodded, guiding her inside. "Rest first. Niketas needs to see you. He has urgent news, says it's dire."

Arwyn sighed. "Just once, I'd like good news."

Thea gave a small smile. "Me too."

They walked to the study, its oak door ajar, lamplight glowing within. Niketas stood behind his desk, his purple robes neat, his dark hair combed. He crossed the room, hugging Arwyn tightly, his hands on her shoulders. "Thank god you're safe," he said, gesturing to a chair. "Sit."

Arwyn sat, folding her hands. "I'm fine, Niketas. The assassins were no trouble."

He nodded, sitting opposite her. "Good, but what I have next to say won't be easy to hear... Kastor is dead."

Arwyn froze, her teacup trembling, nearly falling. Shock hit her, her breath catching. Kastor, her throwing knife instructor, had been a mentor, an uncle, sharing laughs and lessons over eight months, his pride in her skill a constant warmth. "That can't be," she whispered, tears welling.

Niketas leaned forward, his hands clasped. "I'm sorry. Two assassins killed him at his manor last night."

Tears spilled down Arwyn's cheeks, and she set the cup down, her hands shaking. Thea knelt beside her, wrapping an arm around her, stroking her hair. Niketas moved closer, his hand on her arm. "It's hard," he said. "Kastor was loyal, a good man. But he'd want us to keep fighting for peace."

Arwyn wiped her eyes, nodding. "You're right. I'm sorry."

Thea squeezed her hand. "We'll avenge him, don't worry."

Niketas returned to his desk, handing Arwyn a letter. "Start with this."

Arwyn read it, her brow creasing. "The Colosseum's reopening?"

Niketas nodded. "The games draw crowds and historically lower crime. Winners will join our order. We need fighters, and this is our chance."

Arwyn agreed. "It's a good plan."

He smiled. "I want your help organizing it, inspecting the fighters. Your experience with northern warriors makes you perfect."

Arwyn hesitated but nodded. "I'll do it."

Niketas stood. "Rest now. The next few months will be busy."

"May the father of understanding guide us," Niketas said to her.

"May the father of understanding guide us," she replied. Arwyn rose, and Thea led her to her chamber, the manor's halls quiet, lamps casting soft light. Inside, Thea hugged her tightly, her arms enveloping Arwyn. "I'm glad you're safe," Thea said, her face buried in Arwyn's shoulder.

Arwyn hugged back, her hands pressing into Thea's back. "Thank you."

Thea pulled away, cupping Arwyn's face, and kissed her, her lips soft, lingering. Arwyn kissed back, her hands sliding to Thea's waist, pulling her closer, their bodies pressing together. Thea untied Arwyn's dress, letting it fall, revealing Arwyn's pale skin, full breasts, pink nipples, and smooth-shaven quim. Arwyn unfastened Thea's dress, the green silk dropping, exposing her olive skin, pert breasts, dark nipples, and smooth quim, glistening slightly.

Thea pushed Arwyn onto the bed, climbing over her, kissing her deeply, her tongue swirling, her hands squeezing Arwyn's breasts, thumbs circling her nipples, making Arwyn moan, "Mmm, Thea!" Thea kissed her neck, sucking, teeth grazing, her fingers trailing down, parting Arwyn's thighs, stroking her quim, circling her clit, Arwyn's hips bucking, moaning, "Ohh, yes!" Thea slid a finger inside, then two, curling, stroking, Arwyn's walls clenching, her moan louder, "Nngh, more!" Thea kissed her stomach, her tongue tracing circles, her fingers thrusting, Arwyn's thighs trembling, her breath hitching.

Arwyn grabbed Thea's hips, pulling her up, positioning her quim over Arwyn's mouth, and licked, her tongue teasing Thea's clit, tasting her, Thea moaning, "Nngh, Arwyn!" Thea ground against her, her juices dripping, her hands spreading Arwyn's thighs, tongue diving into her quim, sucking her clit, their moans blending, "Mmm, ohh!" Arwyn's tongue thrust, Thea's thighs shook, her cry sharp, "Ahh, fuck!" as she came, her quim pulsing, coating Arwyn's lips.

Thea slid down, kissing Arwyn, their tastes mingling, her hands roaming, squeezing Arwyn's ass, pulling her close. She scissored their legs, their quims pressing, wet and hot, rocking together, clits rubbing, Arwyn moaning, "Ohh, Thea, harder!" Thea thrust, her quim slick, her moan desperate, "Fuck, Arwyn, you feel so good!" They ground faster, sweat beading, Arwyn's hands gripping Thea's hips, guiding her, their moans louder, "Nngh, I'm close!" Thea's thighs quaked, her cry high, "Come with me!" They climaxed, quims throbbing, juices mixing, crying, "Ahh, yes!" Thea kissed Arwyn's breasts, sucking her nipples, her fingers slipping back into Arwyn's quim, thrusting, drawing out her pleasure, Arwyn moaning, "Ohh, don't stop!" Another orgasm hit, her body arching, her cry sharp, "Mmm, Thea!"

They collapsed, panting, and curled together, Thea's arm over Arwyn's waist, their legs entwined and the bed warm and wet with the fluids of their bodies.

___________________________

Thorfinn sat cross-legged on a flat rooftop, a crusty loaf of bread and a wedge of hard cheese spread on a worn cloth between him and Sophia, a clay jug of watered wine tucked against the low stone wall. They overlooked a crowded street in Constantinople's merchant district, where vendors shouted prices for olives, figs, and bolts of dyed silk, their voices tangling with the creak of cartwheels and the chatter of women haggling over pomegranates. Sophia tore off a chunk of bread, popping it into her mouth, her cloak folded beside her, her dark hair tied back with a leather cord, a few strands loose in the warm breeze. Thorfinn chewed a bite of cheese, his hood up, his sword propped against the wall.

Sophia swallowed, brushing crumbs from her fingers, and leaned back on her hands, her legs dangling over the roof's edge. "Heard Geralt's coming back today. Bringing the other Witchers with him."

Thorfinn grunted, snapping off a piece of cheese, turning it in his calloused hands. "About damn time. I'm done waiting for him to crawl out of whatever hole he's been in."

She tilted her head, her lips twitching into a half-smile, but her fingers fidgeted with the cloth, betraying a flicker of unease. "You think he's got something real this time? A lead, maybe, something to finally hit the Templars where it hurts?"

Thorfinn shrugged, chewing slowly, his gaze drifting to a merchant below, stacking baskets of dates, the red fruit catching the sun. "Better have. We had a good haul last night but I doubt it'll lead to something substantial."

Sophia nodded, tearing another piece of bread, her fingers lingering on the crust, her shoulders tensing. She paused, her breath catching, then spoke, her words careful, like she was testing the air. "Thorfinn... do you ever think I'm betraying the Brotherhood? Planning to leave with you."

Thorfinn set the cheese down, his brow creasing, his gaze locking onto her. "No. It's your life, Sophia. You choose how it's lived, not them. They gave you a home, trained you, but that doesn't mean they own you."

She looked away, her fingers crumbling the bread, scattering flecks onto the cloth, her jaw tightening. "I know, but they took me in when I was nothing, just a skinny kid stealing fish in Constantinople's docks. They fed me, taught me to fight, gave me a reason to keep going when I had none. Walking away, even after the vampire's dead, feels like I'm turning my back on the only family I've ever had, like I'm tossing their trust in the dirt."

Thorfinn leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his hands clasping loosely, his voice firm but not unkind. "Once the vampire's gone, the fight shifts. The Templars lose their puppet-master, their whole structure cracks. You're not abandoning the Brotherhood—you're choosing what comes next, what you want your life to be. That's not betrayal."

Sophia stared at the street, her fingers still, her eyes following a woman weaving through the crowd, a basket of bread balanced on her head. She exhaled, her shoulders slumping. "You're right, I know you're right, but it feels so far off. Like we're slogging through a swamp, and the dry land keeps slipping further away."

Her words faltered, and she set the bread down, her hands dropping to her lap, her voice fraying, heavy with exhaustion. "We lost six yesterday, Thorfinn. Six of ours, cut down in an alley like dogs. Darius, Mika, Lena, Marcus, Kael, and Zara, toughest woman I've ever met, took down Fleder ghouls once, didn't even flinch. All gone, just... gone, by some Templar's hand."

Thorfinn's hand froze, the bread halfway to his mouth. Sophia's gaze drifted to the horizon, her voice softening, cracking at the edges. "I'm tired, Thorfinn. Bone-tired. Tired of burying friends, of scrubbing blood off my hands every night, of wondering who I'll lose next. When does it stop? When do we get one day, just one, where we don't have to mourn, where we can breathe without a fight looming? I want a moment where this feels worth it, where I can believe we're not just piling bodies for nothing."

Thorfinn set the bread down, his fingers brushing the cloth, his eyes steady on her. "As long as there are people, there'll be fighting. It's who we are, what we've always been."

Sophia's lips pressed thin, her hands clenching in her lap, her voice barely above a whisper. "Then maybe the Templars are onto something. Maybe peace without freedom is the only way to end it, to stop the dying."

Thorfinn snorted, shaking his head, his voice sharp, cutting through the air. "Life without freedom's no life at all. You're just a husk, existing on someone else's whims."

She looked at him, her fingers unclenching. "But it'd stop the wars, the death, wouldn't it? Even for a little while?"

"For a time, maybe," Thorfinn said, leaning back, his hands resting on the warm stone of the roof, his gaze drifting to a boy below, kicking a leather ball against a wall. "But war's in our blood, Sophia. The gods built us to clash, to hunger, to tear things down and build them back up. It's not a flaw—it's what we are."

Sophia's brow furrowed, her voice quiet, almost a plea. "Why would they do that? Why make us to suffer, to fight forever?"

Thorfinn picked up the jug of wine, taking a slow sip, the liquid sharp and tart on his tongue. He set it down, his shoulders lifting in a faint shrug, his voice thoughtful. "In my homeland, we've got thousands of stories about the gods. Maybe they've got stories about us, too, tales they share to pass the ages. Maybe they created us to chase what we can't have, to reach for what we don't understand, because our struggles, our lives, our choices—they're their sagas, their fireside tales."

Sophia's lips twitched, a faint smile breaking through her weariness, her voice lighter, teasing. "You're saying we're just a show for them? The gods kicking back, watching us bleed and brawl for their amusement?"

Thorfinn's mouth quirked, his voice dry, a glint of humor in his words. "Could be. Or maybe they're bored, and we're the only thing keeping them from sleeping through eternity."

She laughed, a soft, genuine sound that eased the tension, her shoulders loosening as she took a bite of cheese, chewing slowly. After a moment, she looked at him, her voice playful but curious. "You know, I wonder how they'll take it when the great warrior Thorfinn hangs up his sword and goes back to his farm. No more epic quests, no more blood and glory, just you, your daughter, and a bunch of goats."

Thorfinn chuckled, tearing off a piece of bread, his fingers rough against the crust, his voice warm, almost wistful. "I'd be fine with that. Get Morgyn back, kill Dahlia, settle down. A quiet life, no more running. Just me, my family, a patch of land, maybe a few chickens."

Sophia's smile faded, her eyes lingering on him, her thoughts turning heavy, her fingers tightening on the cloth. 'Dahlia's too much,' she thought, her chest constricting. 'He told me about their last fight, her power, how she broke him without trying. He's stronger now, faster, but she's a monster, a force even the Witchers dread. I don't know if he can stop her, and the thought of him facing her, of losing him...' She bit her lip, wanting to speak, to beg him to reconsider, but held back, her fear silenced by his resolve.

Thorfinn's voice cut through, his hand pointing to the street below. "They're here."

Sophia blinked, following his gaze, spotting a dozen cloaked figures moving through the crowd, weaving past merchants and carts, heading for the bell tower's hidden entrance. Thorfinn stood, brushing crumbs from his hands, folding the cloth and tucking it into his pack. Sophia followed, slinging her cloak over her shoulder, her boots scuffing the roof as she rose. They sprinted across the tiles, Thorfinn leaping to a lower ledge, landing silently. Sophia vaulted over a narrow gap, grabbing a taut rope, swinging to a sloped roof. Thorfinn climbed a cracked wall, his fingers digging into crevices, pulling himself up with ease, then jumped, rolling onto a balcony, Sophia landing beside him, her cloak fluttering. They moved across five more roofs, leaping gaps, swinging from beams, their movements synchronized, and dropped into an alley, dust puffing around their boots as they hit the ground.

Thorfinn strode forward, stopping before the lead figure, a man with white hair and a scarred face, his cloak dusted with road grime. Thorfinn laughed, a rare, booming sound, and clasped Geralt's hand, their forearms gripping tightly before pulling into a brief hug, their shoulders bumping. "Good to see you, you old bastard," Thorfinn said, stepping back, his hand resting on his sword hilt.

Geralt nodded to Sophia, his lips twitching into a faint smile, his hand adjusting his cloak. "Sophia, still keeping this ox from wrecking half the city?"

She grinned, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, her voice light. "Trying, but it's like herding a bear."

They walked to the bell tower, slipping through a side entrance. Geralt spoke as they climbed the spiral stairs to the main hall. "The Journey was a nightmare. A dragon was loose in the Taurus Mountains, torched two villages, left nothing but ash and bones, it's why it took my brothers so long to get here. Took us weeks to track it, after I found it."

Thorfinn raised an eyebrow, his hand gripping the stair rail, his voice curious. "You kill it?"

Vesemir, a broad Witcher with a braided beard walking behind them, shook his head, his words rough. "Wounded it, took its damn eye with a silver bolt, but it slipped away, fled into the peaks. Slippery son of a bitch."

The main hall buzzed with life, assassins sharpening daggers on whetstones, stitching torn cloaks, or passing bowls of lentil stew at long tables scarred from decades of use. Thorfinn nodded to Hassan and Bilal, who raised their cups, bread crumbs dusting their tunics, their faces breaking into grins. Geralt introduced his brothers—Vesemir, Lambert, Eskel, Coen, Letho, and Gaetan and a few others. A few ministers after they arrived Idris descended the spiral staircase, his gray braid swaying. He clasped Geralt's hand, his grip steady, his face breaking into a rare smile. "Welcome back, Geralt. And to your brothers, welcome to our stronghold. You're a sight for weary eyes."

Geralt inclined his head, his hand resting on his swor. "Good to be here, Idris. I'm sorry it took so long for me to find them."

Idris gestured to the hall, where assassins gathered, their murmurs fading as they noticed the Witchers, their hands pausing on blades or bowls. "I'd give you a proper welcome, let you wash the dust off, share a meal, but time's against us. The situation's turned dire, and we've got new information on the Colosseum event that changes everything."

He stepped to a wide table, unrolling a detailed map of the city, his finger pointing to the Colosseum's location, its circular structure inked in sharp black lines. "Our scouts have confirmed the event's happening at night, attended by Empress Irene herself, with half the court in tow."

Lambert, a lean Witcher with a shaved head, leaned on the table, his fingers tapping the wood, his voice skeptical. "What's the big deal? Why's the Empress showing up matter to us?"

Thorfinn's jaw tightened, his hand clenching, the realization hitting like a hammer. Geralt spoke, his hand shifting to his sword hilt, his words measured. "If it's at night, the vampire's likely there, watching from the shadows. The winner of the fights could be taken to her, maybe turned, maybe recruited into her order."

Sophia nodded, crossing her arms, her cloak brushing the table's edge, her voice firm. "It's our chance to get close, to draw her out where she's not surrounded by her palace walls and a dozen ghouls."

Eskel, a Witcher with a scar across his nose, rubbed his chin, his voice cautious. "How do we know she'll show? This could be a trap, bait to pull us into the open, get us slaughtered."

Idris traced the map, circling the Colosseum with his finger, his voice steady, his words deliberate. "Irene's presence brings the court, the nobles, the Templars—everyone who matters. To be so out in the open, and exposing her puppet, she wouldn't risk not being close by."

Thorfinn met Idris's gaze, his voice cutting through the murmur of the hall. "What's the plan, then?"

Idris straightened, his hands clasping behind his back, his eyes sweeping the room, pausing on each face—assassins, Witchers, Thorfinn, Sophia. "We need someone to enter the fights, win, and get close to the vampire, close enough to strike or to signal her exact position. The Witchers will infiltrate the Colosseum in the days before, working in the dark, rigging traps—silver wire nets hidden in the tunnels to bind ghouls, alchemical bombs packed with silver shrapnel, runes carved into the arena's stones to drain the strength of anything undead. You'll be our hammer, ready to crush any servants or ghouls that move against us."

He paused, letting the plan sink in, his gaze shifting to the assassins, his voice lowering. "The Brotherhood will be there, but not as ourselves. We'll shed our robes, our hoods, and blend into the crowd—merchants buying wine, laborers hauling crates, spectators cheering in the stands. You'll hide your blades in baskets, under cloaks, in boots, and when the signal comes—a flare from the upper tiers—you strike, fast and silent, cutting down Templar guards, sowing chaos to clear a path for the kill."

Sophia shifted, her hands tightening on her arms, her voice sharp, her words spilling out like a held breath. "Idris, you're asking us to burn everything. The Templars will see our faces, know who we are. Every mission after this, every safehouse, every step we take—it'll be a hundred times harder. We'll be hunted, marked, no shadows left to hide in."

Idris nodded, his hands spreading on the table, his face etched with weariness. "I know, Sophia, and it tears at me. I've led this Brotherhood for decades, watched too many of us fall, dug too many graves. But this is our moment—the vampire outside her palace, her guards thinned, her focus split. We can end her, break her hold on the city, shatter the Templars' spine in one strike. The cost is steep, but the freedom it buys, for this city, for us—it's worth it."

Geralt rubbed his jaw, his brow furrowing, his words careful, probing. "Say we get her in the open, say your traps work, your signal's perfect. How do we kill her? No potion, no reagent, no blade we've got can slow a vampire that ancient. She'll tear through us like a storm through a straw hut."

"I'll fight her," Thorfinn said, stepping forward, his hand gripping his sword hilt, the runes pulsing faintly with light.

"No," Geralt and Sophia said in unison, their words overlapping, their faces tight with fear and frustration.

Thorfinn squared his shoulders, his jaw set, his voice rising. "I'm stronger now, Geralt. I've trained, I've killed ghouls, took down Kastor. My light, my power—it's enough to hold her, to give you the opening you need to finish it."

Geralt stepped closer, his hand slicing the air. "You're strong, Thorfinn, stronger than damn near anyone I've met, but a sixth-generation vampire? She's a force of nature, a walking apocalypse. Even with your light, your training, you'd be dead before you swung twice. You're not ready for that."

Thorfinn's eyes narrowed, his voice a low growl, his hand tightening on his sword. "It has to be one of us, Geralt. Someone's got to face her, and I'm not sitting back while she keeps this city chained."

Idris raised his hand, his voice cutting through, silencing the room. "It'll be me."

Every head turned, eyes on him, skepticism rippling through the hall like a wave. Malik tilted his head, his arms crossed, Cassian's brow furrowed, Vesemir's hand rested on his dagger, and Lambert's jaw clenched. Idris chuckled, a low, easy sound, waving off their doubt with a flick of his wrist, his voice light but firm. "Don't give me those looks, like I'm some frail elder ready to keel over. In my day, I was the best assassin in a century, slipping into fortresses, killing warlords before they knew I was there, from Cairo to Cordoba. I'm not mad, and I'm not weak."

He reached into his sleeve, pulling out a cloth-wrapped object, his fingers careful, deliberate, as he unwrapped it, revealing a glowing golden orb, its surface etched with intricate, spiraling runes, pulsing with a faint, otherworldly light that cast soft shadows on the stone walls. "This," he said, holding it up, the glow catching the edges of the map, "is an Apple of Eden."

Whispers erupted, Malik leaning forward, his hands gripping the table, Cassian's mouth opening slightly, Vesemir's jaw tightening, the assassins murmuring, some shaking their heads, others staring in awe, the legend of such artifacts long thought a myth. Thorfinn stepped closer, his brow creasing, his voice low, curious. "Eden, like in the Christian Bible? The garden with the tree?"

Idris shrugged, turning the orb in his hands, the light shifting across his fingers, his voice calm, almost casual. "Maybe, maybe not. I don't know its origins—could be that Eden, could be some older place, some name lost to time. What I know is its power, its ability to do things we can't even dream of, things that bend the world to its will."

He set the orb on the table, its glow steady, casting faint reflections on the map. "When I was young, barely older than Kael was, I found it in a buried city in the Sahara, half-swallowed by dunes, its walls carved with symbols no one could read. I spent years testing it, learning what it could do—control minds with a thought, unleash destruction like a god's wrath, show visions of futures yet to come, pasts long forgotten. It's a blessing, but it's a curse, too, more dangerous than any blade or magic we've ever wielded."

Malik stood, his hands spreading, his voice sharp, edged with frustration. "Why keep this from us, Idris? We've been bleeding for years, losing brothers, sisters, fighting tooth and nail against the Templars, and you had this? This could've ended fights before they started, saved lives, turned the tide."

Cassian nodded, his scar twitching, his voice quieter but pressing. "You could've stopped ambushes, broken their strongholds. Why hide it, let us die when you had a weapon like that?"

Idris's gaze hardened, his hands pressing flat on the table. "Because it's too powerful, Malik. A sword can be taken, turned against you in a heartbeat. This Apple is the same, but worse. If the Templars knew it existed, if they got their hands on it, imagine the blood—cities burned, thousands slaughtered, entire nations bent to their will. No, it's safer hidden, locked away where no one can misuse it, where it can't become a noose around our necks."

Vesemir crossed his arms, his voice gruff, his words slow. "And you're willing to use it now? Risk it falling into their hands, risk them turning it on us?"

Idris nodded, his eyes unwavering, his voice resolute. "This is our chance to end the vampire, to break her grip on the city, to give us a future free of her shadow. I'll use the Apple, but after this fight, I'm casting it into the sea, where no one—Templar, Brotherhood, or god—can ever find it."

Eskel shook his head, his hand gripping his sword hilt, his voice low, skeptical. "You're gambling everything on a relic you can't fully control. What if it turns on you, or us?"

Coen, a Witcher with a shaved scalp, stepped forward, his voice firm, his hands gesturing. "And throwing it away after? That's insanity. We could keep it, guard it, use it again if the Templars regroup. Why waste it?"

Thorfinn slammed his fist on the table, the sound cracking through the hall, silencing every whisper, his voice a growl, his eyes blazing. "Enough. You want to argue about relics, about what-ifs? Do it when we're not staring down a vampire. Right now, we've got a plan to make, a fight to win. Focus, or get out."

Idris inclined his head, a faint smile touching his lips, his voice warm with gratitude. "Thank you, Thorfinn. You've got a clearer head than most of us today." He ushered everyone closer, spreading the map wider, his finger tracing paths around the Colosseum, laying out each step.

"Focus... this is what we need to do."

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(AN: Bro I give up, I wanted to make this quick but as I write it keeps getting longer and longer. So I'm just gonna do a part 3. I didn't want to but I also don't want this to be half assed. I want what I've been building up the past few chapters to actually mean something. So sorry for my fans but you're gonna have to wait a little longer for the conclusion. Right now I'm gonna do work on star wars, did any of you watch the rerelease of revenge of the sith?)

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