Novigrad
1272, Novigrad – A City of Fear and Fire
Novigrad was a city choking on its own fear. Once a vibrant hub of trade and freedom, it had become a crucible of fire and blood, ruled by religious zealots who saw magic as a contagion to be purged. The Temple Guard, under the iron fist of their fanatical leader, Caleb Menge, held absolute power. Their reign was one of terror. Sorcerers, non-humans, and anyone even suspected of harboring magic faced a gruesome fate.
Geralt of Rivia had witnessed cities succumb to fear before. But this… this was different. Novigrad's terror was palpable, a suffocating blanket that smothered all hope.
1272, Novigrad, Hierarch Square – The Spectacle of Hatred
The smell hit him first. Burning flesh. The sickeningly sweet, acrid stench of fat melting in fire, of wood snapping and crackling beneath the weight of struggling bodies. It clawed at the back of his throat, a visceral reminder of the cruelty that thrived here.
Geralt stood at the edge of Hierarch Square, a grim tableau unfolding before him. Two figures, bound tightly to a wooden stake, writhed in agony. A mage, his face contorted in a mask of terror, and a Doppler, its form shifting and contorting in a desperate, futile attempt to escape the flames that licked at its feet.
The fire had already claimed their lower limbs. Their screams were lost in the roar of the blaze and the chanting of the crowd.
Watching over this horrific spectacle, a figure in red and gold armor stood tall, his eyes burning with religious fervor. Caleb Menge, the architect of this terror, raised his arms, his voice booming across the square.
"Magic is a disease!" he shouted, spittle flying from his lips. "A festering corruption that threatens to consume us all! But fear not, good people of Novigrad! The Eternal Fire shall cleanse it! It shall cleanse us all!"
The crowd roared its approval, a sea of faces contorted in a mixture of fear, hatred, and religious ecstasy.
Geralt's fingers twitched at his side, his hand instinctively moving towards the hilt of his sword. He knew better than to interfere. Intervention would mean certain death, not only for him but likely for the condemned as well.
But that didn't mean he had to watch.
Turning away from the horrifying scene, he pulled his hood further over his head, concealing his distinctive features, and slipped into the throng of onlookers. He had come to Novigrad for one reason: to find Triss. And in a city like this, where fear reigned supreme, she was running out of time.
1272, Novigrad – The Refugee Sorceress
Finding Triss's trail in Novigrad wasn't as difficult as he'd anticipated. Even in hiding, Triss Merigold left an impression. Whispers of a red-haired healer, a woman with fiery hair and a compassionate heart, spread through the city's underbelly. She was known for helping mages escape the clutches of the Witch Hunters, risking her own life to save others.
But in Novigrad, nothing came without a price. Triss was under the "protection" of The King of Beggars, the self-proclaimed ruler of the city's sprawling underworld. But this protection was a gilded cage. He bled her dry, taking nearly everything she earned, forcing her to scrape together just enough to fund the desperate flight of her fellow sorcerers.
Geralt found her in a dimly lit basement, the air thick with dampness and the smell of mildew. She was hunched over a tattered map, her brow furrowed in concentration, the urgency of her task evident in every line of her body. She worked with the desperate focus of someone who knew that every second counted.
Her head snapped up at the sound of his footsteps, her emerald eyes widening in surprise and relief.
"Geralt?" she breathed, her voice a hushed whisper.
She didn't sound surprised by his sudden appearance. Only relieved.
But before Geralt could respond, another voice, smooth, amused, and edged with a hint of steel, filled the room.
"Well, well. The famous White Wolf. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
A man stepped from the shadows, his features obscured by the dim light. He was dressed in fine but slightly worn clothes, a subtle indication of his precarious position in Novigrad's hierarchy. His dark eyes, sharp and calculating, assessed Geralt with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion.
The King of Beggars.
The ruler of Novigrad's underworld had been watching them both for some time. And now, with Geralt's unexpected arrival, he saw an opportunity. He wanted his payment.
1272, Novigrad – A Necessary Arrangement
Geralt, recognizing the King of Beggars's intent, simply nodded. "I need to speak with Triss," he said, his voice low and even. He pulled out the obsidian artifact Solomon had given him and activated it. "It concerns… a mutual acquaintance."
The King of Beggars, sensing something significant was about to happen, remained silent, his eyes fixed on the faintly glowing stone.
Moments later, Solomon's presence filled the room, though he remained unseen. "Geralt?" his voice echoed.
"Solomon," Geralt replied. "Triss is here. She needs safe passage out of Novigrad. The King of Beggars has been… accommodating, but I wanted to inform you of the situation."
"Understood," Solomon's voice replied. "I will meet with Triss shortly. Ensure she is ready."
And with that, Solomon's presence vanished as quickly as it had arrived.
Geralt turned to Triss. "Solomon will meet with you later," he said. "He'll arrange your escape."
Triss nodded, her expression a mixture of relief and concern. "Thank you, Geralt." She glanced at the King of Beggars, a flicker of apprehension in her eyes. "I… appreciate your discretion."
The King of Beggars simply inclined his head, his earlier bravado replaced by a more cautious demeanor. He understood the implications of Solomon's involvement. It was best not to interfere.
Geralt then turned and left the basement, leaving Triss to prepare for her meeting with Solomon. He knew that whatever arrangements were made, they would be swift and efficient. Solomon's influence extended far beyond Novigrad's walls, and his protection was absolute. He had more pressing matters to attend to. He needed to find Corinne Tilly.