Chapter 9: The Wolf’s Den

Kaer Morhen: Where Reality Meets Fiction

A name whispered in the North with equal parts reverence and fear—a fortress where legends were forged in steel and blood, where men were stripped of their humanity in pursuit of something greater. It was a place of nightmares for the superstitious and a last bastion of hope for those plagued by monsters.

And yet, as we stood before its ancient gates, I found myself unimpressed.

"You know," I mused, tail flicking as I perched atop a snow-covered rock, "for a fortress of legendary monster hunters, this place looks like it barely survived a drunken tavern brawl. With a troll. And possibly a cow."

Mhelfrancovince snorted, kicking at a loose stone. "To be fair, it has been sacked, abandoned, and partially blown up multiple times. Honestly, I'm surprised it's still standing at all."

Nikkimae folded her arms, surveying the crumbling walls with a bemused expression. "This is the Kaer Morhen? The one from the books? The games? The TV show that went completely off the rails after season two?"

Mhelfrancovince groaned. "Don't even remind me. They massacred my boy Eskel. And what was with that weird Deathless Mother plotline?"

I gave an exaggerated sigh. "Oh, humans and their insatiable need to ruin perfectly good stories. If it's not turning a hardened Witcher into a discount B-movie villain, it's making a historical drama where everyone has immaculate teeth and a suspicious lack of fleas."

Nikkimae smirked. "You just hate adaptations in general."

"No, I hate bad adaptations," I corrected, stretching lazily. "The games at least did the lore justice. Geralt was appropriately gruff, the political scheming was top-tier, and Yennefer actually acted like the powerful sorceress she was meant to be. And let's not even start on Gwent."

Mhelfrancovince chuckled. "You just liked robbing merchants blind."

"I call it 'redistributing wealth through superior strategy,'" I said primly.

Nikkimae rolled her eyes. "You'd fit right in with the Novigrad crime lords."

Mhelfrancovince cracked his knuckles, glancing at the fortress. "Anyway, I wonder if they're going to act like the grim, brooding badasses we know from the lore, or if we're about to walk into a bunch of tired, underpaid contractors just trying to get through the winter."

I flicked my ears. "Given how our luck's been going, probably both. Expect existential crises, dark humor, and someone drinking themselves into a stupor in the corner."

Nikkimae smirked. "So... basically any Friday night back home?"

I gave her a look of deep feline wisdom. "Exactly."

A Disappointingly Smooth Entrance

We had expected resistance. Perhaps a brooding warrior standing atop the battlements, sword in hand, roaring some dramatic challenge about outsiders defiling their sacred ground. Or maybe a trap-filled approach, the mountains riddled with clever ambush points and Witcher alchemy so potent it could melt a grown man's face off.

Instead, we got... nothing.

The wind howled through the ruined towers, the snow crunched beneath our boots, and the only welcome we received was the creaking of ancient gates swinging open on rusted hinges. Not a single crossbow bolt fired, not a single spell hurled in our direction.

I flicked my tail, unimpressed. "Well, this is anticlimactic. I was expecting at least one booby trap."

Mhelfrancovince exhaled, rubbing his hands together for warmth. "Maybe they figured out fighting us is a waste of time. They're pragmatic like that."

Nikkimae tilted her head. "Or they just don't care. Witchers don't do blind loyalty. If it doesn't pay, they're not wasting the effort."

Airanikka huffed. "Still, you'd think they'd have something prepared. A line of potions, a few bombs? Maybe a werewolf on a leash?"

I licked a paw thoughtfully. "Ah yes, Witcher alchemy. Their true ace in the hole. The fine art of drinking highly questionable substances and hoping you don't die before your opponent does."

Mhelfrancovince smirked. "It's impressive, though. Their potions can boost strength, speed, and reflexes beyond human limits. But the trade-off? They make you look like you've spent the last five years drinking swamp water and never seeing the sun."

Airanikka folded her arms. "So, you're telling me that in order to become a supernatural killing machine, I have to look like I have terminal exhaustion?"

Nikkimae grinned. "Basically. Witchers have that 'I haven't slept since the last war' aesthetic."

Mhelfrancovince chuckled. "It's not just the potions. Their bombs can incinerate wraiths, their oils make sure their blades cut deeper, and their signs—basic magic, but devastating when used right—are the real kicker in combat."

I stretched lazily. "Right, right. Quen for making sure they don't die immediately. Igni for when you just want to set everything on fire. Axii for talking your way out of bar fights, Yrden for ghost hunting, and Aard—" I flicked my paw, mimicking a forceful push. "—for launching your enemies halfway to the next kingdom."

Airanikka smirked. "Sounds familiar."

Mhelfrancovince laughed. "Yeah, but unlike Witchers, I don't need to drink poison to pull off my telekinetic blasts."

Nikkimae tapped her chin. "Still, it makes you wonder… how well would a Witcher do against us?"

I gave her a look of pure feline arrogance. "Oh, please. They may have their fancy potions and their moody, windswept drama, but have they ever gone up against a Netherward in full form? We don't need elixirs to turn into monsters."

Airanikka grinned. "Fair point."

The fortress loomed before us, silent, waiting. If the Witchers inside knew we had arrived, they were certainly taking their sweet time acknowledging us.

Mhelfrancovince cracked his knuckles. "Well, let's go meet our brooding hosts, shall we?"

And with that, we strode into Kaer Morhen.

A Most Underwhelming Welcome

Instead, the gates simply… opened.

No fanfare. No dramatic last stand. No fiery monologue about protecting the sanctity of their hallowed ground. Just the slow, groaning swing of ancient wood, like an old wolf stretching its tired limbs, too weary to bother with theatrics.

Kaer Morhen welcomed us not with battle cries, but with raised eyebrows and the vague air of a long-forgotten pub finally getting new patrons—new patrons who may or may not start a brawl before ordering a drink.

Standing just past the threshold was a figure who radiated all the gruff, world-weary energy of a man who had seen far too much nonsense in his time and was absolutely not in the mood for more. A long scar traced down his cheek, his white beard framed a face that had weathered more than just battle, and his piercing eyes assessed us like a butcher inspecting questionable meat.

Vesemir. The Old Wolf himself.

"Well, this is new," he muttered, arms crossed as he gave our rather unorthodox party a once-over. "Usually, when strangers show up at Kaer Morhen, they're either looking to kill us or asking for help killing something else. You lot don't seem to be here for either."

Mhelfrancovince smirked, stepping forward. "That depends. You planning to fight us?"

Vesemir let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. "At my age? Lad, I'd sooner wrestle a fiend than pick a fight I know I can't win. And from what I've been hearing about Kaedwen's sudden… shift in management, I'd say trying to fight you would be downright stupid."

Nikkimae grinned. "Smart man. Saves us the trouble of knocking first."

Airanikka tilted her head. "You're taking this all very well. I was expecting more resistance. Maybe some old-school 'you'll never take our home!' type of speech?"

Vesemir sighed, rubbing his temple. "We're Witchers, girl, not knights in shining armor. We don't do noble last stands. We do survival. And I'd rather survive by talking than by getting my head caved in."

I, of course, decided this was the perfect moment to contribute to the conversation, stretching luxuriously atop Mhelfrancovince's shoulder. "Finally, someone in this world with sense. I was starting to think all warriors had a death wish. Refreshing, really."

Vesemir gave me a look, raising an eyebrow. "You brought a talking cat."

Mhelfrancovince shrugged. "I like my cat. Besides, he's smarter than most kings."

Vesemir snorted. "Not a high bar."

Airanikka grinned. "Speaking of which, you've probably heard—Kaedwen is under new management. Officially part of the Netherward Realms now. We thought we'd come and introduce ourselves before anyone got any… ideas."

Vesemir nodded, looking back toward the fortress. "Geralt and the others will want to hear this. You're lucky it's winter—most of the lads are actually here instead of off hunting monsters. Come on in. And don't break anything. This place barely holds itself together as it is."

Mhelfrancovince smirked. "No promises."

And just like that, we were welcomed into one of the most legendary strongholds in history, not with swords drawn, but with casual indifference and an open door.

Honestly? I think I liked these Witchers already.

A Meeting of Minds

Inside the keep, we were met by the remaining Witchers of the Wolf School—men whose scarred faces and piercing yellow eyes carried the weight of centuries of slaughter. Their presence alone was enough to make lesser men rethink their life choices, but we weren't lesser men. Well, except for me, because I'm a cat.

There was no hostility, no grand proclamations of "You shall not pass!"—which, honestly, was a bit of a letdown. I had rather been hoping for at least one dramatic fool to challenge our arrival so we could politely decline their challenge by removing their ability to stand upright. Instead, there were a lot of folded arms, considering stares, and the unmistakable scent of very strong alcohol—the kind that could strip paint off a wall and possibly summon eldritch horrors if spilled in the wrong place.

Mhelfrancovince took a deep breath, his sharp gaze sweeping over the dimly lit hall. "Well, this is... cozy. In a haunted crypt sort of way."

Nikkimae wrinkled her nose. "Smells like stale mead, old leather, and poor life choices."

Airanikka grinned, tracing a finger across the edge of a dust-covered table. "The ambiance is delightfully medieval. I half expect a plague doctor to emerge from the shadows and start prescribing leeches."

I stretched out lazily on Mhelfrancovince's shoulder, my tail flicking. "It's got charm, in that 'this place has definitely seen things that would make a grown man weep' sort of way. Look at that tapestry—held together by nothing but misplaced optimism and possibly rat droppings."

One of the Witchers, a particularly grim-looking one with an expression like he'd been chewing gravel for breakfast, finally spoke. "We don't get visitors often. Most people don't like stepping into what they call 'the cursed keep of mutant freaks.'"

Mhelfrancovince smirked. "Lucky for you, we're not most people. And we don't scare easy."

Airanikka gave the Witcher a once-over. "Besides, we've seen worse. I once watched a nobleman in Arunafeltz try to court two women at the same time without realizing they were sisters. By the time it was over, he needed both a healer and a priest."

Another Witcher chuckled darkly, shaking his head. "Sounds about right. Humans do tend to dig their own graves."

Nikkimae leaned against a nearby wooden support beam, which groaned under her weight in protest, as if it too was exhausted from holding Kaer Morhen together for centuries. "So, do you all just sit around drinking and brooding, or do you actually do Witcher things?"

A voice from the back answered dryly. "We brood first. Then we drink. Then we do Witcher things."

I let out a deep, exaggerated sigh. "Ah, tragic antiheroes. My favorite brand of self-loathing warriors. Please, continue. This is fascinating."

Vesemir, who had been watching our exchange with the patience of a man who had long since stopped being surprised by absurdity, finally spoke up. "Enough standing around. If you're here to talk, then let's talk. If you're here to drink, well... try to keep up."

Mhelfrancovince's smirk widened. "Careful, old man. We're not exactly lightweights."

Airanikka grinned. "And we don't do well with losing, either."

The Witchers exchanged knowing glances before one of them wordlessly kicked open a barrel, the unmistakable scent of Kaedweni Stout filling the air.

And just like that, the real negotiations began.

Vesemir, the oldest among them, regarded us with the patience of a man who had seen far too much bullshit in his lifetime. You could see it in his eyes—the weariness of someone who had spent decades training reckless young fools only to watch half of them get eaten, stabbed, or otherwise turned into grotesque cautionary tales. This was not a man easily impressed, nor was he one to waste time entertaining nonsense.

Beside him stood Geralt of Rivia, the infamous White Wolf, arms crossed, his golden gaze unreadable, as if calculating whether we were a threat, an asset, or just another headache in his already migraine-ridden existence. His presence alone was enough to make the air feel heavier, like the room had become an unsanctioned duel waiting to happen.

Between us sat a barrel of Kaedweni Stout—strong enough to make a troll reconsider its life choices. The kind of drink that could strip the rust off a blade and turn a lesser man's liver into a cautionary tale for future generations. The first round had already been poured, the dark liquid sloshing in wooden tankards like an unspoken challenge.

Mhelfrancovince took a slow sip, exhaling afterward with an appreciative nod. "Not bad. Reminds me of the stuff we had back in Arunafeltz, except that one was brewed by a guy with questionable hygiene and a deep-seated hatred for sobriety."

Nikkimae swirled her drink, eyeing Vesemir with curiosity. "So, old man, how many barrels of this have you gone through in your lifetime?"

Vesemir grunted, taking a sip without so much as a wince. "Enough to drown a small army."

Geralt smirked. "And not nearly enough to make dealing with idiots any easier."

I, being a creature of refined taste and superior intellect, eyed the tankard set before me with great suspicion. As a cat, my usual drinking habits involved milk, cream, and occasionally the blood of my enemies. Alcohol was not high on the list.

Airanikka raised a brow at me. "What, Benetton? Too strong for your delicate feline constitution?"

I flicked my tail, letting out an exaggerated sigh. "My dear Airanikka, I simply prefer beverages that don't taste like an orc's armpit. But for the sake of cultural exchange…" I leaned forward, took a dramatic sip, and immediately regretted every life choice that had led me to this moment.

Geralt watched with mild amusement. "You alright there, furball?"

I smacked my lips, wheezing slightly. "Ah, yes. Exquisite. Just the right blend of tree bark, regret, and impending liver failure."

Mhelfrancovince laughed, slamming his tankard down. "You Witchers must have cast-iron stomachs. This stuff could fuel siege weapons."

Vesemir shrugged. "You either get used to it, or you don't live long enough to complain."

Airanikka leaned forward, grinning. "So, tell me, Geralt. What's it like being the most famous Witcher in the world? Do you get discounts at brothels? Free drinks at taverns? Or just a lot of people trying to kill you?"

Geralt exhaled slowly, as if debating whether to actually answer or just walk into the night and never return. "Mostly the last one."

Nikkimae smirked. "Tragic. But hey, at least you've got great hair. That's something."

Vesemir chuckled. "He spends more time washing it than hunting monsters."

Geralt shot him a look. "It's called hygiene, old man. You should try it sometime."

I stretched lazily, already feeling the alcohol working its way through the air like a slow, creeping poison. "So, tell me, Witchers… if you had to choose between fighting a horde of drowners or sitting through an entire noble council meeting, which would be the lesser evil?"

Vesemir didn't even hesitate. "The drowners. At least they stop talking when you cut their heads off."

We all raised our tankards to that.

For a long moment, no one spoke. The air inside Kaer Morhen was thick with the scent of old leather, steel, and the lingering essence of alcohol strong enough to strip paint off a castle wall. The Witchers stared, their expressions a mix of curiosity and the kind of wariness reserved for encountering something wholly unnatural—like a talking cat with an attitude problem.

Then, finally, one of them—probably Lambert, judging by the resting bastard face and the way he looked like he had lost a bet just by existing—grunted.

"So. Tell us about this world of yours."

Mhelfrancovince exchanged a glance with Nikkimae and me. Airanikka, meanwhile, was absently spinning a dagger between her fingers, as if debating whether to answer or throw it at the nearest Witcher just to see what would happen.

I stretched, the very picture of elegance, before settling on a dusty old chair. My tail curled around me like a fine velvet cloak, and I regarded my audience with the satisfaction of a scholar about to impart forbidden knowledge to a room of primitive minds.

"Ah, an audience of intellectuals. Finally, a break from all the grunting warlords and screaming soldiers."

Nikkimae rolled her eyes, but Mhelfrancovince smirked. "Where do we even start?" He leaned back slightly, rubbing his chin. "Our world has magic and scientific advancements, intertwined. We have weapons that could obliterate cities and machines that let us fly, all powered by science and magic. Empires that span across seas. And, of course, the ever-present politics—full of corruption, betrayal, and sheer, unadulterated stupidity. Ours though is perfect when it comes to management and administration."

There was a beat of silence. Then Lambert, ever the ray of goddamn sunshine, snorted. "Sounds like horseshit."

I let out a long, suffering sigh. "My dear, tragically uneducated Witcher, if I were to lie, I'd at least make it something more amusing. Like claiming Mhelfrancovince here was born of dragon blood or that Nikkimae once arm-wrestled a god and won."

Vesemir, whose patience had been tempered by centuries of dealing with insolent pupils, arched a brow. "Machines that let you fly, you say?"

Mhelfrancovince nodded. "Airships. Big ones. You can fit entire armies inside. Some run on magic, others on combustion engines. We even have smaller, sleeker ones that can break the sound barrier."

Eskel, who had remained mostly quiet, now frowned slightly. "Break the what?"

Airanikka grinned. "Imagine moving so fast the air itself can't keep up, so it just… explodes behind you. That's what happens when you break the sound barrier."

Geralt exhaled slowly, rubbing his temples. "I don't like that."

I flicked my tail lazily. "You wouldn't. You lot still ride horses everywhere like it's the dawn of time. We, on the other hand, can get across entire continents in mere hours. And when we wage war? Oh, it's not just men swinging swords at each other. It's artillery that can reduce fortresses to dust before the enemy even knows what hit them. War isn't about bravery anymore. It's about who has the biggest stick and how many ways they can bludgeon you with it from a safe distance."

Lambert leaned forward, his eyes narrowing slightly. "And yet, you still fight battles. If your weapons are that powerful, why not just sit back and press a button?"

Mhelfrancovince chuckled, shaking his head. "Because there's no glory in that. We could turn every battlefield into a smoking ruin if we wanted, but sometimes... it's about the spectacle. About control. A kingdom doesn't just rule through might, but through perception. Make an example out of one army, and ten others will kneel without a fight."

Eskel sighed. "Sounds exhausting."

Nikkimae smirked. "Oh, it is. But it's fun."

Vesemir, ever the pragmatist, sipped his Kaedweni Stout before speaking again. "And what of monsters? If your world is so advanced, do you even have a need for men like us?"

I exchanged a glance with my companions before baring my fangs in a slow, amused grin. "Oh, dear Vesemir. You misunderstand. In our world, the monsters wear crowns, sit in gilded thrones, and shake hands with noblemen. And unlike yours, they don't die with a silver sword through the heart."

For the first time that night, the Witchers looked unsettled.

Geralt let out a small, amused exhale—the kind that, for a Witcher, might as well have been a full-on belly laugh. In their strange, brooding world, an actual guffaw might have been considered a sign of demonic possession. Vesemir, meanwhile, scratched at his beard with the weary patience of a man who had seen kingdoms rise and fall and had ultimately decided none of it was his problem.

"Sounds like a shithole," he muttered.

"Oh, absolutely," I flicked my tail, my whiskers twitching in amusement. "But at least it was our shithole. And now? This one's ours too."

Airanikka smirked, raising her mug of stout in a toast. "To shitholes, then. May they always belong to the right bastards."

Mhelfrancovince, ever the diplomat, leaned forward. "So, Witchers, tell us—what exactly is your grand plan now? Continue to slay monsters for coin? Brood on mountains? Get really, really drunk and start sword fights for sport?"

Geralt took a long sip of his drink, his golden eyes unreadable. "Yes."

There was a beat of silence before Nikkimae burst out laughing. "Gods, you really are the most predictable lot, aren't you?"

Vesemir shrugged. "Predictability keeps you alive."

I stretched luxuriously, curling my tail around myself like a king lounging on his throne. "Well, then. Seeing as we are now co-owners of this fine, historical ruin, might I suggest an upgrade? Perhaps a proper throne for me? A few enchanted rugs to warm the place up? And, dare I say it, a kitchen that doesn't look like it was last used during a peasant uprising?"

Eskel gave me a tired look. "You're a cat. Why do you need a throne?"

I scoffed. "Why does Geralt need two swords? Some things simply elevate one's presence."

Geralt raised a brow. "One sword for men, one for monsters."

I licked my paw slowly, thoughtfully. "Ah, then I suppose I, too, need two thrones—one for lounging and one for judging fools."

Lambert, who had been quiet up until now, downed the rest of his drink and grunted. "You sure you're not some kind of demon? Because I swear, no normal creature talks like that."

I gave him my best smug, self-satisfied look. "Oh, dear Lambert, if I were a demon, you'd already be on your knees offering me tribute. No, I am something far worse. I am... a cat with an opinion."

Vesemir rubbed his temples as though regretting every life decision that had led him to this moment. "I should have retired a century ago."

Airanikka laughed. "And miss out on this? Where's the fun in that?"

Mhelfrancovince raised his mug again. "To the new Kaer Morhen. May it remain a sanctuary, a home for warriors, misfits, and the occasional insufferable feline."

I dipped my head graciously. "Truly, an honor."

Geralt merely sighed, taking another long drink. "I need more beer."

"Henselt's dead," Mhelfrancovince continued, his tone casual, as if he were commenting on the weather. "Kaedwen now flies the Netherward banner."

That got a reaction. A few of the younger Witchers—Eskel, most notably—raised their brows. Lambert scoffed.

"That fast? I thought that bastard would at least put up a fight."

"Oh, he did," Nikkimae said dryly. "For about two minutes. Then he decided to charge at me like a particularly suicidal bull, so I turned him into a human kebab."

A beat of silence. Then, to my utter delight, Geralt actually chuckled.

Vesemir sighed, rubbing his temples. "Damn fool. Should've known better."

"Should've, could've, didn't," I said with a dramatic flick of my paw. "And now, Kaedwen belongs to us. So tell me, dear Wolf School, where do you stand?"

The old Witcher sighed. "We're not kings or politicians. We're just old warriors trying to survive in a world that keeps changing. Kaedwen's fall is... unexpected. But it was inevitable."

Geralt nodded, his expression unreadable. "Henselt was never going to hold the North together. He was too arrogant, too blind. If it wasn't you, it would've been someone else."

Mhelfrancovince studied them carefully. "So, you support the annexation?"

Another pause.

Then, Vesemir shrugged. "Better you than Nilfgaard."

Lambert scoffed. "That's the lowest damn bar imaginable."

Geralt exhaled, eyes sharp, calculating. "Kaedwen's fate is sealed. But that doesn't mean the people will accept it overnight."

"We don't expect them to," Nikkimae said simply. "Empires aren't built in a day."

I gave a luxurious yawn. "Though, at the rate we're going, I'd say we're making good time."

Geralt smirked. Vesemir just shook his head. "You lot are going to change everything, aren't you?"

Mhelfrancovince smiled. "We already have."

Vesemir and Geralt exchanged glances. It was the kind of look that only old warriors shared—the silent, weary understanding between men who had seen empires rise and fall, had buried friends and foes alike, and had long since accepted that history wasn't written by the righteous, but by those still standing at the end of the bloodbath. The world did not reward virtue; it rewarded survivors.

Vesemir exhaled slowly, rubbing his temples as though contemplating the sheer absurdity of what was unfolding before him. "So let me get this straight—you want the Witchers of Kaer Morhen to join your... what did you call it?"

"The Netherward Imperial Armed Force," Mhelfrancovince supplied, his tone dripping with that air of noble authority that usually meant someone, somewhere, was about to sign a very binding contract. "As an Elite Monster Hunting Infantry."

Geralt blinked. "Fancy title for what we already do."

"Except now you get better pay, better weapons, and a retirement plan that doesn't involve dying alone in a ditch," Nikkimae pointed out, swirling the remnants of her Kaedweni stout like a seasoned negotiator.

Lambert, never one to pass up the chance for sarcasm, snorted. "So, what, we swap our swords for these... boomsticks you people keep talking about?"

I stretched out on the table, flicking my tail lazily. "Boomsticks, dear Lambert, are not mere weapons. They are divine instruments of destruction. Think of them as enchanted crossbows, but without the tedious reloading. Some even spew fire and explosions, making mages feel utterly inadequate. One pull of the trigger and—poof!—instant regret for anything standing in your way."

Vesemir narrowed his eyes. "You're saying they replace our swords?"

Airanikka chuckled. "Oh, absolutely not. Think of them as your new best friends. A sword is personal, elegant, poetic. A boomstick? A boomstick is impersonal, efficient, and very, very loud. Together? You get a symphony of death."

Geralt rubbed his chin, clearly contemplating it. "And what's the catch?"

Mhelfrancovince smiled—the kind of smile that could make a merchant sign away his firstborn. "No catch. Just loyalty. You get paid. You get benefits. You get all the resources you need to continue doing what you do best—hunting monsters. Only this time, you do it with the full backing of the Empire."

"Speaking of benefits," Vesemir cut in, sharp as a dagger, "we're not exactly used to working for a crown. What's the retirement plan?"

I purred. "Ah, Vesemir, you'll love this. A luxurious estate, a pension that ensures you never have to skin a griffin just to afford dinner, and—get this—full dental."

Lambert raised a skeptical brow. "Why the hell would we need full dental? Have you seen us? We don't smile."

Nikkimae smirked. "You will once you see the salary."

Geralt, who had been nursing his drink through this whole exchange, finally sighed. "And if we refuse?"

Mhelfrancovince's expression remained pleasant, almost amused. "Then you go back to wandering the world, taking contracts for whatever coin desperate villagers can scrape together, drinking bad beer, and hoping the next monster you fight doesn't tear out your intestines before you can heal." He leaned forward. "Or, you join us. You get proper resources, proper pay, and a proper future."

Vesemir stared at him for a long moment before chuckling dryly. "You drive a hard bargain."

I yawned, stretching out my claws with all the arrogance of a creature who already knew the deal was sealed. "Oh, Vesemir, my dear, wrinkled friend—this isn't a bargain. This is inevitability."

Geralt took another slow sip of his stout before setting the mug down with finality. "Fine. But if this turns out to be one of those 'sell your soul' contracts, I'm coming for you first."

Mhelfrancovince grinned. "Wouldn't have it any other way."

Ah, now we were getting to the good part. The moment where the weathered, monster-hunting cynics of Kaer Morhen got to see the big guns—figuratively and literally.

Geralt and Vesemir, ever the practical warriors, weren't ones to be easily impressed. They had fought in wars, slain monsters that could level villages, and lived long enough to see kings rise and fall. But still, there was something in their gaze—something lurking beneath all that hardened skepticism—as they finally asked the inevitable question.

"Show us," Geralt said, his golden eyes narrowed in interest. "The army that destroyed Kaedwen's capital. The one that crushed its last king."

A slow, knowing smile spread across Mhelfrancovince's lips. He nodded once, raising his hand with the casual authority of a man who knew that what came next would either break their minds or redefine their entire understanding of power.

The air grew heavy. The wind stilled. The very stones beneath our feet seemed to shudder, as if even ancient Kaer Morhen itself knew something unnatural was about to step onto its hallowed ground.

Then, the Dark Knights came.

A shroud of black mist spilled forth like ink poured into water, thick and unnatural, twisting in ways that defied the laws of nature. And from within that abyss, armored figures emerged.

The first thing that hit you was the sheer weight of them. Not physically, mind you—though they looked like they could punch through castle walls and not even scuff their gauntlets—but the overwhelming, suffocating aura they carried. Like death had decided to put on plate armor and go for a casual evening stroll.

They stood in perfect formation, silent and still, their armor absorbing the firelight rather than reflecting it. Each one was clad in jet-black steel, engraved with ominous runes that pulsed faintly like a slow, steady heartbeat. Their visors betrayed no human features, only an abyss of darkness where eyes should have been.

The Witchers didn't speak. They simply stared. Even Lambert, the mouthiest of them all, seemed momentarily incapable of mustering a snide remark.

Vesemir exhaled sharply, running a hand over his beard. "And these...?"

"Dark Knights," Mhelfrancovince said smoothly, his voice carrying the weight of absolute certainty. "The black tide that swallowed Kaedwen whole."

Geralt stepped forward, ever the cautious observer. He moved like a wolf approaching a rival predator, measuring its strength, gauging its weaknesses. His eyes flicked over the armor, the weapons—massive zweihanders that looked like they could cleave a griffin in half with a single swing—before finally settling on the eerie, lifeless void beneath the helmets.

"Are they… human?" he finally asked.

I let out a chuckle, stretching lazily from my perch atop an old table. "Once, perhaps. Now? Now they're something more. Something better. Something… unstoppable."

Lambert, finally regaining the ability to form words, scoffed. "Great. More unnatural abominations to keep me up at night."

"Oh, don't be dramatic," Nikkimae smirked. "They only kill what we tell them to kill."

Vesemir, ever the cautious tactician, squinted. "And what exactly… are they?"

Mhelfrancovince's smirk deepened. "The perfect soldiers. No fear, no hesitation, no weakness. They don't eat, they don't sleep, they don't tire. They obey without question. And when they march…" He stepped forward, his boots echoing ominously against the stone floor. "Kingdoms fall."

Airanikka tilted her head. "They were created through magic, infused with something… darker."

Geralt folded his arms, his expression unreadable. "Necromancy?"

I gave a dramatic sigh, flicking my tail. "Such an ugly word. Let's call it… posthumous career advancement."

Vesemir muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a curse.

The Dark Knights did not move, did not acknowledge their onlookers, standing as still as midnight statues of death itself. Their presence was suffocating, heavy, something that even Witchers—who had seen all manner of horrors—could not simply brush off.

Geralt finally broke the silence, his tone dry but edged with something bordering on grudging respect.

"Well. That explains why Kaedwen didn't stand a chance."

Ah, now we were moving from words to action. Geralt of Rivia, famed monster slayer, White Wolf, Butcher of Blaviken, decided he wanted to test his mettle against one of the Dark Knights. A bold request, bordering on suicidal, but then again, I supposed Witchers were bored immortals with too much muscle and not enough self-preservation.

Mhelfrancovince, ever the gracious host, gave his approval with an almost amused smirk, the kind of look one gives when watching a child challenge a bear to a duel. "As you wish," he said, waving a hand.

The Witchers, eager for bloodshed—or perhaps just eager to see if their legendary comrade could actually bleed—filed outside the keep, forming a loose semicircle around the training yard. The air was crisp, the cold wind biting like a jealous ex-lover, and the sky overhead stretched in a bleak expanse of winter gray. Perfect weather for bloodsport.

One of the Dark Knights stepped forward, his onyx armor groaning like the doors of a forgotten tomb. The sheer weight of his presence was suffocating, an abyss of silent malice standing opposite Geralt. He was at least a head taller than the Witcher, broader in the shoulders, and armed with a massive zweihander that looked like it could carve a dragon in half with an idle swing.

Geralt, to his credit, didn't flinch. He merely rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck, and drew his silver sword with the calm indifference of a man who had long since made peace with death.

"Don't hold back," he muttered, his voice carrying just enough dry amusement to suggest he thought this would be a fair fight.

Spoiler alert: It wasn't.

The fight lasted precisely three and a half seconds.

Geralt moved first, darting forward with Witcher-speed, his blade flashing like a silver whisper. A feint to the left, a pivot to the right—textbook Witcher tactics. Fast, precise, efficient.

The Dark Knight, unimpressed, stepped forward and swung his blade.

A single devastating arc.

Steel met flesh.

Geralt staggered mid-step, his body jerking as if he'd just been introduced to a guillotine in an exceptionally personal way. For a moment, he simply stood there, chest heaving, a peculiar expression crossing his usually stoic face. Then the blood came.

A vicious, cascading river of crimson spilled down his torso, blooming across his armor like a flower of agony. A second later, his left arm hit the dirt with an almost insulting thud.

The Witchers—who, I must stress, have fought unspeakable horrors their entire lives—looked like someone had just announced the death of common sense.

Vesemir's mouth opened slightly, which, in old-man-Witcher terms, was the equivalent of screaming in horror.

Lambert choked on air.

Eskel, ever the composed one, simply blinked—twice, which for him was basically a full-blown panic attack.

Geralt, for his part, stared down at his severed limb with mild annoyance, the way a man might react to realizing he forgot to lock his front door.

"Huh," he muttered, swaying slightly. "That's new."

Then he fell.

Nikkimae, who had been watching with an expression that suggested she was only half-paying attention, sighed heavily. "Oh, for the love of—" She stepped forward, raised a hand, and the world itself seemed to bend at her command.

High Healing Magic isn't a spell. It's a statement. A declaration that reality itself can be bullied into compliance.

A soft, radiant light engulfed Geralt's twitching body. His severed arm, which had been rudely abandoned in the dirt, lifted of its own accord, drifting lazily back toward its owner like a lost dog returning to its master. Flesh reknitted, veins reconnected, bone fused, and within the span of a heartbeat, the White Wolf was whole again.

The Witchers were not okay.

Vesemir exhaled a breath he had likely been holding since the Conjunction of the Spheres. Lambert looked like he wanted to curse, drink, and cry—all at once. Eskel gave an almost imperceptible nod, the closest thing to sheer existential crisis he could display.

Geralt, still lying on his back, flexed his fingers. He stared at his arm, then at Nikkimae, then back at his arm. "I suppose I should say thanks?"

Nikkimae, ever the composed healer, merely shrugged. "Try not to get your limbs hacked off next time. It's getting tedious."

I, ever the observer, simply purred with satisfaction. "Well. That was educational."

Ah, nothing like a good old-fashioned swordfight-induced near-death experience to work up an appetite for more drinking. Geralt, freshly reassembled and still looking vaguely irritated about it, led the Witchers back inside the keep. They were moving at a slower, more contemplative pace, as if they had just witnessed a cosmic truth too horrifying to comprehend—which, in fairness, they had.

Once seated at the long wooden table—scarred by decades of blade marks, mug slams, and perhaps the occasional human sacrifice—the celebrations resumed. Tankards clashed, Kaedweni Stout flowed freely, and the air thickened with the scent of roasted meats and questionable decision-making.

It was then that Vesemir, ever the wise elder, leaned forward, his weathered hands curling around his drink like some ancient oracle pondering the mysteries of the universe. "Tell me," he said, voice gruff with the weight of centuries, "how exactly does Kaedwen's governance work now?"

Mhelfrancovince, ever the patient lecturer in all things Netherwardian, leaned back with a smirk, swirling his own drink. "Ah, a fine question, Master Witcher. Since its previous government was... shall we say, inconvenienced out of existence, Kaedwen now falls under our administrative jurisdiction."

Vesemir raised an eyebrow. "And by that, you mean?"

Nikkimae, ever helpful, waved a dismissive hand. "It means we killed the last king, burned down his palace, and installed a more functional system that doesn't rely on the divine right of absolute morons."

Geralt exhaled slowly, as if mentally preparing himself for whatever nonsense was about to be revealed.

Mhelfrancovince continued, "The current acting ruler is none other than the Duchess of Dol Blathanna—yes, the very same sorceress-queen of the elves. She serves as the OIC Archduke until an election takes place."

Vesemir took a slow sip of his drink, his gaze unreadable. "And this election occurs every three years?"

"Indeed," Mhelfrancovince confirmed. "Only Aristocrats and Nobles may run for office or vote."

There was a notable pause.

Geralt's golden eyes narrowed slightly. "Nobles. Voting for nobles. Sounds rigged."

Airanikka chuckled into her drink, while I, perched elegantly on my designated chair, flicked my tail and decided to clarify. "Ah, but you see, dear Witcher, the Netherward Realms operate on a meritocracy. While it may look like your typical aristocratic power grab, it's actually a finely tuned system that ensures only the competent rise."

"Competent nobles," Lambert snorted, voice dripping with skepticism.

Nikkimae smirked. "For once in human history, yes."

Vesemir, ever the pragmatist, narrowed his eyes. "And how, exactly, does one become a noble in your system?"

Mhelfrancovince raised a finger, his expression pleased, like a professor about to explain why his exam questions were, in fact, fair. "Several ways, actually. One: Achieve a doctorate degree in any field, and congratulations! You are now a Baronet, the lowest rank of nobility."

Lambert nearly spat out his drink. "Wait. You're telling me some random physician or scholar gets a noble title just because they graduated?"

"Correct," Mhelfrancovince said, without a hint of shame. "Unlike some kingdoms we could mention, we actually reward intelligence and competence. Who would've thought?"

Vesemir let out a long-suffering sigh, the kind that suggested he had spent a lifetime listening to absolute lunacy and was simply too tired to fight it anymore. "And what's the other way?"

Mhelfrancovince took another sip of his drink before answering. "Form a clan association. If a group can prove their worth—be it in business, craftsmanship, magic, or whatever trade contributes to the realm—the clan head is ennobled as a Baronet."

Eskel, who had been quietly listening, finally spoke. "So, just to clarify—anyone who meaningfully contributes to society gets elevated?"

"Yes."

"Even if they weren't born noble?"

"Exactly."

"Even if they started out as a random peasant?"

"Correct."

There was another long pause.

Then Geralt leaned back, running a hand through his hair, looking deeply, profoundly tired. "Gods. You people actually made nobility useful?"

I purred, utterly pleased with myself. "I know. It's disgusting, isn't it?"

The old Witcher swirled his drink, eyes sharp as a wolf's under a full moon. "And what of the Scoia'tael?" he asked, voice as casual as one discussing the weather—except this weather was historically known for guerrilla warfare, burning villages, and an unyielding hatred for humans. "I imagine they didn't take kindly to your, ah… regime change."

Mhelfrancovince leaned back, resting one arm on the back of his chair, exuding the aura of a man who had just conquered a kingdom before breakfast and still had time to argue about tax reforms afterward. "Oh, they were a tricky bunch at first, full of the usual 'death to humans' enthusiasm. But, as it turns out, even the fiercest rebels can be bribed with a decent salary and a purpose that doesn't involve dying in the woods for a cause that was never going to win."

Vesemir arched a bushy eyebrow. "You… bribed them?"

Nikkimae scoffed into her goblet. "Hardly. We deputized them. Made them Military Police. Gave them jurisdiction over the peace and security of every Kaedweni town and city. We even handed them shiny new badges. You should've seen their faces—half of them looked like they had just been given a kingdom, the other half like they were waiting for the punchline."

Geralt exhaled, rubbing his temples. "You put the Scoia'tael—an armed guerrilla force known for ambushing convoys and assassinating humans—in charge of law enforcement?"

I flicked my tail with the smug satisfaction of a cat who had just knocked over an expensive vase and watched it shatter in slow motion. "Yes, and before you ask—no, there haven't been any massacres."

Airanikka, ever the voice of unholy pragmatism, took a sip of her wine and added, "It's almost like when you treat people like actual citizens instead of vermin, they stop trying to murder you in your sleep."

Vesemir hummed, stroking his beard, a look of deep, existential weariness settling over him. "And demi-human racism? I assume that's still a problem."

Mhelfrancovince smirked the smirk of a man who had just played chess against fate and won. "Not anymore. The moment we started handing out noble titles based on merit, the old human supremacist crowd found themselves getting outclassed by elves, dwarves, and beastfolk who actually knew how to run things. Turns out, bigots go quiet real fast when the people they hate end up owning the land they used to lord over."

Eskel, who had been nursing his drink in relative silence, let out a low chuckle. "You let them climb the social ladder."

"Oh, we didn't just let them," Nikkimae corrected, "we built the damn ladder and started handing out climbing gear."

Geralt exhaled, slow and measured, like a man who had seen entire kingdoms rise and fall but had never quite witnessed absolute lunacy on this scale before. "And you think this system will last?"

I stretched luxuriously, yawning in that way only creatures who are infinitely superior can. "Last? Oh, dear Witcher, we're building roads from the Great City of the Netherwards across Arunafeltz and now into Kaedwen itself. We are not merely governing. We are civilizing."

Lambert, who had been leaning back with an expression of sheer disbelief, finally muttered, "So, let me get this straight. The Scoia'tael are now cops, racism is dead, and you're paving roads while the rest of the world still thinks horses are peak transportation?"

Mhelfrancovince raised his goblet, his grin razor-sharp. "Welcome to the future."