Zephyr's Embrace

A year had passed since Lucian Faust's arrival at Kaer Morhen, and the once-desolate fortress was now alive with activity. The halls echoed with the sounds of clashing swords, the laughter of children, and the hum of magic. The School of the Wolf was no longer a relic of the past but a thriving institution once more. New recruits trained under the watchful eyes of Geralt and Vesemir, their young faces filled with determination as they sparred in the courtyard. Ciri, now more confident with a sword, moved among them, her silver hair glinting in the sunlight as she practiced her forms.

Beside the keep, Lucian had cultivated a sprawling herb garden, its rows filled with common and rare plants alike. The garden was a testament to his meticulous nature, each plant carefully tended to ensure a steady supply of ingredients for his alchemy. The air was thick with the scent of sage, mandrake, and verbena, mingling with the crisp mountain breeze.

Triss Merigold had claimed the left tower as her own, reshaping its cold, forgotten halls into a sanctuary of magic. The air shimmered with the soft glow of enchanted crystals, their light casting shifting patterns across shelves heavy with ancient tomes. A quiet hum of arcane energy pulsed through the stone, a heartbeat of power woven into the very walls. Here, beneath flickering candlelight and the rustle of turning pages, she guided Ciri through the delicate intricacies of magic.

Eskel and Lambert had returned to the Path, their absence felt but understood. Kiyan, the enigmatic Witcher from the School of the Cat, had taken on the role of delivering Lucian's potions to the Northern Kingdoms. His quiet efficiency and sharp instincts made him the perfect courier, though his presence still unnerved some of the others.

-Vesemir-

In the training grounds, Geralt and Vesemir stood beneath the shade of an ancient oak, observing the children as they sparred. The old Witcher's eyes gleamed with pride as he watched the next generation of Witchers take their first steps.

Vesemir crossed his arms, leaning against the gnarled trunk of an ancient oak tree, its branches casting dappled shadows over the training grounds. The crisp mountain air carried the scent of pine and the faint metallic tang of clashing steel.

His sharp eyes followed the movements of the children as they sparred, their young faces scrunched in concentration. They were raw, untested, and still very much human—no mutations, no enhancements, just kids with wooden swords and dreams of becoming Witchers. It was a sight that filled Vesemir with both pride and a quiet sense of responsibility.

One of the recruits, a boy no older than ten, fumbled with his practice sword, his grip slipping as he swung too hard. The blade flew from his hands, spinning through the air toward Vesemir and Geralt. Without missing a beat, Vesemir reached out and caught it mid-flight, his reflexes honed by decades of survival on the Path.

"Good catch," Geralt remarked, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He stood a few paces away, his arms crossed, his golden eyes scanning the training grounds with a mix of pride and wariness.

Vesemir chuckled, handing the sword back to the wide-eyed boy, who looked equal parts embarrassed and awestruck. "You'll get the hang of it," Vesemir said, his voice warm but firm. "Just remember—control over strength. A wild swing might look impressive, but it leaves you open. Now, try again."

The boy nodded eagerly, gripping the sword with renewed determination as he returned to his sparring partner. Vesemir turned back to Geralt, his expression thoughtful. "It seems our choice was right. Accepting lucian's offer has helped us immensely. The School feels alive again, doesn't it?"

Geralt nodded, though his brow remained furrowed. "It does. The kids are learning faster, and their enthusiasm is... refreshing."

Vesemir sighed, his gaze drifting to the right tower where Lucian's laboratory loomed like a silent sentinel. The faint glow of enchanted runes could be seen through the narrow windows, a constant reminder of the alchemist's presence. "He's an enigma, that one," Vesemir admitted. "Cold, calculating, and utterly detached. But his methods, however unorthodox, have yielded results—for us, at least. The enhancements he gave us have made us stronger, faster, more resilient."

Before Geralt could respond, a loud crash drew their attention. One of the children—a boy with fiery red hair—had tripped during a sparring match, landing in a heap on the ground. his opponent, a lanky boy with a mop of dark hair, immediately dropped his sword and offered him a hand, his face filled with concern. Vesemir watched as the boy accepted the help, brushing himself off with a determined grin.

"They're still kids, Geralt," Vesemir said, a fond smile tugging at his lips. "They'll make mistakes. They'll fall. But they'll learn. And we'll be here to guide them. That's what the School of the Wolf has always been about—not just creating warriors, but giving them a family."

Geralt's gaze softened, though the worry never fully left his eyes. "I hope you're right, Vesemir. I just... I don't want to see them turned into something they're not. Witchers are already seen as monsters by most. What happens if the Trials change them in ways we can't predict?"

Vesemir placed a hand on Geralt's shoulder, his grip firm and reassuring. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. For now, we focus on what we can control. Training them. Preparing them. And ensuring they're ready for whatever comes next. Together."

Geralt nodded, though his expression remained troubled. The two Witchers stood in silence for a moment, watching as the children resumed their training. The sound of clashing swords and laughter filled the air, a stark contrast to the quiet desolation that had once defined Kaer Morhen.

As Vesemir observed the scene, a flicker of pride warmed his chest. The School of the Wolf was rising from the ashes, and for the first time in decades, he allowed himself to hope. The children were thriving, their spirits unbroken, and their determination unwavering. They were the future of the School, and Vesemir would do everything in his power to ensure they were ready for the challenges ahead.

-Lucian-

Lucian dragged himself out of bed, the weight of exhaustion clinging to his limbs like a second skin. The past month had been a relentless cycle of experimentation, sleepless nights, and the occasional near-catastrophic explosion. His latest project—a flying ship—was proving far more challenging than he had anticipated.

What lay in the lake now was little more than a skeleton of a ship, its wooden ribs jutting out like the bones of some great beast. The framework was there, but it was far from complete. The hull was absent, the deck nonexistent, and the intricate runes that would allow it to defy gravity were still only half-etched into the exposed beams.

It was a work in progress, a vision slowly taking shape, but it was a long way from being airborne. As he shuffled across the cold stone floor of his chamber, his mind buzzed with ideas, calculations, and the occasional flash of inspiration.

The flying ship was his magnum opus, a testament to his mastery of runecraft. It wasn't just a means of transportation, it was a symbol of what could be achieved when magic and ingenuity were combined. But it was far from complete.

He paused at the window, his gloved hand resting on the sill as he gazed out at the lake. The skeletal frame of the ship sat partially submerged in the water, its wooden beams glistening in the early morning light. It looked almost ghostly, a phantom vessel waiting to be brought to life.

Lucian's golden mask reflected the pale sunlight as he stared at it, his mind already racing through the next steps. The runes needed to be completed, the protective barrier woven into the structure, and the soul gems integrated to provide the necessary power. It was a monumental task, but one he was determined to see through.

The soul gems he had created were a breakthrough, capable of capturing the essence of slain beasts and storing their soul. These gems could power his creations, fuel enchantments, and even serve as a source of magic in times of need. But they needed to be filled, and for that, he required the Witchers' assistance.

Their constant hunts would provide the necessary souls, and in return, he would craft them better armor and weapons—tools that would make them better equip.

Lucian turned away from the window and made his way to his workbench, where a small collection of soul gems sat in a neat row. Each gem was a deep, translucent blue, its surface smooth and cool to the touch. They were masterpieces of alchemy, vessels capable of containing immense power.

But they were empty. He needed the Witchers to fill them, and he needed them to do it quickly. He picked up one of the gems, holding it up to the light. The faint glow within was barely visible, a sign that it was empty and waiting to be filled.

Lucian's mind wandered to the Witchers—Geralt, Vesemir, Lambert, Eskel. They were wary of him, their trust hard-earned and easily lost. They saw him as cold, calculating, and perhaps even dangerous. And they weren't entirely wrong. But they also understood the value of his work.

The enhancements he had provided had made them stronger, faster, and more resilient. They would see the value in the soul gems, even if they didn't fully understand their purpose. Lucian set the gem back on the workbench and turned his attention to the ship.

The skeletal frame in the lake was a reminder of how much work still lay ahead. The runes etched into the exposed beams were only the beginning. Each one had to be perfect, its lines exact and its placement precise. A single mistake could render the entire ship useless—or worse, dangerous.

The protective barrier—a complex web of magical energy designed to shield the ship from the elements and the strain of flight—was still incomplete. Without it, the ship would tear itself apart the moment it left the ground. He sighed, running a hand over the smooth surface of a soul gem.

Lucian stood and made his way to the door. It was time to speak with Vesemir and the others. They needed to understand the value of the soul gems, and they needed to start filling them.

As he stepped out into the crisp morning air, his eyes fell once more on the skeletal frame of the ship. It was a work in progress, a vision slowly taking shape.

-Triss-

Triss descended the spiral staircase of the left tower, her crimson hair catching the faint light filtering through the narrow windows. Ciri trailed behind her, the young witcheress's silver hair glinting like moonlight. They had just finished another session of magic lessons.

Ciri's lessons in magic had become a part of her daily routine, though she often approached them with the same restless energy that made her such a natural with a sword. Triss had expected resistance—after all, Ciri was more at home on the training grounds than in a tower filled with books and glowing sigils. But to her surprise, the girl was curious, eager to learn, even if she sometimes grew impatient.

As they made their way down, Triss couldn't help but think about the one who had called this meeting. Lucian Faust, known to most as Avicebron, was an enigma. It was hard to believe that the best alchemist on the continent was only 17 years old.

He was also an artificer and a powerful mage, though his demeanor was far from what one might expect of someone so young. She had imagined him as an old hermit, holed up in some remote laboratory. But the reality was far different.

Lucian was young, brilliant, and utterly detached—a combination that made him both fascinating and unsettling. But no matter how impressive his skills, Triss couldn't forgive him for what he had done—or rather, what he hadn't done—at Sodden Hill.

He had stood by, watching as mages fought and died, while the coalition achieved an overwhelming victory against Nilfgaard thanks to his potions. His contributions had turned the tide of the battle. But his refusal to intervene directly still left a bitter taste in her mouth.

Lives had been lost—friends, colleagues—and Lucian had done nothing to save them. To him, it seemed, the ends justified the means. But to Triss, it felt like a betrayal.

As they reached the great hall, the others were already gathered, finding comfortable places to sit or stand. Geralt leaned against the stone wall near the hearth, his arms crossed and his golden eyes scanning the room with their usual intensity.

Vesemir sat at the head of the long wooden table, his weathered face etched with lines of wisdom and weariness. His expression was thoughtful, his fingers drumming lightly on the table as he listened to the conversation.

Lucian stood at the center of the room, his golden mask catching the flickering light of the torches. In his gloved hand, he held a crystal that glowed faintly, its translucent blue surface shimmering with an otherworldly light.

The air in the room felt heavy, charged with the weight of what was being discussed. Triss wasn't part of the School of the Wolf—she was a mage, here to teach Ciri and to be with Geralt. But she couldn't help feeling drawn into the affairs of the Witchers, especially when it involved someone like Lucian.

"This," Lucian began, his voice calm and measured, "is a soul gem. It can capture the essence of the beasts you slay. I want each of you to take some and fill them during your travels."

Vesemir raised an eyebrow, his sharp eyes narrowing as he studied the gem. "And what's the purpose of these gems? What do you plan to do with them?"

Lucian's gaze was steady, his tone matter-of-fact. "The captured souls can be used as a source of magical energy. They can power enchantments, Think of them as batteries—containers of power that can be harnessed for a variety of purposes."

Geralt stepped forward, his golden eyes narrowing as he fixed Lucian with a piercing stare. "What's in it for us? You're not the type to offer something for nothing."

Lucian tilted his head slightly, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "As you know, I am not only an alchemist but also a blacksmith. In exchange for filling these gems, I can craft you better armor and weapons—tools that will make you more effective on the killing beast. Consider it a mutually beneficial arrangement."

Triss crossed her arms, her expression skeptical. She had seen enough of Lucian's work to know that his creations were powerful. But she also knew that power often came with a price.

"And what guarantee do we have that these gems won't be used for something else? Souls are not something to be trifled with, Lucian."

Lucian's gaze met hers, cold and unyielding. "You have my word. But if you distrust me so deeply, you are free to decline. I won't force this on anyone. The choice is yours."

The room fell silent, the weight of his words hanging in the air like a storm cloud. Triss glanced at Geralt, her eyes searching his for some sign of what he was thinking. His expression was unreadable.

But she could see the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers twitched slightly at his sides. He was weighing the risks, just as she was. After a long moment, Geralt nodded. "We'll do it. But if anything goes wrong, if these gems are used for something we didn't agree to, you'll answer to me."

Lucian inclined his head slightly, his mask giving nothing away. "Understood."

Triss exhaled slowly, her mind racing. She didn't like this. She didn't like the idea of capturing souls, of turning them into tools. But she also couldn't deny the potential benefits.

Better armor and weapons could mean the difference between life and death on the road. And if Lucian's creations could help protect Ciri, then perhaps it was worth the risk. Still, she couldn't shake the unease that settled in her chest.

Lucian was an enigma, his motives as inscrutable as the golden mask he wore. She had seen what he was capable of, and while his work was undeniably impressive, it was also dangerous. The soul gems were just the latest example—a tool that could be used for great good or great harm, depending on the hands that wielded it.

As the meeting broke up and the others began to disperse, Triss lingered, her eyes fixed on the soul gem Lucian had placed on the table. It glowed faintly, a reminder of the power it held—and the risks it carried.

She reached out, her fingers brushing against its smooth surface. It was cool to the touch, but there was something unsettling about it, something that made her skin crawl. "Be careful with those," she murmured, more to herself than to anyone else. "Souls aren't meant to be contained."

Lucian, who had been gathering the remaining gems, paused and glanced at her. His golden mask reflected the torchlight, hiding his expression but not the intensity of his gaze. "Everything has a purpose, Triss. Even souls. It's up to us to decide how they're used."

Triss met his gaze, her own eyes hard. "Just remember that power like this comes with consequences. And if those consequences hurt anyone here, you'll have more than Geralt to answer to."

Lucian didn't respond, but the faint tilt of his head was enough to acknowledge her words. He turned and left the hall, his robes billowing behind him. Triss watched him go, her unease growing. She didn't trust him. Not fully.

Few days later Triss stood at the edge of the courtyard, her arms crossed tightly as she watched Ciri practice. The crisp mountain air did little to ease the weight pressing against her chest. Doubt gnawed at her.

Ciri's progress had been steady—her control improving, her understanding of magic growing—but it was clear now that Triss had taken her as far as she could. There were limits to what she could teach, and Ciri's potential stretched beyond them.

The girl was strong, quick to learn, but magic required more than instinct and talent. It demanded refinement, mastery, and a depth of knowledge that Triss knew she could not provide alone. There were things Ciri still struggled to grasp, nuances in spellcraft that required a more experienced hand, a teacher who had spent decades, if not centuries, mastering the craft.

Triss wasn't just worried about Ciri's progress—she worried about holding her back.

A part of her hated the thought of letting go, but she knew what had to be done. Ciri needed a stronger mentor, one who could challenge her in ways Triss could not.

She approached Geralt, who stood near the stables, his golden eyes fixed on the horizon. His expression was unreadable, but Triss could see the worry etched into the lines of his face. He had been quiet lately, his thoughts clearly consumed by Ciri's growing struggles.

Triss took a deep breath, her voice trembling with urgency as she spoke. "Geralt, we need to take Ciri to someone more experienced. Someone who can teach her better"

Geralt's expression darkened, his jaw tightening as he processed her words. He didn't respond immediately, his gaze shifting to where Ciri stood a short distance away. The girl was practicing her sword forms, her movements sharp and precise.

But there was a tension in her shoulders that hadn't been there before. She was holding something back, afraid of what might happen if she let go. After a long moment, Geralt nodded. "Yennefer."

Triss nodded in agreement, though the name left a bitter taste in her mouth. Yennefer of Vengerberg was one of the most powerful mages on the continent. If anyone could help Ciri, it was her.

But Yennefer was also Geralt's former lover, and the thought of bringing her back into their lives was not something Triss relished. Still, this wasn't about her—it was about Ciri. And Ciri needed help.

"Yennefer," Triss confirmed.

Geralt exhaled slowly, his shoulders sagging under the weight of the decision. "We'll leave at first light."

As the trio prepared to leave, Lucian watched from the shadows of Kaer Morhen's battlements, his golden mask gleaming in the sunlight. His expression was unreadable, his thoughts hidden behind the impassive facade. He wasn't concerned with Ciri's struggles or the implications of her departure. His focus was elsewhere—on his alchemy and the flying ship. These were his priorities, the projects that consumed his time and energy.

The skeletal frame of the ship rested in the lake, its wooden beams glistening in the sunlight. It was a work in progress, a vision slowly taking shape. The runes etched into its surface glowed faintly, a testament to the hours of painstaking work he had poured into the project. But the protective barrier—a complex web of magical energy designed to shield the ship from the elements and the strain of flight—was still incomplete. Without it, the ship would tear itself apart the moment it left the ground.

Lucian's gaze shifted to the soul gems, their faint glow a reminder of the power they held—and the risks they carried. The gems were a breakthrough, capable of capturing the essence of slain beasts and storing their energy. They could power his creations, fuel enchantments, and even serve as a source of magic in times of need.

2 years later

-Lucian-

Two years have passed since I first arrived at Kaer Morhen, and the fortress has transformed into something unrecognizable. The once-desolate halls now echo with the sounds of clashing swords, laughter, and the hum of magic. The School of the Wolf is thriving again, its new recruits training under the watchful eyes of Geralt and Vesemir. The children who once fumbled with wooden swords now move with precision and confidence, their progress a testament to the dedication of those who guide them. Ciri, though no longer here, left her mark on this place. Her absence is felt, but her legacy endures.

As for me, I've had little time to reflect on the changes around me. My focus has been consumed by my magnum opus—the flying ship, Zephyr's Embrace. It's been a monumental undertaking, demanding countless hours of meticulous work, sleepless nights, and the occasional explosion that sent the others scrambling for cover. But now, as I stand on the deck of the completed vessel, I allow myself a rare moment of satisfaction.

The ship is a marvel of alchemy and runecraft. Its sleek wooden frame is reinforced with enchanted beams and intricate runes that glow faintly in the sunlight. The hull, once skeletal and incomplete, now gleams with a polished sheen, its surface etched with protective barriers designed to withstand the strain of flight. The propellers, powered by soul gems, hum with a steady rhythm, their spinning blades cutting through the air with precision. It's a testament to what can be achieved when magic and ingenuity are combined, a symbol of my relentless pursuit of perfection.

The soul gems, too, have proven to be a success. The Witchers, though initially wary, have come to see their value. Filled with the essence of slain beasts, the gems now power not only the ship but also a host of other creations—enchanted weapons, protective amulets, and even automated systems for brewing low-tier potions. The latter was a necessary innovation, freeing me from the tedium of repetitive tasks and allowing me to focus on more complex projects. The higher-quality potions, though slower to sell due to their price, have earned me a reputation as one of the most skilled alchemists on the continent.

As I descend from the ship, I spot Kiyan approaching, a letter in hand. The Witcher from the School of the Cat has proven to be an invaluable asset, his quiet efficiency and sharp instincts making him the perfect courier. Though his presence still unnerves some of the others, I've come to appreciate his reliability.

"Philippa Eilhart gave me this," Kiyan says, handing over the letter. "She said it was urgent. Oh, and here's the payment for the last batch of potions, along with the ingredients you requested." He hands me a ring, its enchanted storage space brimming with gold and rare herbs.

I nod, taking the ring and tucking it into my robes. "Good work. You can rest for now. I'll handle this."

As Kiyan walks away, I make my way to my tower, the letter clutched in my gloved hand. The space inside is a chaotic blend of alchemical equipment, half-finished projects, and shelves lined with ancient tomes. I place the herbs in their designated storage and add the gold to the enchanted chest that holds my earnings. Then, sitting at my workbench, I break the seal on the letter and begin to read.

The letter is an invitation—a summons, really—to a gathering at Aretuza. Philippa's elegant script is formal, almost cordial, but I know better. This isn't just a social call. The mages are planning something, though they've been careful not to put it in writing. I've heard whispers, seen the signs. Tensions are rising within the Brotherhood of Sorcerers, and it's only a matter of time before it all comes to a head. Thanedd will be the stage, and the gathering at Aretuza is the prelude.

The factions are already forming. Philippa Eilhart leads the Northern supporters, her ambition as sharp as her wit. Vilgefortz, ever the opportunist, has thrown his lot in with Nilfgaard, his cunning and power making him a dangerous ally—or enemy. And then there's Tissaia de Vries, the voice of reason, trying to hold the neutral ground even as the Brotherhood fractures around her. It's a powder keg waiting to explode, and I intend to be there when it does.

I fold the letter, my mind already racing with plans. The rebellion at Thanedd will be a bloodbath, a clash of egos and ideologies that will leave the Brotherhood fractured and weakened. Many of the continent's most powerful mages will die, their knowledge and power lost to the chaos. But for me, it's an opportunity. The souls of the fallen, if captured, could be invaluable. Combined with those I've already collected from Sodden Hill, they'll provide a formidable source of power for the battles to come—particularly against the Wild Hunt.

A week later, I stand on the deck of Zephyr's Embrace, the ship's magical engine humming softly as it prepares for departure. Kiyan and two of the newer Witchers, Eldric and Calder, stand nearby, their expressions a mix of awe and apprehension. The ship is unlike anything they've ever seen, its sleek design and glowing runes a stark contrast to the rugged simplicity of Kaer Morhen.

"This… this is incredible," Eldric murmurs, running a hand along the polished railing. "I've never seen anything like it."

"It's not just a ship," I reply, my voice calm but tinged with pride. "It's a testament to what can be achieved when magic and ingenuity are combined. Now, take your positions. We have a long journey ahead."

As the Witchers move to their assigned stations, I enter the captain's quarters, a small but meticulously organized space filled with maps, alchemical tools, and a few personal artifacts. I activate the ship's control runes, the hum of the engine growing louder as the propellers begin to spin. The Zephyr's Embrace lifts slowly from the ground, its movements smooth and controlled.

Through the window, I watch as Kaer Morhen grows smaller and smaller, its ancient walls and bustling courtyard fading into the distance. The Witchers on deck are silent, their eyes wide as they take in the breathtaking view of the mountains and forests below.

But my mind is already elsewhere. The gathering at Aretuza will be a pivotal moment, a chance to secure the souls of the fallen and further my own goals. The rebellion at Thanedd will be chaotic, dangerous, and unpredictable—but for me, it's an opportunity too valuable to pass up.

As the ship soars through the sky, its course set for the island of Thanedd, I allow myself a rare smile.