Chapter 13 – The Child of Miracles

The woman sighed—a long, worn breath that came from somewhere deep and distant, a place where memory had hardened into fatigue.

The man said nothing.

Maybe he didn't know how to begin. Or maybe there was nothing left to begin again.

In the end, she pushed him back—not unkindly, but with a gentleness that spoke of permanence. Like closing a door that should never have been reopened.

She snapped her fingers. A soft pulse of magic rippled the air, reshaping her robe, her posture, her poise.

Her face rose, clean and blank as moonlit water. "Why are you here?"

The question landed soft, sharp. Her voice was calm, balanced, devoid of cracks.

Her face… immaculate. Not just beautiful, but curated. Not a single line, not a fleck of dust on her features. As if time had been warned to keep its distance.

And yet—on her chest, a wet patch still lingered. Damp. Visible. Human.

The witcher stared. And for a second, he thought maybe he'd imagined the whole thing. Maybe it had all been a phantom. A memory stitched together from regret.

Snap.

Another flick of her fingers, and a warm, whispering wind swept across the chamber. Magic-imbued. Discreet. Practical. The filth and sweat on his gambeson vanished, leaving it dry, crisp, and impossibly clean.

Just like that.

"Some things never change," he said, softly.

There was a glimmer in his voice—half nostalgia, half resignation. Something that didn't know whether to smile or grieve.

But the moment passed like steam in winter. He steadied his tone.

"On my way back to Kaer Morhen… I passed through Ard Carraigh."

She raised an eyebrow. Barely. "The glutton summoned you?"

He nodded. "Hakso had… things to discuss. Two, in fact."

That earned a flicker of interest. Dim, but there. "And what did the bottomless pit want now?"

"He asked me about the elves."

Her eyes narrowed. "And you said?"

He inhaled.

She stopped him with a gesture. Fingers like a blade through silence.

"Let me guess. The usual sanctified indifference. The School of the Wolf does not meddle in politics."

He gave a helpless shrug. "More or less."

"'The Path of Glory must not be sullied.' 'Witchers hunt monsters, not men.' The old catechism."

She gave a dry, mirthless chuckle. "The Path of Glory," she echoed, and with a lazy flick, conjured a bottle of red and a solitary glass. The wine poured itself slowly, as if reluctant to leave the bottle.

"In Toussaint, they still believe that crap. In bedtime tales and broadsheet romances." She took a sip. "I haven't heard those words in ten years. Maybe longer."

She turned slightly, glass half-raised. Her tone shifted—mocking, but not without warmth. "Go on, then, my knight."

He caught the scent of the wine on the air. Dark. Aged. Sweetened by something alchemical. He raised an eyebrow.

"You're not pouring me one?"

"No," she said simply, eyes on her glass. "I'm not in the mood to share."

The silence settled again. He didn't press.

"Hakso's planning a tournament," he said after a beat.

Her head tilted. Slight. Sharp. "A tournament?"

"Between the Schools of the Wolf and the Cat. Their apprentices. Skill. Strength. Showmanship."

She put the glass down slowly. Her face dimmed, like a candle snuffed in fog.

"And you agreed."

He didn't answer at first. Then: "I had to. The winning school gets double the usual funding."

"And the loser?" Her voice was very still.

"Nothing," he said. "Not even the baseline stipend."

Her fingers curled around the stem of her glass. The motion was subtle, but it cracked the rhythm of her calm.

"These two matters… they're linked," she muttered. "I don't know how yet, but…"

The witcher's voice lowered. "Veyla. You know me."

"I've fought basilisks in the dark. Faced leshens with nothing but broken steel. I don't fear monsters."

"But politics…"

A pause.

"I don't know how to fight this. None of us do. Not anymore."

His eyes met hers.

"Help me. Just once more. Like you did when the Order broke. Show me what I'm missing."

Veyla drank.

Let the wine rest on her tongue.

Then she turned.

The warmth was gone. Her voice returned cold, precise.

"Don't call me Vey. We left that behind years ago."

He opened his mouth, but she raised a hand.

"Still. You remembered the promise. The one you made a decade ago."

She nodded. "I'll help. I'll look into it."

His brow tightened. "So… you saw the pendant."

"I did," she said.

And then—laughter. Quick. Clean. Real.

"For a moment, I nearly threw it back at its sender."

But the laugh faded quickly, swallowed by whatever silence followed it.

She moved to the window. Stared west.

The mountains beyond the tower shimmered under a dying sun, white and merciless.

Zoy watched her.

Same stance. Same quiet defiance.

Still the same. Still her.

She murmured, barely above a whisper.

Words laced with something older than spellcraft.

Like frost cracking underfoot.

"The time of sword and axe is near.

The Age of the White Wolf and the Snowstorm draws nigh…

The world will die in frost,

And be reborn beneath a new sun…"

Ess'tuathesse. So it is written. Watch for the signs…

"First, the Filius Miraculi—the Child of Miracles—shall be born in the land of bitter cold.

Death and rebirth. Blood and fire.

Brought forth by one who is not human…"

Zoy breathed out, slow. "The Prophecy of Ithlene."

He stepped to her side.

"Veyla… the child's already passed through death. He's close now… so close to crossing back."

She didn't speak.

Didn't move.

Just stood there, the outline of her body etched in gold and ash, quiet as snowfall.

Zoy stepped closer. Hands resting on her shoulders. Gently.

"Don't worry, Vey," he said. "Just like the prophecy said… our child will return."

She exhaled.

Leant back into him.

"Zoy."

"I'm here."

"…Do you think he'll hate me?"

His lips parted.

Nothing came.

Before he could find the words—

"He will hate me."

No tremor. No sorrow. Just certainty.

"…He must."

And Zoy… said nothing.

He looked up, toward the peaks that never thawed.

And held her.

Elsewhere…

Aerin didn't know.

Didn't even suspect that the cold-eyed sorceress Veyla, and the quiet man known as Zoy—the master of the School of the Wolf—were his birth parents.

The thought would've seemed absurd.

Witchers and sorceresses were sterile. That was the rule. That was the lore.

Sorceresses… sometimes, rarely, had exceptions.

But witchers? Not one case. Not one name.

Two people who should've been unable to create anything… and yet, somehow, they had.

A miracle.

A curse.

Or both.

But Aerin knew none of that.

That night, he didn't go back to his dormitory.

Instead, he walked. Down the frost-lined path, alone, his breath white in the moonlight. Each step slow. Each one thoughtful.

But his mind—his mind was burning.

9,950 experience points.

That number loomed like a wall.

Two choices.

Lower the cost.

Or increase the supply.

Either deepen his understanding of alchemy to make it cheaper… or kill more monsters and harvest their experience gems.

But the calendar offered no mercy.

One month.

Just one month until the Trial of the Mountain.

And alchemy was still locked.

Veyla's lectures? Too slow. Deliberate. She wouldn't rush—not for him, not for anyone.

Vesemir's drills? Random. Infrequent. Not enough bodies. Not enough gems.

"I have to change the equation," he whispered.

He couldn't skip the classes. They were his only source of theory—and theory, clearly, affected the cost.

But the gem income?

That was the lever he could pull.

Only one path left.

More monsters.

More quests.

More blood.

And to do that—

"I need to leave Kaer Morhen."

The thought landed like a stone in still water.

Outside the walls… drowners. Foglets. Ghouls. Worse.

Each one a fight.

Each one a chance.

And if the system smiled on him, maybe—just maybe—a quest would trigger. Something that granted Alchemy Level 2 outright.

But first…

Aerin stopped walking.

Looked up at the stone towers and distant lights.

And whispered:

"…How the hell do I get out of here?"

No answer came.

Only wind.

Only stars.

Only silence.