第十五章 — 昆恩

After Vesemir and the First left, Aelin stayed where he was, sitting stiffly on the edge of his cot.

He needed a way out of Kaer Morhen.

"Maybe I'm just not cut out to be a witcher."

The voice was low, barely more than a whisper. Aelin turned toward it.

Hugues lay flat on his back, eyes vacant, staring at the mold-stained ceiling as if searching for an answer there.

The boy had never had much talent. That was the plain truth.

While Bonte and Fred had already digested their evening decoctions, Hugues was still trying to keep down his lunch. By the time his stomach settled enough for dinner, he'd already be behind again. Stack that delay day after day, and the boy was lucky to scrape four hours of sleep each night.

Vesemir, for all his talk of fairness, made no room for weakness.

Witcher training didn't forgive the slow. It just culled them later.

People thought the only trial left was the Mountain. They didn't realize the culling never stopped.

It just changed shape.

"I'm not even close to where you are," Hugues muttered, turning away. "Even Bonte's ahead. And you… you're just different."

Aelin didn't answer right away. All he could see was the curve of Hugues's spine, drawn tight like a bowstring, the way his shoulders quivered with every breath.

He reached out and laid a hand lightly on the boy's shoulder.

"It'll get better."

A lie, maybe. But one Hugues accepted with a silent nod.

Dawn.

The wind cut along the causeway like it was honed.

"Anyone else feel… clearer today?" Hugues asked, squinting against the chill, rubbing at the corners of his eyes. "Not so fogged up in the head?"

Fred stretched his neck until it cracked. "Now that you mention it… yeah. Bit sharper, maybe."

"Bullshit," Bonte grunted. He rapped his knuckles against his skull. "Still feels like someone poured sludge in here. You two are imagining things."

They bickered, but the mood wasn't sour. There was something easier in the air between them. Something… lighter.

After yesterday—after the fight, the fallout, the quiet shift in the way they looked at Aelin—something had settled.

Not camaraderie. Not yet.

But something close.

Aelin had known Hugues since they were barely four. They'd survived every trial side by side—The Selection, The Grass, The Dream. That kind of horror didn't leave people untouched. It twisted you or bonded you. Sometimes both.

Bonte and Fred had come from different corners of the world. But children didn't need much to form a pack.

In this case, it had started with the promise of custom leather armor from the First.

The armor hadn't come yet. It didn't matter. Somewhere between bloodied lips and shared mutterings, they'd begun orbiting around Aelin like moons.

Aelin, whether he liked it or not, had become the center.

"Hey, Aelin?" Hugues turned. "You feel it too? Like your head's clearer today?"

Aelin opened his mouth, but Bonte cut in before he could speak.

"Hugues, you idiot." He reached over and flicked the boy's ear. "You literally said earlier that Aelin doesn't get potion side effects."

"…Oh. Right." Hugues scratched his cheek, sheepish.

Chatter. Gods, they wouldn't shut up.

Not even the mountain wind could drown them out.

Aelin walked among them in silence, surrounded not by future witchers—but by squawking fledglings in borrowed mail.

They hadn't stopped talking since they woke.

And it was his fault.

If he hadn't acted on impulse last night, these bastards wouldn't be chirping like spring birds.

Because yes—he'd done it.

Just before entering the dorms, he'd cracked the First's black water flask, slipped out a vial of drowner heart extract, and dosed it—a quarter vial.

He knew the signs. All four of them would've felt the lift by now. More clarity. Less nausea. Better recovery.

It hadn't been planned. Hours earlier, he'd made a quiet promise to isolate himself.

And yet… when the moment came, he didn't hesitate.

Even now, he couldn't explain why.

It wouldn't have killed them to suffer another night. At worst, they'd feel like shit and maybe take a few extra bruises in the Trial of the Mountain.

Nothing fatal.

So why?

Maybe it was the boy's body he was still stuck in.

Maybe it was something else.

He exhaled, slow and sharp as frost.

The courtyard loomed ahead. Vesemir was already there.

Same slab of stone, same ragged black hat drawn low over his eyes, arms crossed like a gargoyle watching time erode the world.

He glanced up as the boys approached—fresh-eyed, steady-footed.

For once, his grim face twitched in something almost like approval.

"You look awake," he said. "Good. Maybe none of you will snore through the first hour today."

His gaze locked on Hugues like a hawk eyeing a rabbit.

"Well? Think you can manage that?"

Hugues swallowed. "I—I think so?"

Vesemir didn't blink. "Was that a question?"

"N-no. I mean yes. I won't sleep. Sir."

"…Good."

He turned toward the center of the yard and barked the day's lesson.

"Signs."

The word cracked the air like a whip.

"Combat glyphs. Fast. Functional. Used with one hand. You don't lean on them. They don't replace the blade. They buy you time. That's all."

"The School of the Wolf passed down six."

"We start with Quen."

"Quen is a shield. A barrier of force you cast over yourself. It eats the hit so your ribs don't have to."

"It's also the safest way to open your channels—get your magic organs feeling the flow."

As Vesemir spoke, a familiar click echoed faintly behind Aelin's eyes—like a switch thrown inside his skull.

A message.

Ding. Skill trace detected: [Quen].

Spend 100 minor XP orbs to unlock?

He blinked once.

So they're charging separately now?

He'd assumed signs came in a bundle. But of course—Monster Slayer's Notebook always bled him dry.

Still, he paid attention as Vesemir moved on.

"The gesture looks like this." Vesemir raised his hand, fingers forming a compact knot. "Thumb and pinky tucked. Ring and middle extended, pointing forward."

Spend 64 minor XP orbs to learn gesture?

"And the symbol—triangle. Always a triangle. Most stable form in magecraft. Picture it clearly in your mind—edges sharp, anchored…"

Spend 32 minor XP orbs to learn symbol?

"Now, eyes open. I'll show you once. Watch the power flow—don't just see it. Feel it."

Half an hour passed.

Vesemir stepped back and let them flail.

One by one, the boys raised their hands, mimicking the sign with shaky fingers and furrowed brows.

Aelin tried it once. Then again.

It would take him the better part of the day to get it right.

Too slow.

He didn't have time. Not for gradual progress. Not if he wanted out of this cursed keep alive.

And that meant—

Spend 8 minor XP orbs to unlock Quen Lv1?

Yes.

Ding. Skill unlocked: Quen Lv1.

The rush hit him like a crashing wave—memories not his own flooding in. Muscle memory. Instinct. Practice layered over practice, condensed and forced into place like a blade hammered flat.

When it passed, he exhaled once and opened his character sheet.

[Name: Aelin]

[Age: 13]

[Title: Child of Miracle]

[Witcher Rank: 3]

[Health: 100% | Stamina: 71/71]

[Attributes:]

Strength: 5.8 (+0.3)

Agility: 5.9 (+0.3)

Constitution: 7.1 (+0.9)

Perception: 8.4 (+0.5)

Mysticism: 3.9 (+0.4)

[Special Skills:]

Monster Slayer Lv1

Appraisal Lv1

[Combat Skills:]

Wolf School Greatsword Lv2 (0/500)

Quen Lv1 (0/100)

[Recipes:]

Killer Whale (Unavailable)

[Inventory:]

Drowner Heart Extract ×1

Rotten Meat ×3

Minor XP Orb ×23

"Twenty-Three Ways to Cook a Drowner"

[Evaluation:]

Pathetic!!

The stat boost was noticeable.

Dinner—and the three-quarter dose of drowner extract—had netted him 2.9 attribute points. Slightly less than the previous night's 3.2, but still a sharp rise.

He could feel it now.

No soreness in his joints. No tightness in his chest. His blood moved cleaner, faster. Power pulsed under his skin like a second heartbeat.

Addictive.

And when he looked down at his inventory, the high vanished like smoke.

One vial left.

He stared at it for a long time.

One final dose.

Whether he escaped this place—or died in its shadow—would depend on what Quen could do.