Chapter 16 — A Thousand and One Nights of a Witcher and a Night Hag

"Quen's the simplest sign. Has anyone managed to cast it yet?"

With a lazy flick of his fingers, Vesemir let the shimmer of magic fizzle from his body and turned to face the row of apprentices.

No sooner had the words left his mouth than the room broke into groans.

"Learn it? I can't even tell where my damn mutation organs are," Hugues muttered, slumped in defeat.

Fred and Bonte nodded, scowling in silent agreement. They'd made marginal progress—enough to feel something churning under the skin, maybe—but signs? That was another realm entirely.

The idea that someone could already cast one? Impossible. Or at least it should have been.

Vesemir chuckled. That same gravelly rasp he always used when he knew something they didn't.

"You'll have to do better. I've seen boys half your age pull off a sign before sundown."

He was about to propose a wager—some game to stoke the competition—but he paused, eyes drifting toward the quietest figure in the group.

"Aelin," he said, voice casual, as if it had only just occurred to him. "You?"

Aelin didn't flinch. "I've learned it."

He wasn't hiding anymore.

He'd spent half the night staring at the cracked ceiling of his cell, working through contingencies. Escape routes, false trails, dead drops. Every possibility ended the same way.

He needed Vesemir.

Tomorrow's schedule included practical monster theory—which meant Vesemir would have to leave Kaer Morhen. That meant a window. But only if he earned it.

"You've actually learned it?" Vesemir asked, adjusting his battered hat. He wasn't scoffing—just surprised.

Aelin didn't answer.

He raised his hand, thumb and pinky curled in, middle and ring fingers pressed together, tracing a slow triangle in the air.

A flicker—just a shimmer—rippled outward. Golden light danced across his skin for half a heartbeat before vanishing.

The room went silent.

Hugues stared, jaw slack. He raised his own hand, tried to mimic the gesture—nothing happened. He glanced sideways, hoping no one noticed the failure.

Jealousy, awe, confusion—all of it boiled behind his eyes.

Still, he couldn't help but blurt it out. "Aelin, what the fuck—how did you do that?"

That snapped the others out of it.

Fred pushed forward, eyes wide. "Seriously, that was insane. You've got to show us."

Bonte followed close behind. "Come on, teach us how you did it. Please."

Aelin gave them a flat look. They were standing in front of Vesemir, asking him to teach?

Not a chance. He wasn't suicidal.

Fortunately, Vesemir didn't seem offended.

The old witcher stepped in, reaching out with two fingers and tapping the faint golden sheen still clinging to Aelin's shoulder.

A sharp crack rang out as the Quen shield shattered like brittle glass.

Vesemir nodded once. "Still thin. But the focus is sharp, and the casting speed's better than most. That was a proper Quen."

He studied Aelin for a moment longer—expression unreadable.

If he hadn't personally overseen the boy's training since the Trial of the Grasses, he might've suspected cheating. Secret lessons. Hidden tomes.

But no.

The lesson had ended less than half an hour ago. There wasn't time to cheat.

It was absurd.

And yet, here he stood. Calm. Silent. Like it was no big deal.

How many times now? Vesemir thought. How many times has this boy made me question the rules?

It was becoming a dangerous habit.

Maybe I should check the archives. See what they say about the Witcher's Gaze. If they were all like this… why did they disappear?

He shoved the others back into formation with a grunt.

"Aelin's Quen is acceptable."

Bonte scoffed. "Breaks like wet parchment. What good is a shield that shatters on the first hit?"

Vesemir's tone turned to iron. "Short-sighted."

"Casting's just the first step. The sign's strength scales with your physical state. Right now, your tissues are still reconfiguring. Once your mutations stabilize, that same shield will take two, maybe three hits from a drowner before breaking."

He paused, then nodded toward Aelin.

"That's it for today's signs. You're dismissed."

The others watched, breath held, expecting Aelin to head off. Maybe to gloat. Maybe to train alone. Maybe to disappear again.

But Aelin stepped forward.

"Master Vesemir," he said quietly. "I have a request."

Vesemir raised an eyebrow. "Go on."

"I heard you and Letho are hunting drowners this afternoon." A pause. "I want to come."

The old witcher narrowed his eyes. "Why?"

"I need to see them up close. Study how they move. The Trial of the Mountain is coming, and if I don't get every edge I can…"

He trailed off—but his voice didn't waver.

Vesemir looked around.

Fred. Bonte. Hugues.

All silent now.

The Trial of the Mountain.

The final test. The one most didn't survive. Even dreaming of it felt like tempting fate.

He sighed. "We were going to leave after lunch. If you're joining, we'll go after dusk. Come find me when your last class ends."

"Understood, Master Vesemir."

Aelin bowed slightly and turned to go.

He considered lingering—offering to help the others, maybe demonstrate the gesture again—but Vesemir cut him off with a glance.

"Don't distract them," he said. "They're not ready to be compared to you."

Aelin nodded and left.

That night, as he walked the inner halls, he found Hugues waiting by the stairwell.

"You know," the boy whispered, "Bonte, Fred, and I… we all think you'd make a better teacher than Vesemir."

—

The keep's western wing loomed in silence.

Aelin drifted between the towers—one devoted to alchemy, the other to records. The shadows grew longer, colder.

He hesitated.

The hour hadn't come yet. Not for her. Not for that meeting.

But another question gnawed at him.

The Witcher's Gaze.

What was it? How did it work—and more importantly, how the hell could he hide it?

The record tower was quieter than the alchemy labs. The walls were lined with tall, blackened oak shelves that reached into the gloom above, stacked with tomes that hadn't seen daylight in centuries.

It wasn't the grandest library he'd ever seen—but it was more than he'd expected from a fortress of killers.

He thought it would be practical. Brutal. Like the labs.

But this… this was reverent. Almost sacred.

Only one other person was inside.

A young man in black robes hunched at a table near the entrance, glasses slipping down his nose, a thick tome open in front of him. He didn't glance up when Aelin stepped closer.

"Excuse me," Aelin said.

No response.

He tapped the table once. "Hi. I'm looking for the experiment recor—"

WHAM.

The boy jumped so violently the book flew out of his hands.

Aelin caught it midair, one-handed.

If not for the reflex boost from this morning's mutation bonus, he might've taken a hardcover to the face.

Well, Aelin thought dryly, I guess this freak body has its uses.

He looked down at the cover as he handed it back.

The title gleamed in fading silver ink.

A Thousand and One Nights of a Witcher and a Night Hag

Aelin blinked. Then stared.

"…You've got to be kidding."