Chapter 17 – Fate

Well, damn.

What kind of degenerate Witcher wrote this?

Aelin held the book in his hands a moment longer, resisting the urge to flip it open—only because someone else was still in the room.

He glanced up. The robed man sitting across the table looked equally uncomfortable.

Aelin offered a faint, polite smile and passed the book back. Mimicking Hugues' innocent tilt of the head, he asked lightly,"What's the name of the Witcher who wrote that?""And what kind of monster is a night hag, exactly?""Did they really fight for a thousand and one nights?"

Of course, he already knew what a night hag was—goat horns, cloven hooves, and all.

Back in his old life, they were classed alongside succubi. Intelligent monsters that fed on men's essence. Some said it was addiction, others called it appetite.

But he didn't need this turning into a painfully awkward first meeting, so he played dumb.

Besides, the real Aelin—the one whose memories he'd inherited—had never encountered a night hag. Vesemir's monster lectures hadn't gotten that far. If they ever would.

The robed man studied him more closely now, uncertain, until finally exhaling a small sigh of relief.

"It's none of your concern," he muttered. "Why are you here?"

Aelin let it go. The book could wait. He had more pressing things to chase down.

"I'm looking for the experimental records on the Witcher's Gaze."

"The Witcher's Gaze?" The man scratched at his stubbled cheek. "Can't say I've heard of it. But all Wolf School experiment logs are kept in the back archives. Come on."

He rose without further explanation and led Aelin deeper into the labyrinth of shelves.

"You said your Wolf School," Aelin noted. "Aren't you one of us?"

"Used to be. My mentor had a falling-out with the head sorcerer ten years ago. Walked out. Left me behind." He shrugged with casual bitterness. "Cranky bastard."

At first glance, he'd seemed cold. Detached, maybe even rude. But once he started talking, he didn't stop.

In short order, Aelin learned more than he expected.

The rift between the Witchers and the school's sorcerers had clearly been real. And it hadn't healed.

"So what do you do now?" Aelin asked. "Manage the library?"

"Not exactly. Vella threw me out of the alchemy lab this morning, so I'm hiding here until the dust settles." He scratched his neck, a hint of sheepishness in the gesture. "After the Spring Equinox, I'm off to Ban Ard to teach."

So this was the apprentice Vesemir kept calling incompetent.

And he was going to Ban Ard?

One of the most elite magical academies on the Continent?

"You're teaching there?" Aelin asked.

"What subject?"

"No idea."

Aelin blinked. "...Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

"You're going to Ban Ard and you don't know what you're supposed to teach?"

"I've got Vella's recommendation." He caught the disbelief on Aelin's face and smirked. "She said someone would sort it out once I arrived."

"And you just trusted that?"

"Don't be ridiculous," he said with a scoff. "It's Lady Vella. The Scarlet Vixen. If she says I'm going, I'm going."

They walked a few more paces in silence. Then the man stopped beside a worn, dust-caked shelf—its blackened wood cracked with age, grain warped like tree bark after a lightning strike. Three full rows of books stood in solemn silence, spines heavy with dust.

"This is it," he said. "Everything the Wolf School's ever written on experimentation. Knock yourself out."

Aelin reached for the nearest spine—then froze.

The middle of the second row was gutted. A clean, rectangular void where at least half a dozen books should've been.

"Wait."

He caught the man just before he turned the corner.

Aelin pointed at the empty slot. "What happened to these?"

The robed man glanced back, visibly irritated—then frowned, thinking.

"Oh. Right. Last night, one of Vella's girls came by. Took a stack of books. Could've been the logs you're looking for."

Aelin's heart skipped.

If Mary took them, Vella must've asked her to.

The man gave no further explanation. He disappeared around the corner, leaving Aelin alone with the dust.

Aelin didn't move. Just stood there a moment, eyes fixed on the empty space where answers should have been.

He didn't bother checking the rest. Whatever was worth reading, Vella had already taken it.

But why?

Idle curiosity? Or something more?

He made it back to the library entrance, troubled.

He'd come looking for clarity—and walked away with more questions than when he arrived.

The robed man had already returned to his table, nose buried once again in that lurid, leather-bound abomination of a book.

Aelin glanced back, just once.

And caught a glimpse of a highly detailed diagram—illustrating two creative alternative uses for a wide-brimmed Witcher's hat.

He left the library deeply unsettled.

And burdened with several more questions he hadn't wanted to ask.

—

The southern tower loomed in the gray light of late morning.

He wasn't due for his appointment yet, but he had nowhere else to go. Might as well see if the alchemy lab would take him early.

He reached for the door—

Creeeak.

It opened on its own.

He stepped inside.

Same dark tapestries, same dust-speckled lace curtains, same bone-white alchemy tables bristling with vials and glasswork.

Nothing missing. Nothing new.

But the Witcher's Gaze records weren't here either.

"You looking for something?"

The voice was familiar—but for a moment, he didn't recognize her.

Same woman from yesterday.

But dressed like someone else entirely.

Gone was the silk, the corset, the arrogant flair. In its place: a modest gray linen dress, a high-collared white sweater, and soft brown leather boots. A practical uniform for winter study.

If not for the cascade of crimson hair falling over her shoulder, he might've thought he had the wrong room.

"I'm looking for the Witcher's Gaze logs," Aelin said flatly. "The robed man said Mary took them."

"Mary's in the back," Vella replied. "Sorting the papers."

Of course she is.

This woman really can read minds.

"I can't," she said, as if reading his mind again. "You wear your thoughts all over your face."

She gave a small smile—cool and amused.

"You're an odd one. Most Witchers don't get excited about old laboratory logs."

"I'm just curious about the Witcher's Gaze."

"Curiosity alone doesn't usually drive Witchers to dig through alchemical records. There aren't any bedtime stories hidden in those books."

She let that hang in the air for a moment.

Then she asked, quietly:

"Aelin… has anyone ever told you you should've been a mage, not a Witcher?"

"No one's said that." He shrugged. "And even if they had—what difference would it make?"

If fate had offered him a choice, he'd have taken it.

But fate hadn't offered anything.

He'd simply woken up in this body. In this place. In this life.

The sorceress studied him in silence, her eyes catching the cold glint of his Witcher's pupils.

At last, she spoke.

"No," she said softly."None of us ever really get a choice when it comes to fate."