Stone shifted deeper inside, weight settling wrong. A shape moved out of the dark, horns brushing rock as it came, the sound carrying and answering itself in the hollow.
The chort stepped forward.
Its body filled the space it claimed, thick muscle layered under hide grown hard and scarred from years of use. It moved with familiarity, hooves finding stone without slowing, as if the ground there had learned its weight.
It lowered its head.
The bellow rolled out of it, deep and heavy, pressing against the cave walls and coming back thicker for it.
The witcher held his ground.
The chort charged.
It came fast, weight set low, horns driving straight ahead, hooves striking hard enough to shake grit loose from the stone.
The witcher broke sideways and rolled.
The charge thundered past him and slammed into the wall, horns biting deep into rock. Stone cracked and sparked. The chort bellowed as it tore free, momentum dragging it wide as it turned.
The witcher was on his feet before it finished turning.
Silver cut along its side in a long, committed stroke. Hide split. Blood spilled hot and dark, running fast down its flank.
The chort roared.
It didn't turn clean. It swung its bulk instead—shoulder and foreleg sweeping through the space in a crushing arc meant to batter anything still there.
The witcher leapt back hard, boots scraping stone as he cleared the blow.
He stepped in as the weight carried through and struck again, shorter this time, driving the blade into muscle behind the shoulder.
Blood flowed freely.
The wound pulled tight even as it bled. Flesh drew inward, knitting where it could, slowed and fouled by the oil burning along the cut. The regeneration worked, but poorly, uneven and incomplete.
It pressed in instead of charging, driving forward with weight and reach. A foreleg slammed down where he'd been a heartbeat earlier. Another followed, wider, meant to crush and pin.
The witcher gave ground in sharp bursts—step, break, recover—never staying where the mass was falling.
The chort swung its head.
The witcher broke sideways and cleared the horns—
—and its body kept turning.
A hind leg came around with crushing force.
He got the silver up at the last moment.
The impact rang through the blade and into his arms. It drove him into a wall and knocked the breath out of him.
Stone met his back.
He dropped to one knee, fingers numb around the hilt.
The chort was on him.
Hooves struck sparks from stone as it drove in, weight dropping.
He snapped the Sign.
Quen.
Shield formed tight and complete around him, a dull, enclosed sphere locking into place as the blow came down.
The impact crushed into it.
Light fractured across the surface. The barrier bowed inward, screamed once, and held—just long enough.
The force still drove him down, boots skidding, arms screaming as the sphere shattered outward and vanished.
Stone shattered under the impact where he'd been a moment before.
The chort bellowed.
The witcher came up hard, breath burning.
He set his feet.
—
He shifted aside as the swing came through, boots scraping stone. Another followed immediately, heavier, and he slipped past it by inches, blade tight to his body as the weight carried on.
He felt it in his arms when he moved. The impact from before still lived there, dull and deep, turning each correction into work. He kept the blade moving anyway, letting the blows pass close and answering where they left him room.
A cut along the flank. Shallow. Another across the shoulder. Shorter still.
Blood ran.
The chort pressed harder, but the pace was off now. The swings came wide. The weight followed late. Its breathing had gone loud, rough enough to hear between impacts.
It closed the space.
He stepped inside the reach and cut again, then broke away before the foreleg could come down. The blade dragged instead of biting clean, but it opened hide that didn't close the way it should have.
The oil burned there.
The chort turned after him, slower now, hooves grinding as it hauled its bulk around. It swung again and missed by inches, the force tearing through empty space and striking stone instead.
He cut and was gone.
Another step. Another cut. Blood darkened the stone beneath it, thicker than before, pooling where it stood too long.
Its head dipped when it breathed. The shoulders lagged behind the movement. One swing came short, the follow-through uneven.
He moved with it and cut as it turned, the blade biting where hide thinned under strain and muscle bunched too slow to pull away. The chort bellowed and tried to bring its weight around, hooves slipping as the movement failed to finish cleanly.
Blood poured freely now, dark and heavy, running down its side and pooling beneath it. The chort forced itself forward anyway, breathing loud and wet, each step tearing more strength out of it.
The witcher stayed back.
Another step. Another cut. Not deep. Enough.
One foreleg struck stone and didn't rise clean. The body dipped, hauled itself upright again, then dipped once more, hooves scraping uselessly for purchase.
The weight shifted and didn't come back.
The chort went down hard, one leg folding under it as the rest followed. The impact rolled once through the cave and stopped there.
It thrashed and bellowed, a torn, choking sound that shook loose dust from the stone. The body heaved, trying to gather itself, hooves scraping uselessly as it strained to rise.
It failed.
The witcher stepped in close and set his weight. He hacked down into the neck where the hide was already split, then again, then again, cutting through muscle and tendon while the body bucked beneath him.
The bellow broke off mid-breath.
The head came free.
The body shuddered once and went still.
Silence crept back into the cave.
He wiped the blade clean, worked the head loose where it still clung, and tied it off without ceremony.
When he stepped out, the light had thinned. Summer dusk pressed in under the trees, the sky already darkening where the canopy broke.
He didn't look back.
He went down the slope with the weight at his side and left the cave behind.
—
The village was settling down when he came back.
People were still out. A few stood near the inn, talking low. A man sat on a bench by the side of a house, boots planted, a pipe in his lips. Smoke drifted along the wall as he drew on it slow and steady.
He came in from the road with the head in his hand, blood dark on his sleeve and dried into the seams of his leather. His gait was even, but stiff.
Someone noticed and stopped mid-sentence. Another followed their gaze. The talking didn't stop all at once, but it thinned and broke apart as eyes shifted toward him.
The hunter was outside his house, working the string back onto his bow, one knee braced against the wood as he bent it. He looked up when the shadow fell across him.
"That it?" the hunter asked.
The witcher nodded.
He let the head drop to the dirt. It hit heavy and stayed there.
A few people stepped closer. One muttered something under his breath. The man with the pipe pulled it from his mouth and let the smoke out slow.
The hunter glanced at the head, then at the blood on the witcher, then back to the head again.
"That's a big one," he said.
Another man stepped closer. He didn't touch it."Never seen anything like that."
The hunter didn't look away from it."What is it?" he asked.
"A chort," the witcher said.
The hunter nodded once."Heard of them. Bad work."A pause.
"You've earned it this."
He reached into his belt and held the pouch out without another word. Coin shifted inside.
Someone spoke again, quieter this time. Another answered.
The witcher took it and put it away without looking.
He turned and left.
Behind him, voices picked up again, quieter this time, already moving on.
By the time he reached the inn, the light had thinned enough to matter. He took his horse and led it out while the road still showed.
Dusk settled in as he rode clear of the houses.
The village closed in behind him.