Spring, 1272.
Vizima, former capital of the Kingdom of Temeria. Its current ruler was the White Flame Dancing on the Barrows of His Enemies, Nilfgaardian Emperor Emhyr var Emreis.
Situated at the convergence of major trade routes, the city stood picturesquely on the shore of Lake Vizima, in the valley of the Ismena, a tributary of the Pontar. Even after the war that had only recently ended, its beauty remained as picturesque as ever.
Looking out through the Royal Palace's floor-to-ceiling windows, Victor lightly bit his lower lip.
The sight of the moon reflected upon the lake beneath the deepening twilight felt strangely familiar. Yet Shani, the senior student who had once admired that view beside him, was now somewhere far away, her whereabouts unknown...
And Victor, overcome with nostalgia, could only sit helplessly in a bathtub while a bathing maid lifted one of his arms and meticulously scrubbed beneath it.
Flower petals floated on the warm bathwater.
Three maids worked diligently, cleaning every part of the witcher's body.
This was hardly an occasion where resisting would be appropriate, so Victor simply enjoyed himself, relaxing his limbs and leisurely looking around.
He still remembered this room.
It was an adjoining lounge of the White Stone Hall. Years ago, after the Vizima uprising ended, this was where he had told Adda stories before the excited princess pinned him down and had her way with him.
Years had passed and rulers had changed, yet the room itself had barely changed at all.
Time seemed to have stopped in this luxurious corner.
Only the folding screen decorated with Temerian lilies had been replaced by one bearing a black sun.
After some time, the door opened.
Victor turned his head toward the newcomer.
It was Mererid, chamberlain of the Nilfgaardian Empire. He wore an impeccable black formal suit, his gray hair slicked neatly backward without a single strand out of place.
Following him into the room were a burly barber and several servants pushing an entire rack of clothes.
Mererid raised his right hand and traced a circle in the air.
The bathing maids immediately withdrew.
He then approached the tub and bowed politely.
"Honored sir, you now look quite presentable. All that remains is to shave away that stubble and make a few minor adjustments to your hair.
"Cledwyn, come and attend to the gentleman!"
Victor chuckled.
"I actually wouldn't mind bathing a little longer. After all, the man I'm about to meet is none other than the glorious Emperor of Nilfgaard."
He calmly stepped out of the bathtub, accepted the towel Cledwyn offered him, wrapped it around his waist, and walked over to the barber's bergère before sitting down comfortably.
Since he was already here, he might as well follow their courtly customs.
According to his original plans, the witcher should have been in Novigrad by now.
But fate had played a trick on him, and he had ended up here instead.
After the commemorative banquet for the Night of Long Fangs ended last winter, Victor and Angoulême had quickly packed their belongings, left Beauclair, and begun their journey north.
Unfortunately, 1271 had brought unusually strange weather.
The first snowfall arrived half a month earlier than expected, and it was exceptionally heavy and persistent, completely sealing the Theodula Pass, the necessary route north.
Plans could not keep pace with circumstances, so the Phantom Troupe had no choice but to spend the winter in Toussaint.
Then, when the snow began to melt the following spring, someone Victor knew arrived in Toussaint from the imperial province of Nazair.
Ambassador Shilard Fitz-Oesterlen.
He brought Victor an invitation.
His Imperial Majesty wished to see him in Vizima.
As everyone knew, very few people could refuse an invitation from the White Flame Dancing on the Barrows of His Enemies.
And for Shilard's sake, since Vizima was more or less on the way to Novigrad anyway, Victor agreed.
Thus, after a long journey, he was now being bathed like some pampered invalid in Vizima's Royal Palace and preparing to enjoy the services of the imperial barber.
That was, if the following irritating bastard had not interrupted them...
"The Empire sincerely welcomes your arrival.
"From beyond Zerrikania, Crosser of the Korath Desert, Stormborn and Fate-Chosen, Immaculate of Melitele.
"Dragonborn Bard, Master of the Eastern Dipper Fist, Dragon of Bell Town, Witcher Alchemist, Crosser of the Path of Warriors.
"Burning Prophet, King of the Arena, Bear-Ripper with Bare Hands, Transcender of Nightmares, Hundred-Man Swordslayer, Lord of the Phantom Troupe, Knight of Skellige.
"Foe of Giants, Arbiter of the Great Kayran, Champion Knight of Toussaint, Flotsam's Champion, the Last Dragonslayer Dovahkiin, Dawn's Vampire Slayer, Viscount Victor Corion of Kaer Trolde."
The man who entered the room chanting this newly revised incantation wore traditional Nilfgaardian black and gold.
His epaulettes gleamed, and his collar was buttoned all the way to the top.
Brown eyes set deep within their sockets fixed firmly upon Victor.
"I trust you won't mind answering a few questions."
"Uh... Viscount... this hardly seems like the appropriate moment," the gray-haired chamberlain said.
The man addressed as Viscount narrowed his eyes and brushed off one of his epaulettes.
"No. There could hardly be a more appropriate moment.
"Furthermore, I intend to discuss confidential matters, so you, the barber, and the servants will all leave this room."
His indifferent voice carried effortless authority.
Much like sorceresses, he possessed the talent of making requests sound like orders.
"The servants and I can certainly leave, but Cledwyn must finish preparing the gentleman. His Majesty will be receiving Mr. Victor very shortly..."
Clearly occupying the weaker position in the conversation, Mererid phrased his objection as tactfully as possible.
The black-and-gold-clad man walked slowly toward the bergère and took the sharp razor from the barber's hand.
"Do not make me say it a third time. Everyone out, immediately. I will shave Viscount Corion myself."
Victor calmly watched the situation unfold, observing with amusement as everyone else hurriedly left the room.
The man then began introducing himself while applying shaving lather to the witcher's face.
"Allow me to welcome you once again. I am Vattier de Rideaux, Viscount of Eiddon.
"Before your audience with the emperor, I would like to confirm certain information with you. This screening is little more than a formality, but one can never afford carelessness."
"It's a pleasure to finally meet you in person, Viscount de Rideaux. Your reputation precedes you!"
Victor leaned back slightly to make the other man's work easier.
Facing the head of Nilfgaardian intelligence, he remained completely relaxed.
Vattier placed one hand against the witcher's shoulder while the sharp razor slid repeatedly along his jaw.
"I suspect what you truly mean is that I'm infamous.
"No matter. Let us begin..."
"Victor of Kaer Trolde. Place of birth unknown. Parents unknown. Age unknown. Appeared suddenly in Kaedwen four years ago, claiming to have come from beyond Zerrikania...
"..."
Vattier proceeded to recount Victor's various public activities over the past four years, including some details that Victor himself had nearly forgotten.
"Later, during your travels through the kingdoms, you first issued the prophecy known as the Burning Omen in Redania. Then, while in Skellige, you unilaterally announced that you shared an intimate foster-sibling relationship with Princess Ciri.
"Is everything I have stated so far correct?"
Vattier's summary omitted virtually nothing.
Victor could not help marveling that the mage Cynthia really had not been joking.
The imperial intelligence service possessed an enormous collection of dossiers.
They had been watching him for a very long time.
Victor coughed lightly twice.
"As expected of you. Your intelligence gathering is remarkably thorough.
"However, there's a slight error in that description. She's the one who insists on treating herself as the older sister. In reality, I'm the older brother."
De Rideaux's hand paused slightly.
Fortunately, the razor did not leave a bloody cut.
"You mean to say this relationship actually exists?"
"Ciri will be back soon. Why don't you ask her yourself when she returns?"
Vattier did not respond to the witcher's counterquestion.
His hand simply resumed its work.
"Next. There are reports indicating that after the Loc Muinne Summit, you spoke with the kingslayer Letho.
"Do you know where he is now?"
As he asked the question, de Rideaux focused intently upon Victor, hoping to detect even the slightest disturbance in his expression.
Once again, however, his expectations were disappointed.
Victor remained perfectly composed.
"During our final conversation, he said he intended to return south. I have no idea where he is now."
Vattier shook his head and decided to stop there.
There was no point continuing the conversation.
The young man beneath his razor revealed absolutely nothing.
As long as Vattier was not permitted to harm him, there was little he could do.
Besides, they were not necessarily enemies.
So he picked up a steaming hot towel and wiped away the remaining shaving foam from the witcher's face while offering a piece of advice.
"Very well. I have no further questions.
"If you still intend to travel to Novigrad, I strongly suggest that you remain vigilant. That city is descending into madness, and it has become extremely hostile toward nonhumans.
"Do not allow yourself to be dragged into that maelstrom."
With that, he finished his work and casually tossed the razor back into the barber's case.
Victor began examining the entire row of formal outfits the servants had brought in.
Just as de Rideaux reached the doorway, he turned around, his tone as indifferent as ever.
"The third outfit from the right. Black and white.
"I believe it would suit you."
Victor rubbed the freshly shaved skin above his upper lip.
"Thank you for the recommendation."
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