KAER MORHEN – ALCHEMY HALL
The shadows of Kaer Morhen's alchemy hall had grown long and uncertain. The hiss of boiling elixirs was the only sound, mingling with the smell of iron, herbs, and fear.
On the table the old slab they called Sad Albert, the boy lay utterly still after he was injected. His small chest barely rose. The vials on the rack trembled faintly from the earlier commotion, but now the silence was heavier than before, thick enough to make a man's pulse sound loud in his ears.
Eskel's brow furrowed. He leaned in, staring at the boy's motionless body. "Did… we mess up or something?" His voice was low, uncertain words that didn't fit easily in a witcher's mouth.
Vesemir's expression didn't change, though his eyes darkened. "No," he said simply, quiet but sure. He looked over the boy's pale face, his steady hand resting lightly on the child's shoulder as if he could will life back into him.
Behind them, Lambert exhaled, eyes closed. His arms crossed, his back still turned to the others. "Well?" he said dryly. "Did you finally manage to kill him?"
No one answered.
Eskel's gaze flicked toward Vesemir again. "This ever happen before?"
Vesemir hesitated. His lips tightened, memory dragging his voice down to a whisper. "No…" He paused, then added reluctantly, "Geralt, maybe. He showed resilience. But this…" He looked down again at the boy's calm face, the veins that should've darkened by now still faint. "This one's showing nothing. Not pain. Not rejection. Nothing at all."
Eskel frowned, uneasy. "Could be his body's shutting down. Happens sometimes, shock before the end."
Vesemir shook his head. "No. He's still breathing."
The old witcher stared at the vials on the rack, the glowing green liquid reflecting faintly in his eyes. "Add another dose."
Eskel blinked. "What?"
"Do it," Vesemir said flatly, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Eskel straightened, incredulous. "Vesemir, you can't be serious. You know what a double dose does, even to grown witchers.."
"Do it, Eskel."
The command cut through the air like steel drawn from a sheath. The younger witcher flinched slightly, then clenched his jaw and reached for the flask. He didn't speak again.
Lambert finally turned, his face carved with anger. "You're going to kill him, old man."
Vesemir's voice was calm, steady as ever. "Then I'll bury him myself."
The sound of liquid filling the syringe echoed faintly. Eskel worked carefully, though his hands were tight, the glass trembling slightly. He looked at the boy once more before sliding the needle in.
The moment the mutagen hit the bloodstream for a second time, something changed.
The boy's body jerked violently the first sign of life since the procedure began. His back arched so hard the leather straps groaned, the veins on his neck bulging dark against his skin. His breathing turned ragged, a harsh rasp tearing through clenched teeth.
"Shit," Lambert hissed, stepping closer despite himself.
Eskel pressed a hand against the boy's shoulder, trying to hold him still. "Vesemir, his pulse...it's going mad!"
The boy's fingers clawed at the air, eyes rolling beneath his lids. His skin flushed red, then paled again, sweat breaking across his brow. A sound escaped his throat not a scream at first, more a strangled gasp but then it came.
A scream so sharp it made the flames shiver.
It was raw, primal, filled with the agony of a body being unmade and reforged at once. The hall seemed to echo with it, the sound bouncing off stone and memory alike.
Lambert turned his head away, jaw set, though his eyes betrayed something between fury and pity. Eskel gritted his teeth, holding down the boy's arm as it thrashed, his muscles straining under the unnatural strength of a child in torment.
"Vesemir!" Eskel shouted over the noise. "He's not going to survive this.."
Vesemir didn't move. His eyes never left the boy. His face was carved from something hard, ancient, and sad. "He might."
The boy convulsed again, the veins in his arms turning black now finally black. His heart hammered loud enough that even the witchers could hear it. His mouth opened in another scream before he collapsed, chest heaving, limbs still twitching.
And then… silence again.
Steam from the cauldron hissed in the quiet. The firelight flickered over the three witchers each of them frozen, staring at what they had done.
Lambert broke the silence first, his tone biting. "There. You happy now?"
Vesemir didn't answer. His gaze remained fixed on the boy, whose breathing was faint, but there.
Eskel wiped sweat from his brow, muttering under his breath, "If he makes it through the night, it'll be a damn miracle."
Vesemir finally exhaled, his voice gravelly and low. "He's still fighting. That's all that matters for now."
Lambert turned away again, muttering something about "mad old wolves and dead traditions," but he didn't leave.
Then it happened.
A sound soft, almost like a sigh escaped the boy's lips. Eskel's head snapped toward the table just in time to see it: the faint shimmer along the child's skin, a ripple of light like heat over steel.
"Vesemir?" Eskel said cautiously.
The old witcher frowned. "What now..."
Before he could finish, the boy's body ignited.
A burst of white-orange flame roared to life, devouring everything in its path. It wasn't alchemical fire, too bright, too clean, too alive. It shot up from his skin as though his very blood had turned to oil and flame. The air itself seemed to scream.
"Fuck!" Lambert spun around, eyes wide. "He's burning!"
Eskel stumbled back "We have eyes as well Lambert!", raising an arm to shield his face from the heat. The blaze was so intense it warped the metal tools nearby, sending sparks dancing through the air. Sad Albert, the ancient slab that had held countless trials before, cracked under the heat then melted, its blackened frame dripping onto the stones like molten pitch.
"Put it out!" Eskel shouted, though he knew there was nothing to put out no oil, no torch, no cause.
Vesemir didn't move. He just stared, eyes reflecting the inferno. The flames rose higher still, and for a brief instant, the boy's outline was swallowed by it an unearthly shape of fire and shadow, flickering like a phantom.
Then, just as suddenly as it came, the blaze died.
Gone. Snuffed out as though the world had taken a breath and exhaled it away.
The room was plunged into silence again, save for the faint hiss of cooling stone. Smoke curled lazily from the floor, and the smell of burnt metal and flesh clung to everything.
Eskel coughed once, lowering his arm. "What in all the hell…" His voice was hoarse, eyes darting between the melted slab and the blackened floor where the boy had lain.
Lambert was pale, his usual sarcasm nowhere to be found. "What the fuck was that?"
Vesemir said nothing. Slowly, carefully, he stepped forward. He crouched down where the flames had been and there, amid the blackened residue, was the boy.
Unburned.
His skin was pale again, untouched, though faint wisps of smoke rose from him. He was fine.
Eskel knelt beside Vesemir, stunned. "He should be dead ten times over. What the hell is wrong with this boy."
Vesemir reached out, his gloved fingers pressing gently against the boy's neck. For a moment, there was only silence. Then.
"Pulse," Vesemir murmured. "He's alive."
Eskel blinked. "Alive? After that?"
Vesemir's voice was quiet, "Aye."
Lambert barked out a humorless laugh. "Maybe you buried the wrong child out there, old man. Maybe you dragged home a demon instead."
Vesemir ignored him. He leaned closer, prying open one of the boy's eyelids with practiced care. For a second, nothing. Then the pupil narrowed vertically.
A slit, gleaming gold like molten coin under the torchlight.
A witcher's eyes.
But brighter. Stranger. Almost… alive in a way no witcher's eyes had ever been. They pulsed faintly with something like embers buried beneath ash.
Vesemir froze, the weight of what he saw sinking deep into him. "By the Gods…" he whispered.
/-\
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