"Altria!"

  Zelin burst through the door, his piercing golden, beast - like eyes darting around the room, searching for the girl.

  Every muscle in his body tensed, coiled like a spring, ready to confront any threat that might come from any direction.

  As he forced the door open, his hand instinctively reached for the silver sword strapped to his back.

  The silver sword held a unique power.

  Against magical creatures—excluding mages—it had an enhanced effect, and even stone - made golems were no exception to its potency.

  Protecting the girl was a sacred duty to him, a commitment that transcended the size of any reward.

  Even if a poor farmer could only offer ten crowns, a Witcher's honor demanded that they stand firm against a Chort or any other monster until the job was done.

  This wasn't about money; it was about upholding the most fundamental creed of a Witcher.

  Moreover, the information Altria had provided about the Wild Hunt was invaluable, beyond any monetary measure.

  And even without that connection, Zelin couldn't in good conscience let such a promising young person come to harm.

  Her natural talent for Gwent was a clear indication that she had the potential to become an outstanding Witcher, and Zelin felt a responsibility to nurture that potential.

  His gaze swept across the room, taking in every detail.

  There was no sign of the frost that usually accompanied the appearance of the Wild Hunt.

  The fire in the fireplace crackled merrily, casting a warm and comforting glow.

  Half of the remaining food on the table had been neatly arranged on a tray.

  Through the purple curtain, he caught sight of Altria in the midst of dressing, and a wave of relief washed over him.

  Yet, the emblem on his chest continued to vibrate insistently, a warning that danger might still lurk.

  Zelin remained on high alert, his senses sharpened.

  As if alerted by the sound of the door opening, Altria's movements stopped.

  She reached out and gently lifted a corner of the curtain, peeking her head out to see who had entered.

  When she saw that it was Zelin, a look of confusion crossed her face. "What's wrong, Zelin? What's happened?" she asked.

  "Nothing," Zelin replied, quickly averting his gaze from her bare arm and turning to look at the window on the left.

  He knew that if an intruder had entered the room, they wouldn't have come through the main door—he would have noticed any suspicious activity.

  Windows were the typical entry point for unwanted visitors. In his past investigations of homicide cases, his Witcher vision had often helped him discover the footprints of suspects near windows.

  But this window was shut tight, with no indication that it had been opened recently.

  "Get dressed and come out. Something doesn't feel right," Zelin said.

  "Okay," Altria nodded and disappeared back behind the curtain.

  The sound of her rummaging through her clothes filled the room.

  Just then, the innkeeper, Armon, called out from the doorway, his voice panicked.

  Zelin turned to see Armon standing there, breathing heavily.

  The climb up the stairs seemed to have taken a toll on the portly man, and the fat on his face jiggled with each labored breath.

  Armon squinted his small eyes, meticulously inspecting every corner of the room, looking for any signs of damage.

  In the inn, according to the laws of the Kingdom of Redania, if a guest damaged the innkeeper's property, they were required to compensate the innkeeper with double the value of the damaged item.

  While this law was intended to protect local residents in a thriving business environment, Zelin knew that some unscrupulous merchants took advantage of it to swindle unsuspecting travelers.

  "Sir, what happened just now?"

  Armon gasped, seemingly forgetting in his haste that he was speaking to a Witcher, not an ordinary merchant.

  "First, a blast of cold wind blew out the fire in the lobby. Then I heard shouting coming from here. By the Great Eternal Fire! I wouldn't be the least bit surprised if a gang of bandits burst through the door right now. Is there a thief in here?"

  "Everything's fine," Zelin lied, shaking his head.

  "I just came back to close the window after seeing the rainstorm outside."

  Witchers always kept ordinary people out of their dealings with monsters.

  It was their unwritten rule. Telling the truth often only caused unnecessary panic, and Zelin preferred to handle problems quietly, away from prying eyes.

  After successfully hunting a large monster, Witchers would take trophies—usually the monster's head or some other distinctive body part—as a mark of their achievement.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  But these trophies were never shown to the general public. They were hunters, not performers seeking to entertain.

  "Sir, you're not being honest with me," Armon said, a crafty glint flashing in his eyes.

  He pointed at the floor beside the window.

  "If the window had been open, there'd be water stains on the floor. But all I see is the spilled bathwater. "

  "I'm sure you wouldn't want me to go to the church and fetch a Witch Hunter to sort this out. Just a small compensation for the supposed damage, and we can settle this amicably, without disrupting your journey or making me run any more errands."

  "Witch Hunters couldn't care less about Witchers. Their focus is on catching Mages," Zelin said, crossing his arms and sizing up the innkeeper with interest.

  It finally dawned on him that Armon was trying to extort money from him. This was the first time he'd encountered a merchant bold enough to try and swindle a Witcher.

  "There are no Sorceresses or mages here. Have you gone so crazy for money that you think a few Witch Hunters would side with you against a Witcher?"

  "Stop kidding yourself, sir. I saw the girl who came with you. She's young, but she acts so mature. "

  "Everyone knows that Sorceresses can use magic to make themselves look younger. And it's not exactly a rare thing for a Witcher to have a Sorceress as a lover..."

  Armon gave Zelin a knowing look and let out a sleazy chuckle.

  "Look, it's getting late. I'm sure you don't want Witch Hunters knocking on your door in the middle of the night. "

  "Just give me fifty crowns, and I can even arrange some 'entertainment' for you, something special like a 'unicorn'. What do you say?"

  It took Zelin only a few seconds to figure out the innkeeper's vulgar insinuation, and he groaned, rubbing his forehead in exasperation.

  Clearly, Armon had seen him winning money at cards in the lobby and had decided to try his luck at extortion.

  But the innkeeper had no idea just how much danger his greed had put him in.

  Zelin extended his hand and began tracing the symbol of Axii in the air.

  If he wanted to resolve this situation without resorting to violence, Axii was his best option.

  He couldn't simply tell Armon, "There's a victim of the Wild Hunt staying in your inn. Stay away if you don't want trouble." Even if he did, the innkeeper would never believe him.

  Just as Zelin was about to cast the Axii spell, he noticed a sudden change in Armon.

  The innkeeper's eyes went blank, his mouth hanging open as he made a strange cluck sound in his throat.

  His eyes rolled upwards, turning a pale white, and his body began to shake uncontrollably.

  He awkwardly twisted his waist, and then, like a marionette with its strings pulled, his lower body turned towards the stairs.

  In an instant, he was stumbling down the steps, his movements jerky and uncoordinated, as if he'd suddenly suffered a stroke.

  In the lobby, waiters and waitresses stared at their boss in stunned silence, too afraid to venture upstairs and investigate.

  After all, risking a wage deduction from a cranky employer wasn't worth the trouble.

  “Remarkable, seeing a Witcher being fleeced by a lowly merchant,” a voice as melodious as a lark chimed from behind Zelin.

  He lowered the hand still tracing the magical sign, heaved a sigh, and turned to face the unexpected visitor who had materialized in the guest room.

  A woman with refined features lounged at the dining table, elegantly sipping fruit wine. “Fascinating,” she murmured.

  Draped in a deep red robe that split at the hem, she revealed a hint of a gray - green lace dress beneath.

  The robe boasted vibrant golden stripes across the shoulders and an exaggerated, puffed - up collar, exuding the opulent style of the Nilfgaardian Empire.

  Its collar framed her neck and chest in an elegant arc, highlighting her fair skin and the intricately crafted golden necklace adorning her throat.

  Her voluminous hair was secured with a silver hoop, the remaining locks divided into two thick braids, tied neatly with red thread.

  Yet, it was the telltale pointed ears that instantly betrayed her elven heritage.

  “Never thought Francesca Findabair, one of the Five Masters of the Chapter of the Gift and the Art in the Brotherhood of Sorcerers, would seek out a humble Witcher like me,” Zelin remarked as he closed the door.

  A Witcher's presence in this backwater town might draw some curious glances, but Francesca's arrival? That would send shockwaves far beyond the ordinary.

  News of her appearance would likely land on the desks of the kings of Redania and Temeria by the next morning.

  As the sole elven archmage overseeing all mages across the continent, her every move was under intense scrutiny in the elf - loathing northern kingdoms.

  “Did you open a portal here?” Zelin asked, taking a seat across the round table.

  The elven archmage nodded, her gaze fixed on the fruits laid out before her.

  Zelin had known this powerful mage for years.

  Francesca Findabair, or Enid an Gleanna in elven—a name that translated to “valley daisy” in the ancient tongue.

  Some hailed her as the most beautiful being in the world, but such accolades held no sway over Zelin.

  They'd crossed paths at the last Thanedd Island mages' conference and collaborated on a few commissions since then, nothing more.

  “No wonder I thought the Wild Hunt had returned,” Zelin sighed in realization.

  The surge of magic from her long - distance portal explained the persistent trembling of his emblem.

  Watching her nonchalantly pluck a fruit and take a bite, he spread his hands in a gesture of mock exasperation.

  “Did you travel all this way just to sample the fruit and wine? Don't tell me Dol Blathanna's orchards have run dry.”

  Francesca smiled and shook her head.

  “Mr. Zelin, I dispatched a mage to fetch you for the Mahakam Mountains mission. You should have been there ages ago.”

  “Unforeseen circumstances. My horse met a rather unfortunate end—eaten, to be precise,” Zelin explained.

  “Without an advance payment, I couldn't afford a replacement. I only managed to secure a rideable horse at noon today.”

  “I suspect there's more to it than that,” Francesca replied, the corner of her mouth curling up in a knowing smirk.

  She jerked her thumb over her shoulder.

  Just then, Altria emerged from behind the curtain, freshly dressed in a light blue dress.

  Gone was the armored warrior from earlier; she now resembled a demure village girl.

  Her damp golden hair clung to her cheeks, most of it draped over her shoulders and haphazardly wrapped in a towel.

  As the elven mage gestured toward the girl, Altria noticed the stranger in the room.

  “Zelin, who's our guest?” she asked, eyeing the newcomer curiously.

  “Right,” Zelin waved dismissively, urging her to wait.

  He turned back to Francesca, his tone matter - of - fact. “She's a victim of the Wild Hunt. I found her, and since the place where she appeared is linked to the Mahakam Mountains, I couldn't just leave her behind. The information she holds is invaluable.”

  “A Witcher and his damsel in distress? Is that the whole story?” Francesca teased, her eyes twinkling mischievously.

  “If I have my way, she'll be my apprentice. In nearly a hundred years, I've never encountered such raw talent,” Zelin declared, locking eyes with Francesca and snorting softly.

  “You know Witchers can't have offspring. Is it so wrong for me to seek someone to pass on my skills?”

  Francesca clicked her tongue in mock disapproval.

  “With a pretty face, Witchers are quick to find 'apprentices', be they lovers or something else entirely.”

  Zelin's jaw tightened, and he motioned toward the door. “If you're here solely to mock me, don't expect a warm farewell.”

  “Alright, enough jesting,” sensing Zelin's growing irritation, Francesca waved her hand, set down her wine glass, and adopted a serious expression.

  “Regarding the Mahakam Mountains, the Chapter of Wizards has almost wrapped up its investigation.

  Everyone's already on site—you're the last one.

  Tissaia de Vries thinks we can proceed without you, but... an extra pair of hands couldn't hurt, especially against whatever creatures lurk there.”

  “Meaning another Witcher to throw into the fray as cannon fodder for the mages,” Zelin said with a self - deprecating laugh.

  “So I'm the straggler? Fine. Open the portal. Let's get going.”

  “Whenever you're ready,” Francesca nodded.

  Zelin stood up and turned to Altria, who still looked bewildered.

  “Gear up. We're headed to the Mahakam Mountains. ”

  “If luck's on our side, I'll get you home in a few days.”