Aelin froze, Vesemir's words hitting him like a hammer to the chest.
He looked down. The sword in his hands felt suddenly heavier, almost alien.
Steel.
Not silver.
His stomach twisted. Cold sweat prickled the back of his neck.
In the games, switching blades had been automatic—muscle memory, a flick of a button.
But this wasn't a game.
This was real.
Real skin. Real blood. Real death.
Behind him, Vesemir's voice turned sharp, cutting through the silence like a whetstone on bone.
"Confident, aren't we? Barely survived the Trial of Grasses, and already thinks he can kill a drowner with steel."
Arms folded, face carved from stone, Vesemir let the words hang.
"Tell me, Aelin. If you lose... how do you feel about scrubbing the privies with a toothbrush for the next month?"
The apprentices tittered, low and mean.
Aelin's fists tightened around the hilt. Somewhere deep inside, shame burned—but alongside it, a sliver of something else. Something reckless.
He lifted his chin. "And if I win?"
For a heartbeat, the courtyard went still.
Even Vesemir's expression cracked.
"You... what?"
"I said, if I kill it. What do I get?"
His voice sounded steadier than he felt. His heart was hammering, loud enough that he wondered if the others could hear it.
Letho, lounging against a fencepost, snorted—a short, ugly laugh.
"Yeah, Vesemir. What does he get?"
The bait was in the water now, and the sharks were circling. A few witchers chuckled, a few muttered under their breath.
Vesemir's jaw worked like he was chewing rocks.
He couldn't back down now. Not without losing face.
Slowly, he pulled a blade from over his shoulder—sharp, deliberate.
The sword caught the light.
Silver. Flawless. The edge glowed like frost under a hunter's moon.
Letho's laughter died in his throat.
"You're shitting me," he muttered.
Around the courtyard, a low whistle passed from witcher to witcher.
They knew that sword. Everyone knew.
Seventeen thousand, three hundred and twenty-five Orens. Forged in Mahakam's deepest forges. A blade named Elsa.
Aelin had no idea, but he felt the air change—the weight of it. The way the older witchers stood a little straighter. Watched a little harder.
"You still owe me three thousand for that damned thing," Letho muttered.
"Seventeen thousand," someone else gasped. "Fuck me. I couldn't save that much in five years."
Another witcher laughed, bitter and thin. "My horse, my house, and half my soul aren't worth that much."
Vesemir didn't so much as flinch.
"If you win," he said, voice like iron cooling in snow, "it's yours."
He didn't say but you won't.
He didn't have to.
The whole courtyard said it for him.
Aelin swallowed. His throat felt dry as a bone.
But he lifted the steel sword anyway and turned to face the drowner.
The monster hissed, baring rows of needle teeth. Its gills pulsed wetly against its neck, breath ragged and wrong.
It stank. Gods, it stank—of stagnant water, rotting fish, and something deeper, something ancient.
Aelin gritted his teeth.
He didn't care about the smell.
He didn't care about the odds.
He cared about that blade.
And maybe—maybe—a little bit about the look on Vesemir's face if he pulled this off.
He took a step forward.
The drowner lunged.
Its claws sliced through the air, a blur of filthy blue skin.
Instinct took over. Aelin dodged, steel flashing as he pivoted, blade slicing across the creature's back.
A hit.
He felt the impact—felt the resistance as metal met flesh.
For half a heartbeat, hope flared.
Then the drowner straightened, almost unfazed. A shallow gash oozed blackish blood—but it wasn't deep. It wasn't enough.
Vesemir's voice floated over the training ground, cool and dispassionate:
"Decent spin. Good control."
A pause.
Then, quieter, like a dagger slipped between ribs:
"But that's Wolf School style. Grace without force."
Aelin's hands tightened on the hilt.
He didn't need grace. He needed a kill.
The drowner circled, snarling low.
The blade in his hands felt heavier with every heartbeat.
Was it hopeless?
No.
No.
There had to be a way.
In the corner of his vision, something pulsed.
A red glyph.
[Monster Insight — Active]
He blinked. Focused.
The drowner moved.
Again, he dodged.
Again, he struck.
Not to kill—but to learn.
Each clash fed the glyph. Filled it, bit by painful bit.
Steel didn't hurt the creature. But understanding it could.
And then—
[Monster Insight — 100%]
The world snapped.
Time slowed into syrup.
The courtyard blurred, the cold air thick with the iron tang of blood.
Only the drowner remained—frozen mid-lunge, mouth wide, claws outstretched.
Across its body: a red line. Faint but certain. A seam in reality itself.
Move.
Aelin didn't think. Didn't breathe.
He just followed the line.
The blade in his hands felt light as air.
It cut through the drowner like shears through wet cloth.
CRACK.
The drowner's head hit the ground with a sloppy thud, body toppling a moment later.
Silence.
Real silence.
Not even the crows dared cry out.
Aelin stood over the corpse, chest heaving, sword dripping black ichor. His arms shook. His legs felt like water.
He was alive.
The mechanical voice buzzed in his skull:
[Drowner Defeated!]
[Skill Progressing…]
He barely heard it.
From somewhere at the edge of the world, he heard Hughes gasp his name.
Footsteps—Vesemir's—crunching toward him.
The old witcher knelt, studying Aelin like he'd never seen him before.
Behind him, Letho swore softly.
"You've gotta be kidding me…"
Vesemir's face was unreadable.
He looked at the boy.
At the monster's corpse.
Back again.
And in a voice that was almost wonder, almost terror, he whispered:
"My apprentice... actually won."