"Aaagh!"
Another scream ripped through the yard, jagged and raw, like something being torn apart.
Bont—second up—was flung from the ring like a sack of meat. Another failure. Another shattered hopeful brought down by Letho's test.
This time, Aelin saw everything. Every twitch. Every mistake.
Bont had managed two strikes—neither did more than smear sweat on the drowner's glistening skin. Then panic set in. His final slash was a blind, horizontal mess, thrown off-balance by feet that refused to listen.
He staggered.
And the drowner—hungry, patient—took its moment.
With a low, wet hiss, it batted the blade aside and lunged for Bont's open flank.
Crack.
He hit the ground hard, elbow first. Something bent that shouldn't have. The sound that came from him wasn't a scream of fear—it was bone. Sharp. Final.
Vesemir moved before anyone else. One brutal boot caught the drowner mid-charge, sending it sprawling through the dust. Letho didn't even flinch—he just stepped in, lifted Bont's crumpled body like it weighed nothing, and carried him from the field.
A stillness settled over the watching Witchers. Not reverent. Not respectful. Just grim.
Then, from the fence:
"Well. That's more like it," muttered a grey-cloaked veteran, arms folded, voice dry as ash. "For a minute I thought they'd started watering down the decoctions."
"Didn't the First say something about Witcher's Sight?" asked a blond Witcher nearby, squinting.
"Witcher's Eye," the grey one corrected without looking. "Mix those up again, you'll be mopping dust off archive shelves for a week."
The blond straightened, shoulders stiff. He risked a glance toward the far wall—where the First still sat, silent, still, unreadable.
"No one goes to the archive for fun," he muttered. "I'd rather clean chamber pots with my tongue."
But the curiosity didn't go away. His eyes flicked toward Aelin—staring, almost analytical, like he was peering through glass.
"You think it's real? The Witcher's Eye?"
"Never heard of it," someone replied flatly.
"Doesn't look like much. Just a pair of weird blue cat eyes."
"So what, you calling the First a liar?" The grey Witcher still didn't look at him. Just let the words hang, quiet and sharp.
The blond flushed. "No, I'm just—never mind."
He turned away, feigning interest in the next apprentice being nudged toward the ring.
Aelin let out a breath, slow and shallow. Being treated like a curiosity didn't sit well—but the cloak it gave him was useful. Still, sooner or later, someone was going to start digging. He needed to get to the archives first. Figure out what the hell this "Witcher's Eye" actually meant. Before someone peeled the mask off.
"Last one. Hughes."
Vesemir's voice cut across the yard like cold steel.
Hughes flinched. One look at his two broken comrades, and his face drained to the color of ash. He moved like a man heading for his own funeral. Took the sword from Letho like it was already covered in blood. Stepped into the ring.
Vesemir didn't speak. Just turned and walked away—casual, disinterested. As the drowner hissed and lunged, he stepped aside without breaking stride.
No advice. No warning. Nothing.
Drowners didn't think. They just hunted what was closest. Put something in front of it, and it would strike.
"Perfect," Vesemir thought. "Cheap, expendable. Perfect live steel."
Then—footsteps.
Wrong rhythm.
Too fast.
He turned.
Too late.
A blur in his peripheral vision—not the drowner.
Hughes was running. Not toward the beast—away from it. Sprinting past Vesemir like the yard was on fire.
The drowner followed, slavering.
The stench hit first—swamp water and rot. Vesemir didn't think. He moved like a reflex.
Aard.
The Sign cracked the air like thunder. Dust surged up in a blinding cloud.
The drowner flew backward like a kicked carcass, smashed through the wooden rail, and hit the stone wall with a wet crunch—just beneath the First.
The First hadn't flinched. Not a speck of dust on his red gambeson.
Silence fell.
Then—
"HUUGHES!"
Vesemir's roar echoed off stone and sky.
A flicker of yellow shimmered around him—Quen. Cast instinctively the moment after Aard. Two Signs, back to back. Perfect. Deadly.
Aelin saw it all. The movement. The control. The fury behind the silence.
But Vesemir wasn't angry at failure.
He was angry at cowardice.
The yard held its breath. The older Witchers said nothing. They'd all seen it. Hughes hadn't tried. He'd swung once, maybe, and then ran. The drowner had still been paces away.
"I thought… maybe I needed a silver sword…" Hughes stammered, trying to hide behind Aelin's shadow.
Vesemir's expression didn't change. He said nothing. Just turned to the next cage.
Another latch. Another hiss.
Another drowner.
It lunged.
He moved again.
Aard.
The creature slammed to the dirt in the ring's center, dazed and flailing.
Hughes ran forward, copying what he'd seen Aelin do—clumsy, rushed, but close enough.
Spin. Slash.
Steel hit flesh.
Shhk.
The blade dug in. Black-red blood poured thick and syrupy from the wound.
Hughes grinned. Aelin's tactic had worked. Even Vesemir had noticed it earlier—the way Aelin had timed his blow, clean and patient. The kind of move you only make if your hands know how to wait.
But Hughes? He didn't understand the why—just mimicked the shape of it.
He raised his sword for the killing blow.
But the drowner wasn't finished.
It howled.
And lashed out.
"Look out!" Aelin's voice cut the air like a whip.
Hughes blinked.
Stumbled.
Barely dodged.
Then—
Thunk.
The head came off in a single arc, flinging gore across the sand.
"Not bad," Letho grunted. "Still not worth seventeen thousand, three hundred and twenty-five Orens."
Vesemir's glare hit him like a thrown dagger.
Still panting, Hughes turned to Aelin.
"Thanks, man. That warning… that was close."
Aelin gave a small nod. "Don't mention it. Friends look out for each other."
There'd been a time, not long ago, when Hughes was one of the few who didn't treat him like a freak.
That still mattered.
The test was over. The apprentices began clearing the field, silent and slow under Vesemir's terse orders.
Letho nudged one of the unopened cages with his boot.
"What about these three?"
Vesemir shrugged. "Tomorrow's Signs class won't need 'em. Cull them."
Drowners weren't rare. There were always more.
Letho sighed, cracked his knuckles, and rolled up his sleeves.
Then—
"Wait."
Aelin stepped forward.
His voice was quiet.
"Can I keep them?"