"You want to keep them?"
Vesemir's voice was quiet, but laced with something beneath it—caution, maybe. Or disbelief.
"Yes," Aelin said, eyes steady. "I want them left to me."
There was a pause. Not long. Just long enough for the air to shift.
Letho and Vesemir exchanged a glance, and in it passed an entire conversation.
"For what?" Vesemir asked, tone harder now. His gaze narrowed. "What use do you have for drowners?"
Aelin didn't answer right away. He swallowed first, the silence tasting like iron and bile.
"I want to fight all three," he said at last. "Alone. I need to know if I can manage it."
Letho gave a low whistle. His eyebrows climbed like he'd just been offered a bet he didn't believe.
"Oh?" he said, voice half a chuckle. "Feeling lonely, are we? Trying to get yourself a matching bunk in the infirmary?"
He laughed.
But his eyes didn't.
"You sure about this, whelp?" he said. "There's no silver sword worth seventeen thousand Orens riding on this one."
"Letho."
Vesemir's voice came sharp and cold, like a blade unsheathed mid-step. Letho went quiet immediately, smile fading, but the tension didn't leave him.
Vesemir turned back to Aelin. His expression was unreadable. Too many years had taught him that stillness could be sharper than shouting.
"You're not ready," he said, voice like stone dropped into a still pond.
Then, softer. But no less final:
"Not for three."
A beat of silence.
"Even with the Witcher's Eye."
Another beat. And this time, his voice dropped into something that wasn't quite doubt… but it wasn't faith either.
"Killing one with steel—that's manageable. Messy, but doable. But three?"
His gaze drifted over Aelin's face—settling on the dried blood crusted beneath one eye, the cracked lip, the tension he hadn't quite hidden.
"That takes control. Precision. Footwork you don't quite own yet. Swordsmanship that still slips when you panic."
He let that hang in the air like smoke in a closed room.
"You know what they say?" Vesemir added, almost to himself. "When monsters are too stupid to kill you alone, they come in packs."
The words hit harder than they should've. Aelin flinched—not because of what Vesemir said, but because of what else chose that moment to make itself known.
[Timed Quest: You All Come At Once!](Kill 0/3 Drowners)Reward: Unknown
Of course.
Of course.
The system always knew when to twist the knife.
First it had been The Path Begins. Now this. Another event—timed, of course—right when the old man was about to order the beasts culled.
If he hesitated even a second too long, the moment would pass.
The drowners would be slain, the quest deleted.
The chain would break before it ever had a chance to tighten.
"I'll be fine, Master Vesemir." Aelin's voice came low, deliberate. He tried to sound composed, but there was a tension at the edges—like a taut wire straining just below the pitch of snapping.
"I can handle it."
Vesemir didn't speak. He didn't blink.
In his mind's eye, he saw the boy after his last kill—half-collapsed, swaying on bloody legs, trying not to vomit on the boots of the Witchers watching from the dark.
"One, I could still protect you from," he said finally. "But three... if you slip, I might not reach you in time."
And then:
"Let him try."
The voice came from behind.
The First.
He hadn't raised it. No anger, no challenge. Just… certainty.
That was what made the silence fall. Not the words, but the way they were said.
"But—" Vesemir started.
"The Witcher's Eye isn't made of glass," the First said, resting a hand on Vesemir's shoulder. It was a gesture that should have been reassuring. But it wasn't.
Not quite.
"Besides," he added with the barest hint of something like a smile, "I'm here."
That ended it.
Vesemir gave no further protest. Just stood there for a moment—watching Aelin, watching the First—and then nodded, sharp and reluctant.
He turned without another word and walked toward the cages. Letho followed. Neither of them spoke.
Aelin exhaled, slow and careful. His lungs felt tight.
He reached for his silver sword.
Then froze.
The First was already beside him, moving like he had always been there.
"If you win with silver," the First said, voice smooth as a whetstone on steel, "I'll commission a cuirass for you. Custom leather. Cut to your shape."
He drew something from behind his back—a pendant, small and dark, pulsing faintly with enchantment.
"But if you win with steel," he continued, "you get this. An illusion charm. One of Vera's."
Aelin didn't need to ask its value.
Letho had stopped walking. Vesemir had turned to look.
And neither of them looked casual anymore.
Whatever magic slept in that charm—it wasn't trinket-tier.
And yet…
The First's tone was too polished. Too kind.
It didn't feel like a reward.
It felt like a leash.
Suspicion from Vesemir, Aelin could stomach. Mockery from Letho, he expected.
But kindness from him?
No.
The First wasn't old. He only looked calm the way a storm does before it breaks. Young like polished bone, like something that had survived fire without burning.
Aelin's breath caught in his throat.
This wasn't just a test.
It was a weighing.
A measure being taken—one he hadn't agreed to.
"Something wrong?" the First asked. He was still smiling. It didn't touch his eyes.
"No." Aelin straightened. His voice barely trembled. "Nothing."
The First gave a nod. Small. Pleased.
"So," he said, "which is it? Steel or silver?"
"You really think I'll win?" Aelin asked.
The First didn't blink.
"I trust in the Eye," he said. "And if you lose... well. What do I lose?"
He said it like defeat was data. Just another variable.
Aelin's fingers curled around the sword.
"Can I carry both?"
The First nodded once.
Aelin handed the silver sword—Elsa—to Hughes, who stood awkwardly by the training post.
Then he stepped forward.
Alone.
The steel felt different in his hands. Lighter. Quieter. Like it had been waiting for him.
He exhaled once. Slow. Focused.
Then he gave a single nod.
Vesemir and Letho extended their hands toward the cages. Middle and ring fingers pressed together.
Aard.
The shockwaves slammed into the cages. The doors burst open.
The drowners flew.
They hit the ground like meat flung from a cart—but they got up fast.
No hesitation. No calculation. Just a hunger that moved like instinct.
They weren't clever. Not in any way that mattered.
But three?
Three changed everything.
Distance. Angles. Timing.
The arena suddenly felt too small. There was barely space to breathe, let alone move.
And the other Witchers? They'd stepped back from the fence line. Far enough that the drowners had only one focus now.
No distractions. No aggro split.
Just him.
The first drowner came in like a hammer.
Aelin slid aside—tight, efficient. No wasted movement.
The second followed fast, its claws flashing toward his ribs.
He brought his blade up, caught the strike on the flat of the steel. The impact jarred his bones. He pivoted, bled off the force, slipped half a step back—
—the drowner stumbled past, off-balance.
Now.
He flicked his gaze to the first one, triggered Hunter's Sense.
Mana surged—
—but the third was already in his face.
Too fast.
The spell broke. The focus scattered.
"Hunter's Sense has a flaw," Aelin thought bitterly. "It needs time. Time I don't have."
He didn't stop.
He moved.
Turned with the momentum, drew the third in, then spun with it—
—and brought the steel down in a clean, sweeping arc.
The blade caught the drowner low in the neck. Not deep enough to kill.
But enough to drop.
The creature hit the ground, screeching.
The other two hesitated.
That was all he needed.
Three strikes later—
—they were all still.
No cheers. No applause.
Only silence.
And the Witchers watching.
Letho especially.
His smirk was gone.
Something colder had taken its place.
"…Vesemir?" he muttered without turning.
No reply.
He looked again at Aelin.
Then back at the old Witcher.
"Tell me I'm not crazy," he said, voice low and strange.
"Did that whelp just get better?"