The moment the cold essence slid down his throat, Aelin knew.
It was like swallowing winter glass—sharp, clean, merciless. But the frost only lasted a breath. Then came the warmth.
It stirred low in his gut, a slow ember crackling back to life. The heat rolled outward, deliberate and deep, like hot water poured over frozen hands. Softer than before—but heavier, somehow. Like it meant to settle in him. Stay.
His spine loosened. The knots in his legs let go. Even the pulse behind his eyes—a constant throb these past days—dimmed into silence. For one reckless, vulnerable second, he nearly groaned. Not from pain.
From relief.
And when it faded… the pain didn't return.
No burning in his tendons. No itching under the skin. The dull grind in his bones—the kind that made him want to scream when no one was looking—had vanished. Gone without fanfare. Without a trace.
Even the mushroom soup—that foul, rotted thing they'd forced down his throat—had stopped fighting back. His stomach sat still, like a wolf finally done growling.
He let out a sharp breath through his nose. It felt like waking from fever. From drowning.
Ten days. Ten long, bone-grinding days of the same routine: drills in the morning, alchemy in the afternoon, agony at night. Every evening ended the same—curled in a sweat-drenched cot, trying not to make a sound.
And now?
Now he could take some of that time back. Two-thirds of it, maybe. Reclaim it. Own it.
He opened his status panel.
[Stats: Strength 5.5 (+0.2), Agility 5.6 (+0.2), Endurance 6.2 (+0.6), Perception 7.9 (+0.7), Occult 3.5 (+0.2)]
+1.9 total.
His eyes narrowed. Nearly twice what he'd hoped for.
A smile curled at the corner of his mouth. Not smug. Not proud. Just… involuntary. Inevitable.
"Starting to like drowners," he muttered under his breath.
Then he went still again.
Deep inhale. Let it out slow.
Because the surge was hitting now.
The upgraded stats weren't numbers—they were senses. Pressure. Noise. Light. The world slammed into him all at once.
Sweat hit wooden planks. He heard it. Drops ticking like rain against a coffin lid.
Breathing, everywhere. Labored. Wet. Some of the boys sounded like they were choking on their own lungs.
A bedframe groaned behind him. Another across the room. Bodies writhing against rough wool sheets, teeth clenched hard enough to crack. Some of these kids weren't even thirteen yet.
The relief in his chest cooled. Just like that.
And then the thought came. Crawling up from some ugly corner of his mind.
I should share it.
He didn't move.
Just sat there with the weight of it. Let it pass through him like a cold wind.
Then—quietly, firmly—he let it go. Breathed out through his teeth.
When the world starves you, eat first. Feed others later. If you're still around to do it.
Not tonight.
Autumn had sunk its claws into the mountains.
The high passes were icing over fast. Witchers were returning in twos and threes, beating the snow to Kaer Morhen's gates. Always the last to leave, always the first to come home. The fires in the keep had been burning nonstop since the first one arrived. The hearth blazed high, furious. Not a campfire's warmth. A bonfire. A beacon.
Kaer Morhen was alive again.
Every arrival brought celebration. Tankards raised. Voices lifted. The echoes of old songs and older lies. Laughter that tried too hard. They'd keep going until spring broke the ice.
Vesemir stepped into the hall just as the noise hit a peak.
It washed over him like heat from a forge.
Two dozen witchers packed shoulder to shoulder around the long table. Faces hard, scarred, frost-pinked. Hands gripped mugs like weapons. Tales poured out without breath—contracts, beasts, betrayals. Enough death to drown a town.
He didn't greet anyone. Just slid onto a bench. A mug appeared in his hand. He drank.
"Ahhh." He wiped the foam from his mustache and didn't bother hiding the sigh.
He turned to the man beside him. "Danty. Heard the king's at it again. Some holy war against the long-ears."
Danty snorted, tearing bread with yellowed teeth. "War? Was a raid. Maybe. And you're late. That mess ended two moons ago. Barely a hundred dead."
"I've been locked in with the pups," Vesemir grunted. "Letho mentioned it. What really happened?"
Danty raised an eyebrow. "You falling for a knife-ear girl or just tired of raising orphans?"
The look Vesemir gave him was quiet. Dead quiet.
Danty looked away. "Alright. Alright."
He tapped his fingers on the table. "Same as always. Nobles shout. Peasants bleed. When it ends, the kings and the ghouls feast."
Letho appeared with a jug of wine. "Even ghouls have standards. Can't say the same for King Harkso."
They all chuckled. The Glutton King. Even peasants spat when they said his name.
Danty leaned in. "Official word is, the elves stole his jewels."
Vesemir frowned. "Stolen? Really?"
"Even if they did, it's a piss-poor reason to torch half a forest. Put out a bounty. Hire a tracker. Not an army."
He hesitated. Just long enough to signal something deeper.
"I saw his personal guard."
Vesemir's mug paused mid-sip.
Letho's head turned. "The gold cloaks? They never leave the capital."
"Black unicorn sigil. Three mages riding with them. Male. Armed."
The table went quieter.
Vesemir and Letho shared a look. Tight. Measuring.
"If they were tracking someone," Letho muttered, "why not come to us?"
Danty shook his head. "They saw me. Knew what I was. Still crossed the road to avoid me."
The silence that followed wasn't empty. It pressed on them, like snowfall before an avalanche.
Vesemir finally broke it.
"Forget it. Whatever they're doing—it's not our war. Elves. Kings. Doesn't matter. We stay out."
Danty raised his mug, but his face didn't ease.
Letho, sensing the tension, smiled the way a man smiles before dropping something heavy.
"To lighter topics."
Vesemir went cold inside.
He saw it. The grin. The warning.
Shit.
"What lighter topics?" Danty asked, wary.
Letho's grin widened.
"Vesemir gave away Elsa. To an apprentice."
The hall froze.
Danty blinked. "Elsa? That Elsa? The silver blade?"
"Seventeen thousand, three hundred and twenty-five Orens," Letho said solemnly. "And not a coin less."
Danty's voice boomed. "You gave her away?!"
Mugs stopped mid-air. Heads turned.
Vesemir buried his face in the mug and drank like a man condemned.
Letho laughed like a madman. The tale spilled out of him in waves—loud, exaggerated, half-true but vivid as hell. Witchers chimed in. Someone mimicked Vesemir's grunt of defeat. Another banged the table in rhythm.
The story took fire.
By the end, even the far benches had gone quiet again.
Only whispers.
"Witcher's Sight," someone muttered. "Never heard of it."
No one could explain. No one wanted to go into the library.
Danty clapped Vesemir's back. "Don't know what this sight is—but sounds like you lost fair."
Vesemir drained the tankard. Didn't rush it. Let the foam cling to his beard.
Then he wiped his face. Sat with it. Nodded once.
"Fast with a blade. Smart. Kept his head when it counted."
A pause. Not long. Just enough to feel real.
"Aelin's a good kid."
"I didn't lose unfairly."