By the time Aelin made it back to the dormitory, night had swallowed the keep.
The corridor torches were already lit, flames hissing low in their sconces. Smoke clung to the damp stone, trailing upward in slow, black ribbons. Shadows bled across the walls—narrow, twitching things that moved like they were breathing.
Someone was waiting by the door.
Aelin slowed without meaning to.
The figure leaned slightly forward, weight resting on one leg. Broad-shouldered, dressed in weather-worn black leather. A sword strapped high across his back. The wide brim of a battered hat dipped just enough to obscure his face.
And yet—Aelin knew exactly who it was. Even before the firelight caught the gold flicker in his eyes.
"Master Vesemir?"
The figure stirred.
Then, with the same brusque lack of ceremony as always, he tossed something toward the boy.
"Catch."
Aelin barely managed to—fingers wrapping around it by instinct more than skill. A brown satchel. Rough fabric, heavy, packed full.
"You'll need to start maintaining your silver blade," Vesemir said, voice low, arms crossing over his chest. He leaned back against the wall with the kind of practiced stillness that only came with age. "Hit me after lunch. You wouldn't have a kit yet. So I grabbed Elza's old one."
Aelin nodded slowly, adjusting his grip on the satchel. "Thank you."
"You still remember how to care for it?" Vesemir asked.
His tone was casual. The look wasn't.
"I do."
"Good." A beat. "Figured you'd be a special case. That's why I showed up earlier than planned."
His gaze lingered—not warm, not cold either. Measuring. Like he was watching to see whether the floor might crack under the boy's feet.
"Didn't think I'd miss you."
Aelin blinked. That was it?
"You're… not going to ask where I went?"
He hadn't expected kindness. But he'd at least prepared for scrutiny. All the excuses he'd built on the walk back—each one sharper than the last—suddenly felt like blades dulled for nothing.
Vesemir snorted. The corner of his mouth twitched.
"Early purge," he said. "Gifted ones metabolize the base toxins faster. Happens sometimes."
He gestured toward Aelin's face.
"Eyes are already shifting. If you've got Witcher's Sight, the rest tends to come with it."
Aelin went still.
"…I see."
It didn't feel like relief. Not really. Just the slow, sinking realization that he wasn't the only one who'd ever done this. Or maybe—wasn't quite as unique as he'd feared.
The School didn't let its apprentices leave Kaer Morhen. But the deeper you survived into the trials, the more space you were allowed. As long as your boots stayed within the walls, the instructors didn't chase you down.
Still, Vesemir had clearly come looking.
And now he was turning to leave.
Aelin didn't know why, but something in that moment twisted under his ribs—something like pressure that hadn't fully released.
He must've shown it.
Vesemir stopped.
Half-turned back.
"Where were you?" he asked, not demanding—just… curious, in a way that sounded like it surprised even him.
Aelin met his gaze. Calm, even.
"The alchemy lab. South tower."
Vesemir frowned.
"You went to fetch your dose?"
"No," Aelin said. "I was… learning."
The silence that followed stretched.
"You were studying alchemy?" Vesemir repeated, slowly.
Now he pushed off the wall. Subtle shift. Something cautious creeping into the edges of his posture.
None of it made sense. Not the timing. Not the clarity in the boy's voice. Not that response.
There was only one male apprentice posted in the lab, and he barely knew how to boil water without setting the counter on fire.
The words came out more pointed this time: "When did you leave the dorm?"
"Midday," Aelin said. "Sun was still high."
Vesemir's brow furrowed.
That early?
"I was still sitting with Letho then…" he muttered, almost to himself.
His eyes narrowed. Calculating now.
"You drank your lunch?"
Aelin looked faintly confused. "Yes."
As if the question didn't make sense.
Of course he had. Anyone who'd survived the Trial knew better than to skip a meal. Those decoctions weren't food—they were survival in liquid form. Miss one and you weren't just risking hunger. You were inviting organ failure, seizures, death. The kind of death that crept up from the inside.
Vesemir nodded slowly.
"Good."
But his eyes had drifted elsewhere. Somewhere further off.
He was quiet a moment, then spoke again—voice just a little too casual, like a man trying not to care too much about the answer.
"How long did it take for the side effects to wear off?"
And there it was.
Aelin saw it—finally understood.
The pace of his walk, the way Vesemir had looked him over, the short questions—he hadn't just come to drop off a kit. He'd come because something didn't add up.
The boy should've still been groaning in bed, locked in fever, clutching his gut.
But he was standing. Speaking clearly. Eyes bright.
Aelin almost smiled. Almost.
He blinked once, tilted his head, and slipped easily into the tone he'd picked up from Hugues—the too-casual, not-quite-innocent indifference.
"I don't know," he said, voice light. "They just… went away. Like flipping a switch. Is that normal for the gifted, Master Vesemir?"
The silence that followed wasn't awkward.
It was weighty.
Vesemir didn't move for a long breath. His expression didn't change, but something behind his eyes tensed. Then—
"Who's teaching you alchemy?" he asked. The voice was different now. Flat again, but less tired.
"There's only one boy in that lab," Vesemir muttered. "Barely knows how to steep elfroot. Don't let him con you."
Aelin's reply was simple.
"It wasn't him. A woman taught me. She said her name was Vela."
That made Vesemir blink.
"…Vela?"
He searched the name. Something shifted behind his expression—recognition trying to crawl up from a long, dusty shelf.
Then his eyes widened.
"Vela of Toussaint?" he said, quietly. "The Crimson Fox?"
Aelin kept his face blank. But in his head, the urge to sigh was almost physical.
You're the one who sent Bonte and Fred to that lab, he thought. Shouldn't you know who's stationed there?
And what male apprentice? All he'd seen were women.
Still, he kept his voice neutral.
"She just said her name was Vela."
Before anything else could be said, a new voice cut in. Deep. Echoing down the corridor like stone cracking in frost.
"Vela? What about her?"
Footsteps. Heavy and unhurried.
They both turned.
The First emerged from the gloom like a statue brought to life. He moved with the silence of a predator, a tarnished silver flask in one gloved hand. His eyes gleamed faintly in the firelight.
"Sir," they both greeted.
The First said nothing—just extended the flask to Aelin.
"Your dinner. Take it in."
Aelin bowed his head slightly. "Thank you."
Vesemir gave him a small flick of the hand. Dismissed.
Aelin stepped past them and into the dorm.
It was no longer silent.
Every apprentice was awake—but still. Stretched out on their bunks, drenched in sweat, limbs like driftwood. None of them moved.
But they all watched him.
Their eyes tracked his every step.
He held up the flask a little.
"The First brought dinner—"
But before he could finish, the whole room shifted.
Every apprentice rolled over at once. Back to him. Faces to the wall. Like children pretending to be asleep before the coughing syrup hit the tongue.
Aelin stared for a second.
Then he exhaled. Something between a sigh and a half-laugh.
Right.
The concentrated serum running through his own system had made him forget—just for a moment—how much this still hurt for the others.
He set the satchel down next to his cot. Placed the flask beside it.
Then sat. Elbows on knees. Eyes turned toward the corridor.
He listened.
The voices outside had dropped to whispers. But in the stillness, fragments carried.
"…Vela." "…Alchemy?" "…Sight's already come in." "…Something's off."
Then—nothing.
The voices stopped.
And their footsteps faded into the dark.
They were gone.