—The Witcher World—
—3rd Person POV—
Zoltan was sitting in the back room of the tavern. It had been an hour since Kargan had left. He sat there, in the chair in front of the broken table, endlessly replaying everything Kargan had told him. He had witnessed firsthand, countless times, how brutal this world could be. But this time, what had happened to his close friend truly unsettled him—made him fear that, one day, something just as cruel might happen to him as well.
He was also thinking about that strange magical invitation. He didn't believe it for a second. Even ignoring the idea of going to some unknown world, receiving such an offer from an unknown source made him uneasy. Especially because… he knew many dwarves who would accept it instantly without thinking. What unsettled him most was the fact that this offer had been sent to Kargan… and that Kargan had accepted.
Deep down, Zoltan was grateful—if the offer hadn't appeared, Kargan would have killed himself and died miserably. Yet at the same time, that very same offer made him afraid Kargan might end up suffering something even worse than death.
As Zoltan sat in silence, the door opened, and Dandelion walked in with a bright, mischievous smile.
"Zoltan! Why are you sitting in here all alone? I was just talking to a gorgeous woman. I think she likes me! Hehehe~"
Zoltan didn't react. His arms remained crossed, his thoughts heavy. At first Dandelion didn't understand, but then he saw the broken table. His eyebrows drew tight—then he noticed the blood dripping from Zoltan's hands and staining the floor. Worry and unease spread across his face.
"What happened, Zoltan? Did you fight with your friend?"
Still no reaction.
Dandelion grabbed Zoltan's shoulder and shook him anxiously.
Zoltan finally turned his head toward him.
"Dandelion? How long have you been here?"
Dandelion sat on the chair across from him.
"I just walked in. What troubled you this much? What happened in here?"
Zoltan shrugged.
"It's nothing."
Dandelion pointed at the table, at the blood, at Zoltan's hands.
"It is very clearly not nothing. Do you want to tell me now, or should I annoy you until you finally do?"
Zoltan hesitated. Dandelion's mouth, once opened, rarely stopped talking. With a sigh, Zoltan looked into his persistent eyes and began to speak slowly.
"The man who came earlier was Kargan… He was like an older brother to me. He saved my life three times, and the last time he did, he injured his leg permanently… I never managed to repay him."
Dandelion asked curiously,
"Then why are you this sad and uneasy? What exactly happened here?"
Zoltan paused, then let out another long breath. His voice was heavy.
"Kargan's life… has not been kind to him these past years."
Zoltan told him everything—every detail of the conversation, every piece of Kargan's tragedy. As Dandelion listened, his expression continuously shifted. His skin went pale.By the time Zoltan finished, Dandelion abruptly stood, grabbed a strong drink, and swallowed it in one go. Then spoke:
"This world is as unjust and cruel as ever… Humanity continues to shock and terrify me with what it is capable of."
He laughed bitterly.
"Maybe being born in another world would be better. But from what I've heard from Ciri… no world is truly beautiful."
Zoltan continued,
"I'm not done yet. Things get even more complicated from here…"
He explained the invitation he received, Kargan's suicide attempt, and that he had been given the very same offer.
Dandelion frowned deeply.
"This is extremely suspicious. Accepting an offer from someone we don't know, from some place we've never heard of… is utter stupidity. And yet—an offer to reunite with the dead is dangerously tempting. There are too many people in this world who would accept it."
Zoltan nodded silently. Dandelion knew him well—too well.
"You're thinking of accepting it, aren't you?"
Zoltan nodded.
Dandelion exploded.
"HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND!? WE'RE TALKING ABOUT GOING TO ANOTHER WORLD WITH NO WAY BACK! AND WE KNOW NOTHING ABOUT THE PEOPLE MAKING THIS OFFER! THIS IS NOTHING LIKE A MERCENARY CONTRACT, ZOLTAN!"
Zoltan lowered his head.
"I know… But I can't abandon Kargan. Not now. Not when he needs me most. If this had happened to you, or to Geralt, you know I would go without hesitation."
Dandelion fell silent. He knew it was true. He just didn't want his friend to leave forever.
"So… after everything we've worked for… you'll turn your back on it? We built this tavern with our own hands. You have us here—me, Geralt, Triss, Yennefer, Ciri… You're really going to leave all this behind?"
Zoltan paused, then sighed sorrowfully.
"I have no choice, Jaskier… I owe Kargan my life. I can't leave him alone."
Dandelion looked into his eyes. When he saw the unwavering resolve there, he sighed heavily and leaned back in his chair.
"When are you going?"
"I've got a couple days. I'll prepare… and then accept."
"Talk to Geralt before you leave. Maybe he can help… maybe Ciri's ability could find a solution."
"I was planning to."
The two friends stared at each other sorrowfully—knowing this might be their last real moment together.
After a moment, Zoltan spoke with hesitation:
"Dandelion… if that world is truly as they describe—without hatred, without discrimination, a place where our kind is respected… and if I can invite you… would you come?"
Dandelion instantly lit up with energy.
"Oh! Right! There's a chance you might invite us too! Of course I wouldn't say no to brand-new adventures! Good or bad—call me! But first tell me! I'll sell the tavern and turn everything into gold—gold holds value in any world!"
Zoltan burst into laughter.
"HAHAHAHAHAHA! You never change, Jaskier!"
Dandelion giggled, stood up, grabbed two bottles, and handed one to Zoltan.
"When are you leaving?"
Zoltan took the bottle.
"At dawn."
"Then let's drink until the night ends!"
Zoltan and Dandelion clinked their bottles together, a bittersweet chime echoing through the room. The two close friends knew this might be the last time they drank together—but neither of them could have imagined how drastically Zoltan's decision would change their lives.
…
Zoltan stood before a house. After Dandelion wished him farewell and collected his belongings, Zoltan came here to speak with Geralt. Thankfully, the White Wolf no longer wandered as much as he used to—after the Wild Hunt incident six months ago, Geralt had settled down in a permanent home. Zoltan sighed, remembering their adventures together. Those journeys had been tragic, joyful, agonizing, exhilarating—some of the most colorful days of his life…But now, a friend needed him more than anyone else had before, and even if he had to walk through the cruelest lands, even if he had to descend into the very depths of hell—Zoltan would not abandon Kargan.
He drew in a deep breath and prepared to knock. Just as he lifted his hand, the door opened.
The man before him was tall, with shoulder–length white-grey hair that hung in messy strands. His skin was pale. His features were sharp, severe even—but what marked him instantly were those amber, catlike eyes. Weariness lingered in the furrow of his brow, though vigilance never left. He wore simple white clothing. His hands were calloused, his fingers scarred; his life had clearly been spent gripping steel. Old cuts lined his face as well, the most prominent beginning at his right eyebrow and running down to his cheek. He looked like a man born somewhere between feral and regal—a cold, dangerous warrior, yet strangely noble.
"How long are you planning to stand outside, Zoltan?"
Zoltan burst into laughter.
"Hahaha! It's always good to see your ugly face, Geralt!"
Geralt allowed the faintest of smirks.
"Come in. We were just about to eat."
Zoltan nodded with a chuckle and stepped inside as Geralt closed the door.
Geralt's home was simple, but peaceful. The moment you entered, the scent of woodsmoke, leather, and old books greeted you. Not very large, but orderly—everything had its proper place. Old swords, dried herbs, and hunting trophies hung on the walls. A few logs always burned in the hearth, bathing the room in a warm, amber glow. Bottles of potions and strange notes cluttered the shelves, alongside small trinkets Ciri had left behind.The table was messy—a few cut herbs, a half-finished letter, an uncleaned knife… By the window sat a solitary chair—clearly Geralt's preferred spot to gaze outside in silence.For a witcher's home, it was almost too quiet—but that quiet held a comfort, like the final refuge one finds after endless wars and chaos.
As Zoltan headed toward the dining table, a young woman appeared. Her body was slender and agile, her movements precise. Her long, silver-white hair fell slightly past her shoulders. Her skin pale, almost ghostly; a few narrow scars traced her face, remnants of battles past. The most distinct line cut lightly across her left cheek. Her eyes were green—not ordinary green, but like a storm creeping through a dark forest. She wore leathers in grey and brown tones, designed for freedom of motion. Knee-high boots, two short blades at her waist—she radiated the aura of a fighter.Her presence was both graceful and commanding—a princess's nobility blended with a witcher's severity.
Zoltan spoke in a warm, paternal tone.
"How are you, little warrior?"
Ciri answered politely, yet gently.
"Thank you for asking, Zoltan. I'm fine. Welcome."
Zoltan chuckled. He missed seeing Ciri—but ever since she chose the path of the Witcher, they had rarely met. She wandered constantly now, sometimes even leaving this world entirely to see others…Zoltan felt a quiet ache. In the world he was about to depart for, perhaps he would never see them again.
Ciri sensed it. She glanced at Geralt. Geralt noticed too, but said nothing. He would not pry until Zoltan chose to speak.
Just then, a woman emerged from the kitchen carrying food.Her hair was jet-black, slightly wavy, impeccably cared for and glossy. Her skin porcelain-fair; her face sharp and sculpted, cheekbones prominent, chin firm. Her eyes were a striking violet, intense and commanding. Her brows elegant and her lips full.Her posture was confident, noble, unmistakably her.She wore a fitted black garment that clung to her form without restricting her movement.
As she approached the table, she offered Zoltan a small smile.
"What brings you here, Zoltan?"
Zoltan chuckled as he sat.
"Let's eat first, then talk, Yennefer. Good to see you. I hope you're not causing too much trouble for Geralt still."
With a faint laugh, Yennefer began serving the bowls.
"As long as he doesn't anger me—no~"
"Hahahahaha! The mighty White Wolf, brought low!"
Geralt and Ciri smiled softly. Neither were very expressive people. Geralt by nature and experience, Ciri because she needed to restrain her emotions lest chaos consume her.
As Ciri received her bowl, she asked curiously:
"So, what brought you here?"
Zoltan paused as he took his own bowl. Then he spoke slowly.
"Let's eat first. We'll talk soon. Tell me, how's the witcher life treating you?"
Ciri answered calmly.
"Just as I imagined. I go where I want, take contracts, hunt monsters and spirits… I've started to feel a hint of freedom again."
Geralt watched her carefully. He said nothing, but gently stroked her back.During the Wild Hunt incident, he had nearly lost her—since then, he had clung to her more dearly than ever.
After Yennefer sat beside Ciri and took her hand, Zoltan put a spoonful of stew into his mouth and asked:
"How do people treat you?"
Ciri hesitated, then replied.
"As always—they see me as a monster or a freak. Typical humans… but there are good ones as well. Nothing we're not used to."
Zoltan nodded. Dandelion was the best example of that contrast… Then Kargan came to mind, and Zoltan felt the uneasy weight of conflicting emotions in his chest.
He stared at the stew in silence, absent-mindedly stirring it with his spoon. Though only a few seconds passed, the other three noticed immediately.
Yennefer shot Geralt a glance.
What's wrong?
Geralt shrugged.
She signaled again.
Say something.
Zoltan snapped out of it.
"Hahaha! Don't worry too much. One day you'll meet someone who loves you just as you are. When that happens, nothing else will matter."
Ciri flushed slightly, embarrassed—and uneasy, haunted by unpleasant memories.
Geralt and Yennefer chuckled quietly.
As they continued eating, Zoltan looked at Geralt.
"How's semi-retirement treating you?"
Geralt replied calmly:
"Not bad."
Zoltan snorted.
"Still as tight-lipped as ever. Ah… I remember when we first met. Back then we were both full of energy… We lived both joyful and tragic adventures together, Geralt."
Zoltan raised his tankard of beer toward Geralt. Geralt frowned slightly. Zoltan was unusually quiet today, restless, and, most importantly, since the moment he'd stepped into the house, he hadn't uttered a single curse. He carried the air of someone who'd come to say goodbye. And it wasn't just Geralt who noticed—Ciri and Yennefer sensed it too. Geralt calmly lifted his own mug and clinked it against Zoltan's. Zoltan downed the drink in a single breath.
Dinner continued in a peaceful yet lively manner. Zoltan kept talking about the adventures he'd had with Geralt, exaggerating some stories so ridiculously that Geralt had to interrupt and correct details here and there. Every now and then Geralt felt a familiar tingle of danger—an instinct sharp as a blade—usually at the exact moments Zoltan started mentioning certain women Geralt had travelled with in the past. And when Geralt glanced at Yennefer, she only smiled… but that smile alone was enough to strike every alarm bell within a Witcher's instincts.
Ciri watched Zoltan carefully. Geralt rarely, if ever, talked about his past. From time to time he would share bits of experience regarding monsters or specters, but he never spoke of his journeys. And so Zoltan continued with another story:
"Ah, that night… I still haven't forgotten it, my friend.
Geralt and I traveled to one of the cursed villages of the North. Can't recall the name—the sign had fallen down long before we arrived. Imagine: a giant plank at the entrance reading, 'The Gods have abandoned us.' Instant despair before you even step in.
Naturally, I thought, 'We'll find some drinks, a bit of lively company.' Meanwhile Geralt was on horseback, face long, eyes scanning every shadow like death itself was lurking behind it.
So I said, '
Hey Witcher! Try loosening up a little. Worst case, we get drunk.'
His answer?
Just a grunt.
Which, to be fair, is quite generous for Geralt.
We made it to the village square. Not a soul in sight. Doors shut, dim candlelight slipping through broken windows. An old woman approached us: 'Don't go,' she said. 'At night, the wind speaks.'
I laughed. 'If the wind can speak, we should buy it a drink,' I told her.
But Geralt stared at me with that stone expression. 'If the wind isn't speaking,' he said, 'it might be howling.'
That was when I knew the night would be horrible.
Long story short, a wraith haunted the nearby woods. A former female soldier, killed in a war long ago—her spirit restless because of a curse.
Geralt naturally took charge, and I wasn't idle either. I may not understand witcher alchemy or salt circles, but I damn well know how to swing an axe.
While Geralt prepared his signs, I poured beer onto her grave according to an ancient dwarven custom. I thought perhaps a spirit softens with a drink.
Instead of thanking me, the specter tried to strangle me!
An icy hand touched the back of my neck—gods, I thought my soul would fly out.
Geralt jumped in immediately. 'Yrden!' he shouted, casting a glowing circle, light bursting out everywhere.
The wraith screamed and vanished like smoke.
But before he finished, Geralt turned to me and said, 'How many times must I tell you? Do not interfere with my rituals.'
I answered him very seriously:
'I was not interfering, friend. I merely offered her a beer. I meant no harm.'
Then the villagers came out to thank us. A few pouches of gold, and quite a few bottles of liquor.
Geralt took the gold. I took the drinks.
On the way back I said, 'Good night, Witcher. After every curse, one must drink, otherwise this world is unbearable.'
And Geralt said, 'You're right, Zoltan.'
And I swear… for a moment… he smiled."
As Zoltan ended the story and took a sip from his cup, Ciri listened with keen attention, Yennefer rolled her eyes, and Geralt sat there with that classic expressionless, mildly tired stare.
His eyes narrowed, lips slightly curved.
"The reason the spirit attacked you was probably because you dumped beer on her."
Zoltan burst into laughter.
"AHAHAH! It was a little cold, yes, but still—she could've thanked me!"
Geralt shook his head.
"Spirits don't usually thank you."
He paused for a moment, took a sip from his drink.
"At least you didn't set the grave on fire this time."
Zoltan squinted and smiled.
"I only did that once, Geralt. Just once! And it was an accident. You still won't let that go."
Geralt shrugged.
"Once was one too many."
Then spoke softly:
"But… you did well, Zoltan. Had we not freed that spirit, the village would've been wiped out long ago."
Zoltan blinked, surprised. Beneath that seriousness, he recognized praise.
"You still won't thank me, but fine, Witcher. I will make note of that."
A faint smile tugged at the corner of Geralt's lips.
"I don't thank you because you already praise yourself enough while telling the story."
While Zoltan roared with laughter, Geralt merely watched—without a word, but with that slight curve in his lips, a silent sign of respect for a trusted friend. Yennefer smiled faintly and Ciri looked at the two men with a quiet, almost jealous admiration. Every friendship she'd ever formed had ended in tragedy, but she smiled anyway—because here, at this table, sat her only family.
Geralt spoke in a calm, weary tone:
"All right, Zoltan. Dinner is over. Now tell us why you are here."
Yennefer and Ciri turned toward Zoltan with curiosity. Zoltan sighed.
"As always, straight to the point, are we?"
He fell silent for a moment, gathering his thoughts. Then inhaled deeply.
"Some time ago I was spending an ordinary day at the tavern, until an old friend appeared. His name is Kargan…"
Zoltan slowly recounted his history with Kargan. The trio listened quietly. How Kargan was like an older brother to him, how he protected him from trouble, how he advised him, how he saved his life three times… and how Kargan's leg had been crippled because of him.
They finally understood what Kargan meant to Zoltan.
"…It had been seven years since I last saw him… and recent years treated him poorly…"
Zoltan began explaining what Kargan had confessed. The farther into the story he went, the darker the expressions on the trio's faces became.They were shaken, though not unfamiliar with tragedy. They merely cursed under their breath.
But when Zoltan told them Kargan had summoned the Fire Lord Ifrit, the shock was real.
Yennefer exploded:
"THAT STUPID DWARF HAS LOST HIS MIND! ELEMENTAL LORDS ARE EXTREMELY DANGEROUS! A DJINN ALMOST KILLED US!"
Zoltan answered calmly:
"Yes. Kargan has gone mad with revenge."
Yennefer fell silent. As a sorceress, she knew sacrifice rituals, and she knew upper-tier Ifrits—the filthiest creations of dark magic.
Geralt spoke quietly:
"Then why are you here? To unburden yourself? Or to seek help?"
Zoltan drew in a long breath.
"I came… to say goodbye."
All three frowned. Ciri asked:
"You're going to another continent? Another kingdom?"
After a moment of silence, Zoltan spoke:
"…to another world."
Ciri and Yennefer froze in shock while Geralt's brows knitted.Geralt spoke calmly:
"Explain."
With a weary sigh, Zoltan explained the offer he'd received, Kargan's suicide attempt, how the same offer had been given to Kargan—and how Kargan accepted it. He explained how he had tried to stop him, but Kargan didn't care—he would sell his soul to see his wife and daughter for a single second.
Yennefer and Ciri spoke simultaneously:
"THIS IS A TRAP!" ×2
Yennefer spoke as a mage, Ciri spoke as someone who had traveled between worlds countless times. To her, such things were a curse. And now, someone she considered family was leaving their world forever into a realm unknown.
Ciri refused to accept it.
"Zoltan, think about this carefully! I've traveled many worlds. None were safe—those that appeared safe hid conspiracies deep enough to destroy lives."
Zoltan looked at her in silence. He knew all this already… but it changed nothing.
Yennefer spoke sharply:
"Dimensional travel touches the pinnacle of forbidden magic. And I'm not even mentioning meddling with the dead! It's wrong—impossible! It's a fraud! If you insist, we should speak to this Kargan. Tie him down if we must. Accepting such an offer is unbelievably dangerous!"
Ciri nodded.
"She's right. You don't know what you're dealing with. And how do you know this Igris fellow isn't a trickster—or a demon? Have you ever seen a leader fully just and righteous? I've never found one—not here nor elsewhere!"
Yennefer nodded.
"Exactly! I bet he's a monster who enslaves and tortures people for pleasure. The Devil incarnate! How dare he manipulate desperate souls through the ones they loved most!"
—Meanwhile, in Middle-earth, Rivendell—
Igris was in his room, hanging from the balcony bar, doing pull-ups with intense focus.
"3477, 3478, 3479, 3480…"
His arms swollen with muscle, wearing nothing but trousers, grinning as he trained. Only two hours had passed here. Due to distortions in the dimensional and temporal structure between worlds, time flowed differently.
Suddenly, Igris sneezed violently.
ACHOO! ACHOO!
He rubbed his nose with his left hand.
"Which of my damned enemies is talking about me?"
He paused for a moment. After spending seventeen days lying in bed, he intended to unleash every ounce of frustration through training—but one thing bothered him deeply.
"…Where the hell is my armor worth eighty thousand gold?!"
—Back in the Witcher world—
Yennefer and Ciri fiercely opposed Zoltan's departure. Both believed the situation reeked of danger. Both were traumatized by dimensional travel.
Zoltan felt warmth, but his decision was already made.
"I know. I've considered everything you've said… but my decision is final. And as I've said before—if it were any of you, I would not hesitate either."
They wanted to stop him, but Zoltan was resolute.They turned to Geralt—thinking he might persuade him.
Geralt spoke quietly:
"I don't like this at all, Zoltan. We have no information. You're one of the few I call friend… but I can't stop you. You've already made up your mind. Be careful out there."
Zoltan chuckled.Yennefer and Ciri stared at Geralt with jaws open.
Yennefer covered her forehead with her palm.
"This cursed stupid male loyalty… foolish male trust…"
Ciri turned to Zoltan.
"Zoltan, please reconsider… I don't want to lose you."
Ciri's life had never been kind. She'd been hunted, controlled, desired. She'd lost many. The number of people she could call family or friend barely exceeded two hands—and Zoltan was one of them.
Zoltan sighed. She was his weakness—but dwarven pride was stronger.
"I'm sorry, Ciri… I must."
Ciri fell silent, disappointed. After a moment of heavy silence, Geralt rose and walked into the kitchen. He returned with several bottles and quietly poured drinks for everyone.
This night would be long.