Chapter 24: The Capture
POV: Viktor
Dawn came with the whisper of drawn bowstrings and the cold realization that they had walked directly into the trap Viktor's instincts had been warning him about for two days. He woke to find twenty elvish archers arranged in a perfect circle around their camp, their longbows drawn and arrows nocked with the kind of professional competence that suggested decades of practice at killing things.
The elves were everything Viktor remembered from the show and more—tall, ethereal, moving with the fluid grace that came from centuries of life. But there was something else in their bearing, something the cameras hadn't quite captured: desperation. These weren't the arrogant immortals of fantasy literature. These were the last remnants of a dying people, fighting for survival with the bitter knowledge that they were probably already too late.
Torque stood among them, his goat-like lower body and human torso marking him as the sylvan who'd been leading them through increasingly elaborate tricks for the past two days. But where his voice had been mocking before, now it carried the weight of genuine guilt.
"I'm sorry," the sylvan said, his words directed specifically at Viktor. "They threatened my family. My children. I had no choice."
Viktor understood. In a world where survival meant making impossible choices, Torque had chosen his family over a group of strangers. It was the same choice most people would make, and Viktor couldn't find it in himself to be angry about it.
[PREMONITION SENSE ACTIVATED]
[MULTIPLE HOSTILE CONTACTS]
[THREAT LEVEL: EXTREME]
[SURVIVAL PROBABILITY WITHOUT INTERVENTION: MINIMAL]
Geralt was already awake, his amber eyes taking in the tactical situation with the kind of rapid assessment that came from a century of waking up to mortal peril. Viktor watched the Witcher's gaze sweep the circle of archers, counting enemies, evaluating angles, calculating the odds of fighting their way out.
"We fight, we die," Geralt announced quietly. "We surrender, we talk."
Renfri's hand was on her sword hilt, her green eyes fixed on the nearest elf with the kind of predatory focus that suggested she was calculating how many she could take with her. But she looked to Viktor, waiting for his assessment.
Viktor pulled out one of his Minor Mana Potions and drank it down, feeling the familiar burn as magical energy flooded his depleted reserves.
[MANA RESTORED: 0 → 25]
"Success Rate Analysis: What's our survival probability if we fight versus if we surrender?"
[MANA DECREASED: 25 → 0]
[ANALYSIS COMPLETE - COMBAT SCENARIO]
[SURVIVAL PROBABILITY: 5% - ELVES HOLD TACTICAL ADVANTAGE]
[PRIMARY FACTORS: HIGH GROUND, NUMERICAL SUPERIORITY, ELEMENT OF SURPRISE]
[ANALYSIS COMPLETE - SURRENDER SCENARIO]
[SURVIVAL PROBABILITY: 65% - ELVES APPEAR TO WANT INFORMATION]
[ASSESSMENT: SURRENDER OFFERS SIGNIFICANTLY BETTER ODDS]
Viktor nodded to Geralt, the gesture small but definitive. The Witcher's respect for his tactical analysis had grown significantly since Blaviken, and that trust was about to be tested in the most serious way possible.
"We surrender," Geralt called out, his hands moving slowly away from his weapons.
The lead elf—a tall figure with the kind of ageless features that made determining his actual age impossible—stepped forward with movements that suggested liquid mercury given form.
"Wise choice, dh'oine. You will come with us. You will answer questions. If your answers are satisfactory, you may live to see another sunset."
They were bound with ropes that felt like silk but held like steel, their weapons confiscated with the kind of efficient professionalism that suggested the elves had done this before. Viktor found himself walking between two guards who moved like dancers, their feet making no sound on the rocky ground despite the pace they set.
Jaskier, predictably, was not handling the situation well.
"This is terrible! I'm too young to die! I haven't even finished my masterwork! What if they eat us? Do elves eat humans? I've heard conflicting reports about elvish dietary preferences—"
"They don't eat humans," Renfri said quietly, her voice carrying the kind of patient authority that came from experience with people panicking in dangerous situations. "They consider us too crude for consumption."
"Oh. Well, that's... oddly insulting but also reassuring?"
Viktor tried to focus on their surroundings as they were marched deeper into the mountains, but the overuse of his abilities over the past few days was taking its toll. The familiar throb of Mental Strain was building behind his eyes, a headache that felt like someone was using his skull as an anvil.
[MENTAL STRAIN PENALTY ACTIVE]
[VISION ACCURACY REDUCED: 20% FOR 48 HOURS]
[CUMULATIVE EFFECT: MULTIPLE DAILY VISION USES]
[RECOMMENDATION: REDUCE FREQUENCY OF PRECOGNITIVE ABILITIES]
Renfri noticed his discomfort, her eyes studying his face with the kind of concern that made his chest feel warm despite their circumstances.
"Your gift hurts you," she said quietly, her voice pitched to carry only to his ears.
"Sometimes. When I use it too much. The visions come with a cost."
"Most power does."
Viktor felt a surge of gratitude for her understanding. In his previous life, admitting to any kind of weakness or limitation had felt like social suicide. But Renfri's acceptance of his vulnerability, her willingness to acknowledge it without judgment, was something he was still learning to treasure.
The path led upward through terrain that became increasingly dramatic, past waterfalls that caught the morning light like scattered diamonds and through valleys that looked like they'd been carved by giants. This was old country, Viktor realized—the kind of place where the bones of the earth showed through in ways that spoke of ages beyond human comprehension.
And then they saw it: Dol Blathanna.
The ruins emerged from the mountainside like a fever dream given form, ancient stone structures that had been carved directly from the living rock. What remained of the elvish city was a testament to architectural ambition that had transcended mere building to become art. Soaring arches that seemed to defy gravity, delicate spires that caught and held light in ways that suggested magical enhancement, courtyards that had been designed to complement the natural flow of wind and water.
But it was also clearly dying. The magic that had once maintained the impossible structures was fading, leaving cracks that spoke of entropy winning its eternal war against order. Vines had claimed whole sections of the city, and some of the more delicate towers had collapsed entirely, their remains scattered across courtyards that had once hosted celebrations lasting decades.
At the heart of the ruins, on a throne that had been carved from a single massive emerald, sat Filavandrel.
The elf king was exactly as Viktor remembered from the show, but seeing him in person was a different experience entirely. There was something about his presence that transcended mere physical appearance—an aura of ancient authority mixed with the kind of profound weariness that came from watching your entire civilization slowly fade into memory.
Viktor's enhanced magical sensitivity, boosted by his recent stat improvements, let him feel the power that still radiated from the elf king. It was like standing near a dying star—immense, ancient, and fading with every passing moment.
[MAGICAL AURA DETECTED]
[SOURCE: ANCIENT ELVEN NOBILITY]
[ASSESSMENT: IMMENSE POWER, SEVERELY DIMINISHED]
[EMOTIONAL RESONANCE: DESPERATION, PRIDE, RESIGNATION]
The elves weren't evil, Viktor realized as he studied Filavandrel's face. They weren't the monsters that human stories made them out to be. They were just... tired. Tired of fighting a losing war against time itself, tired of watching everything they'd built crumble into dust, tired of being pushed to the margins of a world that had once been theirs.
Filavandrel's voice, when he finally spoke, carried the weight of centuries and the cold authority of someone who had nothing left to lose.
"Humans. Witcher. Mutant girl. Strange boy. Bard."
His gaze swept across their small group, lingering for a moment on each of them as if he were reading their souls and finding the contents either amusing or disappointing.
"Why shouldn't I kill you all?"
Viktor felt the weight of destiny settling on his shoulders like a familiar cloak. This was it—the moment that would determine whether the elves of Dol Blathanna would fade quietly into history or make one final, devastating strike against the human world that had replaced them.
In the show, this encounter had been about mercy versus justice, about whether compassion could overcome the logical desire for revenge. But Viktor's presence had already changed so much about the timeline that he couldn't be certain how events would unfold.
All he knew was that the next few hours would determine the fate of everyone in this ancient, dying city.
And somewhere in the mountains around them, other powers were moving—forces that would test whether Viktor's philosophy of "choosing better instead of lesser evil" could survive contact with the harsh realities of a world where survival often meant making choices that haunted you forever.
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