Chapter 27: The Prophet's Rest
POV: Viktor
Sleep came in fragments, consciousness drifting in and out like tide pools at the edge of a restless shore. Viktor's mind, pushed beyond its limits by days of overusing abilities that were never meant to be wielded so carelessly, sought refuge in the strange twilight between waking and dreaming where memories and visions blurred into something resembling truth.
[MENTAL STRAIN: REDUCING]
[NEURAL PATHWAYS: STABILIZING]
[ESTIMATED RECOVERY: 6 HOURS TO FUNCTIONAL BASELINE]
The system's diagnostic information flickered at the edges of his awareness like fireflies in summer darkness, accompanied by images that felt both foreign and familiar. He saw a young girl with ash-blonde hair and eyes that held the weight of destiny—Ciri, though he shouldn't know her name yet, shouldn't understand her importance. The Wild Hunt rode through his fever dreams like nightmares given form, their spectral steeds leaving frost in their wake. And underneath it all, the creeping cold of something called the White Frost, advancing like death itself across worlds he'd never seen.
"Cintra..." The word escaped his lips in a whisper that cut through the cave's silence. "Ciri... the girl..."
Viktor surfaced briefly into consciousness to find Renfri's concerned face hovering above him, her green eyes wide with alarm and something deeper—a fear that went beyond their current predicament.
"What girl?" she asked softly, her hand cool against his fevered forehead. "Viktor, what are you seeing?"
But the darkness claimed him again before he could answer, pulling him back down into dreams where the future and past tangled together like lovers in the dark.
[MENTAL STRAIN: -25% → -15%]
[MANA REGENERATION: SLOW BUT STEADY]
[CURRENT MP: 0 → 15]
Time moved strangely in the depths of exhausted sleep. Viktor was dimly aware of voices around him—Geralt's low rumble, Jaskier's nervous chatter, and threading through it all like a constant melody, Renfri's presence. She never left his side, her fingers stroking his hair when nightmares made him thrash, her voice whispering reassurances when the visions became too much to bear.
"She loves him," Viktor heard Geralt say during one of his brief surfacings into semi-consciousness. The Witcher's voice carried a kind of wonder, as if he'd discovered something unexpected and precious. "Truly. Not the desperate attachment of shared trauma, but the real thing."
"Will you let her?" Jaskier's response held a complexity that Viktor hadn't expected from the bard—understanding that love in their world was complicated by loyalty and group dynamics.
"It's not my choice to make," Geralt replied. "But... he's good for her. Gave her a reason to live instead of just survive. That's worth protecting."
Viktor felt rather than saw Renfri's reaction to the conversation—the slight intake of breath, the way her hand stilled in his hair, the warmth of tears that she probably thought no one would notice. But she said nothing, and eventually the voices faded as his companions settled into their own attempts at rest.
Dawn came with the gradual lightening of the cave's entrance and the return of sensation to Viktor's overtaxed nervous system. The crushing headache had reduced to a dull throb that was manageable rather than incapacitating, and when he opened his eyes, the world remained mercifully stable instead of spinning like a child's top.
Renfri sat beside him, her back against the cave wall, dark circles under her eyes that spoke of a sleepless night spent keeping vigil. When she saw him looking at her, her face transformed with a smile that was equal parts relief and exhaustion.
"You're back," she said simply.
"Did I say anything embarrassing while I was out?" Viktor's voice came out as a croak, but it was his own voice, clear and coherent.
"You called me 'love.'" Renfri's smile widened, taking on a warmth that made Viktor's chest feel tight in the best possible way. "I liked it."
Viktor felt heat rise in his cheeks as he processed the implications of that admission. "I meant it."
The words hung between them like a bridge across dangerous water, and Viktor saw the exact moment when Renfri understood that his fever-induced honesty had revealed something deeper than attraction or affection.
Before either of them could explore the implications further, the sound of approaching footsteps echoed through the cave. An elvish guard appeared at the entrance to their prison, his ageless features showing the kind of professional impatience that suggested delays were not appreciated.
"The king summons the prophet," the guard announced. "Now."
Viktor struggled to his feet, his legs still unsteady but functional. He pulled out one of his remaining Minor Mana Potions and drank it down, feeling the familiar burn as magical energy flooded his depleted reserves.
[MANA RESTORED: 15 → 40]
[MENTAL STRAIN: REDUCED TO -10% ACCURACY]
[STATUS: FUNCTIONAL BUT NOT OPTIMAL]
It would have to be enough. Viktor had 40 MP—enough for a limited vision or a Success Rate Analysis, but not enough for any extended use of his abilities. He would need to be careful, precise, and very, very lucky.
"Whatever happens," Renfri said, moving to stand beside him with the fluid grace of someone whose body was a perfectly maintained weapon, "we face it together."
Viktor took her offered hand, feeling the calluses from years of sword work and the steady warmth of her pulse beneath his fingers.
"Together," he agreed.
As they walked toward the throne room and whatever fate awaited them there, Viktor couldn't shake the feeling that the visions from his fever dreams had been more than just hallucinations. The system was preparing him for something, showing him glimpses of futures that might await if he could survive the present.
But first, he had to convince an ancient elf king that hope was stronger than despair, and that the future held possibilities worth living for instead of dying against.
No pressure at all.
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