Chapter 29: The Success Rate
POV: Viktor
The throne room of Dol Blathanna felt like standing inside the hollow heart of a dying star. Ancient magic hummed through the carved stone walls, but it was fading—Viktor could sense the slow dissolution of power that had once reshaped mountains and bent reality to elvish will. Two dozen longbows remained trained on their small group, their owners' faces showing the kind of desperate hostility that came from watching everything you loved slowly crumble to dust.
Filavandrel sat on his emerald throne like a judge prepared to deliver a death sentence, his ageless features carved from disappointment and centuries of accumulated loss. When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of absolute authority undermined by absolute despair.
"Tell me, prophet," the elf king said, his ancient eyes fixed on Viktor with laser intensity. "What are the chances my people survive if we fight the humans now?"
Viktor felt his heart clench as he realized this was it—the question that would determine everything. Not whether they lived or died, but whether an entire people chose extinction through violence or extinction through slow surrender.
He had 40 MP. One shot at giving Filavandrel the truth, no matter how brutal it might be.
"Success Rate Analysis: Probability of elvish survival if war is declared against humanity now."
[MANA DECREASED: 40 → 0]
[COMPLEX LONG-TERM ANALYSIS INITIATED]
[PROCESSING MULTIPLE VARIABLES...]
[HUMAN POPULATION: APPROXIMATELY 10,000,000]
[ELVISH POPULATION: APPROXIMATELY 10,000]
[RATIO: 1000:1 NUMERICAL DISADVANTAGE]
[HUMAN MILITARY CAPACITY: NORTHERN KINGDOMS + NILFGAARD]
[ELVISH MILITARY CAPACITY: SCATTERED REMNANTS, LIMITED RESOURCES]
[STRATEGIC CONSIDERATIONS: MOUNTAIN STRONGHOLDS VS. SIEGE WARFARE]
[SUPPLY LINES: HUMANS HAVE AGRICULTURE, ELVES DEPENDENT ON FORAGING]
[POLITICAL FACTORS: HUMAN UNITY AGAINST "ELDER THREAT"]
[ANALYSIS COMPLETE]
[PROBABILITY OF ELVISH SURVIVAL: 0%]
[ESTIMATED TIME TO COMPLETE ANNIHILATION: 3-7 YEARS]
The system's assessment hit Viktor like a physical blow. Zero percent. Not low odds, not poor chances—mathematical certainty of extinction.
Viktor met Filavandrel's gaze and spoke the truth that would either save them all or doom them to immediate execution.
"Zero percent, King Filavandrel."
The words fell into the throne room's silence like stones into still water, sending ripples of shock through the assembled elvish court. Viktor heard gasps, whispered denials, the sound of someone beginning to weep.
But he wasn't finished.
"If you fight now, your people die. All of them. Humans outnumber you a thousand to one—that's not conjecture, that's mathematics. The Northern Kingdoms will unite against what they see as an existential threat. Nilfgaard will use your rebellion as justification to invade the north, claiming they're protecting human civilization. Your people will starve in these mountains while human armies surround you and wait for winter to do what their swords cannot."
Viktor's voice remained steady despite his complete magical exhaustion, despite the way the throne room seemed to be slowly spinning around him.
"Five years. Maybe seven if you're very clever and very lucky. But in the end, the result is the same—the last of the Aen Seidhe dies alone in a cave, and human children learn to think of elves as monsters from stories their grandparents half-remember."
The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the distant sound of water dripping somewhere in the ancient ruins. Viktor watched Filavandrel's face cycle through denial, anger, and finally the kind of hollow acceptance that came from having your worst fears confirmed by an unimpeachable source.
"Lies!" The shout came from one of the elvish archers, a young-looking warrior whose bow swung toward Viktor with lethal intent. "Human propaganda! He seeks to break our will!"
That's when Geralt stepped forward, his hand moving to his sword hilt with the fluid grace of someone who'd spent a century defusing violent situations.
"The prophet doesn't lie," the Witcher said, his voice carrying the absolute authority of someone stating fundamental laws of physics. "I've seen his gift. I've watched him predict outcomes that seemed impossible until they came true. If he says zero percent, then it's zero percent."
Renfri moved to Viktor's other side, her blade appearing in her hand as if summoned by magic, her green eyes fixed on the archer with predatory focus.
"He speaks truth," she added, her voice carrying the cold certainty of someone who'd learned to recognize honesty through decades of surviving lies. "I was supposed to die in Blaviken. His prophecy saved my life by changing what seemed inevitable."
Even Jaskier, terror making his voice crack like a teenaged boy's, managed to squeak out support: "I believe him too! Very much! Extremely much! Please don't shoot the prophet!"
Filavandrel raised his hand, and the archer's bow slowly lowered. The elf king's ancient eyes studied Viktor with the kind of attention usually reserved for examining artifacts of immense value or tremendous danger.
"I feel the truth in your words, prophet," Filavandrel said finally. "The certainty that comes from genuine vision rather than clever guesswork. You have seen our future, and it is death."
The despair that settled over the elvish court was almost tangible, a weight that seemed to press down on everyone present. Viktor heard quiet sobbing from somewhere among the assembled elves, saw shoulders slump as hope died in real time.
"Then we are dead already," Filavandrel continued, his voice carrying the hollow tone of someone who'd just received a terminal diagnosis. "Why delay it? Why not die with swords in our hands instead of wasting away like forgotten dreams?"
Viktor felt the moment balanced on a knife's edge—Filavandrel was two words away from ordering a war that would accomplish nothing except ensuring elvish extinction came with maximum bloodshed.
"Because there's another path," Viktor said, fighting against the exhaustion that threatened to drop him where he stood. "One where the success rate is above zero."
For the first time since entering the throne room, Filavandrel's expression showed something other than resignation or rage. Curiosity, perhaps. Or maybe just the faint stirring of hope in someone who'd forgotten what hope felt like.
"Show me," the elf king commanded.
Viktor nodded, though the movement sent fresh waves of dizziness through his overtaxed system. He had no magical energy left, no enhanced abilities to draw upon. What came next would depend entirely on his ability to speak the right words at the right moment.
No pressure at all.
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