When winter snow sealed the mountains, Victor once wanted to ask the two "younger" witchers about how the outside world had changed—and what the international wars looked like. To him, all of it mattered. But he gave up quickly, because the witchers couldn't have looked more indifferent.
For the two Wolf School witchers, under Vesemir's guidance, they still tried to uphold the neutrality their kind had clung to for centuries.
They traveled the world, took coin, protected helpless people from monsters—no more, no less. That was it.
But to Victor, that very principle of neutrality was exactly what had pushed them to the margins as the era changed, turning them into a dying breed. They didn't stand with anyone—so no one stood with them.
Getting spat on and cursed by the very people you protected, all while taking a pittance to go kill horrors… what noble ideals. Also, what a pain in the ass. Thank the gods he wasn't a witcher.
…
In the blink of an eye, the calendar slid into mid-February. The ice and snow began to melt. Flakes vanished under warm winds blowing in through the southern pass. The witchers grew a bit more talkative, discussing which direction they'd travel, and what newborn threats they might run into—ghouls, leshens, fleders, werewolves, basilisks, and the like.
Then March arrived.
They left. Kaer Morhen shut its gates and was locked up.
The lock was basically a medieval version of an electronic security system: a bolt that required charging a crystal from across the moat using a shockwave; a gate mechanism that needed an oil lamp lit high above with flame. More than one set of mechanisms existed, each corresponding neatly to witcher Signs—Aard and Igni.
Meaning: anyone who wasn't a witcher or a mage would be kept out with embarrassing ease. At least, Victor certainly wasn't getting in—on the surface, anyway. Those magical mechanisms were also a reminder of Kaer Morhen's former glory.
Even so, Victor still felt it wasn't safe enough. If some ill-intentioned mage showed up, wouldn't the precious potion formulas and research notes get cleaned out in a single night? Witchers' sense of "security" was downright awful!
Eskel added that Kaer Morhen's full anti-theft system also included the "Path" that wound around the keep. It wasn't just a training facility—it was a natural labyrinth.
Without a guide or being told the route in advance, even a mage wouldn't easily find the correct way.
That finally put Victor at ease. Still, with a faintly paranoid streak, he packed up every single concrete result from his improved processes and took them with him. In the alchemy lab, he left only the original Trial of the Grasses materials, plus a handful of untested hypotheses and half-baked assumptions.
…
Riding Faithful out of the Kaer Morhen mountain range, they reached a campsite at the confluence where the Gwenllech joined the Buina. Here, the witchers would split up and go their separate ways.
Vesemir and Eskel planned to head west, crossing the Kestrel Mountains into the Kingdom of Redania. Rumor said there was a basilisk out there.
Victor, meanwhile, intended to go south through Ard Carraigh, the capital of Kaedwen, and then onward to Ban Ard to visit the famous academy of mages.
He wanted to see if he had any chance of becoming a mage himself. Maybe in games, witchers slaughtered everything and looked unstoppable—but in the real world, every book Victor read insisted on the same thing: if you weren't a mage, you were still just an ant.
Even Vesemir, a grandmaster witcher, was wary of mages. Unless he had to, he wouldn't pick a fight with them.
So even though Victor still couldn't sense this so-called Chaos at all, he had to try. People needed dreams. And who knew—maybe he was so absurdly gifted that he couldn't sense it at all. That's how pulp fantasy stories always wrote it.
Lambert decided to go with him.
"The road to Ban Ard isn't that easy," he said. "You need someone to see you part of the way!"
He even pointed at the Wolf School medallion hanging on his chest—quiet now, but it would tremble and warn him if there was magic or monsters nearby.
"Besides, you don't have a shred of magic in you. You don't look like you've got mage potential at all.
When those Ban Ard bitches kick you out with one boot, you'll need old Lambert to comfort you."
Truly an inspirational closing statement.
Victor had planned to refuse the "kindness," borrow some money, and travel alone. But Lambert immediately flared up and demanded to know whether Victor was looking down on witchers—whether he thought walking together would be embarrassing, disgraceful, shameful, so he didn't want to be seen with him.
With things said that far, Victor could only give in.
After thanking Eskel for the coin pouch tossed his way, Victor pulled a few bottles of special potions—made behind closed doors—from the herb satchel slung at his hip. He handed them to Vesemir and Eskel, and the four of them parted ways for now.
…
They weren't in a rush, so Lambert and Victor rode south at an easy pace. The day passed without trouble—until night, when they made camp.
Victor swung a downward strike meant to split the head from the top down.
Lambert stepped diagonally forward, caught the blow in a clash of steel, and counterattacked in the same motion.
He was fast and precise, using the thick part of his blade near the hilt to smash against the thin part of Victor's blade closer to the tip. With leverage doing the rest, Victor's sword was knocked wide—while Lambert's point settled perfectly against Victor's forehead.
In a real fight, with just a little more force, that tip would have gone straight through the skull.
Victor took two steps back, steadied his breathing, then surged forward again, chopping in a reset of the same attack.
This time Lambert changed tactics.
He met the high strike with his own high strike, thick edge to thick edge—then released his left hand from the grip and, in a blink, grabbed the crossing point where the blades met. He yanked back with his left while pushing forward with his right, like turning a wheel toward himself.
That "wheel" forced Victor's arm to twist. His fingers loosened without him even realizing it.
Lambert disarmed him—easily.
Then a clean, brutal right hook slammed into Victor's stomach. The stunned boy folded instantly, dropping to his knees and gagging as he retched into the dirt.
Lambert clicked his tongue. "Tsk, tsk. Two moves and you're already talking about going solo—like you don't need old Lambert with you? Consider that punch a small lesson to help you remember, Vic: you've got a long way to go."
"Ugh—hhk… gnn… we said it was practice, stop at first touch—ugh—hhk… You bastard, you're holding a grudge over everything!" The punch had been controlled, sure—but the spot he picked was absolutely deliberate.
Lambert flicked his blade out of habit, as if to fling off blood that wasn't there, then sheathed it. "Practice is supposed to be memorable. I did stop at 'first touch'—I just touched a little deeper than usual. Vesemir didn't touch deep enough, that's why my face ended up with so many scars! You're already not pretty—add a few more scars and you'll be even less popular. Got it?"
Panting, with Lambert helping him from the side, Victor slowly hauled himself up. Shaking, he returned to the fire and sat down, pulling two potions from his herb satchel and downing them both.
Early spring still carried a bite, but the firelight warmed his face pleasantly.
"Thanks. That was… definitely memorable learning." Victor's mindset stayed steady. Building up a tolerance for getting hit was a good thing—especially when you had enough medical supplies.
"Wasteful," Lambert muttered. "I controlled the force. You don't need healing—by tomorrow you'd have recovered anyway."
"It's fine. If I don't drink them now, they'll spoil in a few days."
Lambert had nothing to say to that. The campfire fell into brief silence.
After a moment, once he'd caught his breath, Victor stood, took up his sword, and saluted Lambert.
"Uh… what's that supposed to mean… You want another round?!"
"Yes. If you run into a setback, you have to go back and face it quickly. Otherwise you get afraid. And if you're afraid, you don't improve."
Lambert's eyes widened in sudden realization. "Oh… so that's why you just drank two bottles…"
Victor said, "One for healing, one to dull the pain. Come on, you old bastard—I can fight you all day!"
Lambert bared his teeth in a grin. "You've got guts, kid. Tonight I'm going to beat you until you can't even swallow your bedtime milk!"