Victor's lunch conversation with Shani was genuinely fulfilling. She was energetic, open-minded, and kind—a doctor with a big heart.
Since they were both carrying herb satchels, once they exchanged names it was easy to find common ground—the Catriona plague unfolding right in front of them.
After sharing symptoms, treatments, and what they'd seen firsthand, Shani politely told the witcher apprentice that she'd accomplished what she came out of the city for this morning. Now that lunch was finished, she needed to return to the hospital and keep working.
There was no lingering farewell. Victor stood as well, escorted her courteously to a point not far from the gate, then said goodbye and left.
Even though Doctor Shani was one of the rare people who could freely enter and exit through the city gates, Victor didn't ask her for help. No matter how well a conversation clicked, they had only just met.
Still, simply meeting her was more than enough to put Victor in a good mood. Being with her felt like accidentally running into a favorite celebrity while out shopping—
Ah! This was Shani—Miss Shani—the one who, in the games, shared a lot of sincere, heartfelt moments with Geralt. Even if they didn't end up together, the whole thing was undeniably romantic.
He still remembered how, every time he played as Geralt, he'd always part from her with a faint sense of regret… then turn around and swear eternal vows to Triss or Yennefer.
Sigh… Geralt really was a sinful man.
And, by Melitele above, Shani had an amazing figure!
Smiling as he replayed their conversation in his head frame by frame, Victor suddenly sensed something—something subtly off.
Like watching a massive line-dance in a town square from above: a thousand people turning right in perfect, joyful unison… and one single person turning left, jarringly out of rhythm.
But when he tried to pin it down, that feeling of discord was hazy and weightless, impossible to grasp. No matter how he thought about it, he couldn't find an answer, and in the end he could only set it aside.
…
Late at night, after the patrolling guards passed, Victor followed a Salamandra thug called Red Dog and slipped into the cool summer water of the moat. They climbed up a grate that looked intact but had, in fact, been sawed through, then crawled into Vizima's spacious, reeking sewers.
Spacious in the elven-built sense—wide enough for five people to walk abreast.
Reeking in the sense that the city's "finest essence" had all been concentrated into one place, and the result was powerful enough to make your eyes water.
The sewer system ran deep underground, a web of tunnels like a labyrinth. Without someone who knew the route, a first-timer could get lost easily. And thinking about what might be lurking down here—rotfiends, maybe, or kikimores—Victor didn't even dare smear on scent-blocking salve, because those monsters' strong, distinctive odors were the best warning he could ask for.
Fighting back the sting in his nose, he followed Red Dog in silence while reflecting on the day's decisions—what he'd gained, what he'd lost, and what mistakes he'd made.
…
At noon, in the tavern kitchen, Old Bad-Knee had mentioned proving devotion to a priest through "sufficient offerings," and Victor's first instinct had been that it was just another problem that could be solved by throwing enough orens at it.
Unfortunately, the priests of the Eternal Fire had slapped that notion straight out of his face.
Founded centuries ago in the free city of Novigrad, the Church of the Eternal Fire took as its primary symbol a flame that never died—hope made visible. In recent years it had grown into a major religion with tremendous influence across the Northern Kingdoms.
Its followers believed the undying flame was the symbol of survival, a guide that pierced the dark, an omen of a better tomorrow. That was why, in the Eternal Fire's temples, the blaze never went out.
But to Victor, it looked like a borderline c*lt. They didn't have a complete doctrine—just broken-up slogans and ritual fragments—and the most obvious feature of all was this: once you joined, you couldn't leave. They didn't accept believers walking away.
And the consequence of not taking someone else's faith seriously was getting shut down hard by a truly devout priest. The priest didn't want money—he wanted Victor to join the Eternal Fire, then complete a whole chain of "trials" to prove his devotion.
Like lighting five outdoor devotional bonfires at night, or earning the trust of three "respectable" locals.
Touching his nose, Victor realized he'd made a classic mistake: acting with incomplete information. He immediately backed off, returned to the tavern, and started over—letting orens clear the way as he bought every scrap of useful intelligence about the outskirts until he had the whole situation straight.
And that was how he learned one piece of news that was hard to label purely good or bad.
The Order of the White Rose had dissolved—reorganized as the Order of the Flaming Rose.
They had a new leader: Jacques de Aldersberg, a devout believer in the Eternal Fire.
They had a new goal: purge the monsters haunting Vizima and the surrounding region, and protect human residents from the threat of nonhumans.
And that new goal told Victor everything he needed to know. The new Grand Master, Jacques, was a human supremacist. He ordered his knights to deal with the Scoia'tael the same way they dealt with monsters—and to blame every human hardship and disaster on the "harm" done by nonhuman races.
That kind of talk sold well among common folk. People liked—needed—someone they could pin their anger and resentment on.
In short, the good news was that Falwick of Moën had, because of this, lost a great deal of force he could previously call upon.
The bad news was that Victor knew the name Order of the Flaming Rose far too well. In the future, they would become one of the main pillars of the Northern witch hunts.
The one thing that puzzled him was why they were here in Vizima, swearing loyalty to Foltest. In Victor's memory, the Order of the Flaming Rose should've been Radovid V's club of hired fists… right?
…
As for the so-called "merchants" who controlled a way into the city—turns out they were a criminal organization calling itself Salamandra.
They ran all kinds of "business," the sort of people who'd do anything, and that included smuggling. Lately, they'd begun selling weapons into the forests to the Scoia'tael.
With enough information in hand, negotiating with them wasn't difficult. Victor didn't need to draw his steel sword the way Old Bad-Knee had warned. Once they agreed on a price, the thug called Red Dog led him in.
Red Dog did his job well: he knew the route, moved lightly, and kept a brisk pace. Guiding someone through a dark, stinking sewer was miserable work, so Victor decided he'd give him a little extra once they got there.
At last, after rounding another bend, Red Dog led Victor up a long, straight ladder. He shoved aside a drain cover that wasn't properly sealed, and they emerged beneath a sky strewn with bright stars.
The last time Victor had paid special attention to constellations was when he'd camped with Lambert. Now Pegasus still hung high above—while the Winter Maiden had already sunk out of sight.
"Heh-heh… mercenary," Red Dog said, voice a little sharp, like it hadn't fully broken yet. Dressed in black waterproof gear with a strip of black cloth over his face, he looked like a shadow with teeth. "Welcome to Vizima!"
Victor glanced at the Salamandra tattoo on the thug's exposed arm, then answered in a roughened voice, "Thanks." Victor's own face was wrapped tight as well. He had no desire to let a criminal gang latch onto him.
He tossed his cloak—reeking of filth—back down into the sewer, then flicked Red Dog five orens as a tip.
And in moments, Victor vanished into the tight, twisting alleys of the Old Town.
…
Later, people told the story like this:
He came from the east, through the Merchants' Gate.
He rode a magnificent steed, and the wisdom in his eyes shone like morning stars.
He was the first, and the last.
He was the one who bears the flame.