The next morning, Victor picked up his interrupted habit of morning runs again. Yesterday he'd given himself the day off—because he'd had such a good time drinking with Dandelion.
That "instant rapport" people talk about was exactly what had happened between the apprentice and the poet. They clicked naturally. Once they got drunk, they started splitting hairs over wording, showing off obscure references, swapping gossip, and mocking the kings of the North—according to them, west of the Blue Mountains there wasn't a single king who wasn't a joke.
Even the lines Angoulême always called "weird" or "nonsense," Dandelion could somehow catch the humor in. Like, "Please, begin your performance," paired with the gesture of one arm extended, palm up. The bard declared it "a sharp and brilliant satire of this absurd world."
Jogging along his usual route, Victor noticed several barricades had begun to come down. As the plague quieted with the colder weather, just as Griffarin—the Hairy Bear's owner—had said, Vizima was still Vizima: one of the North's busiest cities, a place that never truly slept.
When he returned to his front door, he heard voices inside. One of them was Dandelion's.
For the small, universal wickedness shared by all humans, Victor didn't open the door right away. Instead, he drifted closer to the window and listened.
"I still can't believe it. How could they do that? How can humans be so ungrateful?" Dandelion's tone was dramatic, as if he were narrating the "Rivia massacre" firsthand. "One day Geralt helps them by driving off drowners at the river, and the next day they come charging at us with swords, hoes, and pitchforks."
"Yeah, I always thought he was too softhearted. One day it was bound to get him hurt." Angoulême added her own wildly embellished details. "Shani, you know what the bastard who stabbed him did? One second he was on his knees, begging him not to kill him. Then the moment Geralt took his sword off his throat, that shaggy-haired young man drove a pitchfork straight into his belly. I was so furious I drew my blade and chopped his hand right off on the spot."
"Dandelion, don't do this. Geralt wouldn't want you to keep torturing yourself," Shani soothed gently, then turned her warmth into a scolding aimed at the wild girl. "And Angoulême—stop adding those details."
…Victor listened a little longer. When the conversation seemed to ease, he was about to push the door open—when a vague, blurry sense flickered across his mind.
Something about what the three of them had just said felt… off.
Not anything serious—just a faint, stubborn mismatch.
If he had to compare it to something, it was like staring at a nudist beach from far away. You might not be able to make out everyone's face, but you would absolutely notice the one person wearing a bikini.
Then the mismatch vanished as quickly as it had appeared—like that bikini suddenly disappearing too, leaving you squinting all you wanted and still unable to find it again, because now everyone looked the same.
With a helpless shake of his head, Victor went into the dining room. Shani, Dandelion, and Angoulême were at the table, enjoying the special breakfast Chef Victor had made before he left for his run.
When he came in, Angoulême grinned and pulled out a chair for him. Victor greeted the three of them politely and sat.
"Morning. Sorry I'm back a bit late—I went out for my run. What were you talking about? Any interesting stories?"
Shani glanced at him. "About getting a kid drunk—I just chewed Dandelion out. His explanation is that the two of you found kindred spirits in music, so he couldn't help having a few extra cups. Do you have anything you want to add to that?" As she spoke, she speared a small piece of bacon and slid it between her thin lips, chewing calmly.
Seeing the doctor's half-smiling expression—and the bard's helpless look as he avoided her gaze—Victor felt like he'd just sat down to a question designed to kill him.
But of course, Victor's conscience wouldn't let him shove all the blame onto someone else. He nodded. "Yeah. I haven't met a friend I really connect with musically in a long time, so I had a few extra cups."
"Here." Shani picked up a piece of bread and tore it in half—one piece for herself, one dropped into Victor's soup bowl. "I've known you this long, and I never even knew you could play the lute. When did you start learning?"
That was a good question.
Angoulême's round eyes gleamed with curiosity—because she didn't know her captain's musical history either. The first time she learned he could play was back in Vergen, when he performed on a whim while drinking… and then got thrown out of the tavern with the dwarves.
Dandelion—Victor's newest kindred spirit—also paused his eating and leaned in, clearly ready to listen. He extended his arm, palm up, like a stage presenter.
"Tell your story. Please, begin your performance!"
Victor burst out laughing at once. The two women, obviously, couldn't understand what was so funny.
He laughed for a while before finally settling down. Then, seeing the three of them waiting for an answer, Victor tilted his head, thought about how to respond, cleared his throat, and decided to tell the truth.
"Back in my hometown, Bell Town, I always believed I was someone special. But I could never figure out what made me special. So I started thinking… maybe one day I'd make a life in the arts—playing music, singing songs, living as an artist.
"So when I was four, I started learning staff notation and playing the lute. When I was five, I wrote my first tune—Frère Jacques. That same year I wrote my second and third tunes: Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star, and London Bridge Is Falling Down… At six…"
The three of them listened very seriously. From Victor's description, it sounded like the birth of a musical prodigy—lots of people were born confident, but very few actually showed extraordinary talent.
"Until I was nine. That's when my grandmother handed me a stirring rod and a cauldron and told me to try it. And then I learned alchemy—proof that I didn't need music and poetry to be special. I already was."
Dandelion shook his head and cut in. "I don't agree with that. The way you say it makes it sound like—because you learned alchemy—art and poetry aren't as important anymore.
"That's wrong. There are plenty of people who can do alchemy. Any street swindler can put on a little show with a few simple tricks.
"But the piece you played yesterday—'With You'—the rhythm is inventive, the melody is expansive, the tone is rich with feeling. I believe… if you keep moving in that direction, your name will be carved into history—as a great musician."
At Dandelion's overpraise, Victor just shook his head and said nothing. "Great musician" was a joke. He knew himself clearly—he was only a great transporter of things.
Those cultural treasures were his most precious memories. They could count as part of his ability. He wouldn't throw them away out of pride, or refuse to use them out of false modesty—but he also wouldn't shamelessly claim them as his own, to the point he lost sight of who he was.
Shani picked up the thread. "So that means… out of the four of us at this table, I'm the only one who hasn't heard you play? Vic, aren't you ashamed?"
Facing the doctor's authoritative stare, the witcher apprentice made a face. "I'm deeply regretful. I promise you, Shani—if I get the chance, I'll play just for you."
Angoulême chimed in at exactly the wrong time. "Just playing isn't enough. At the very least, you should write a brand-new piece for my sister Shani!"
The bard clapped instantly in approval. In his own experience, inspiration tended to burst forth most often in the presence of a muse—so since Victor had such creative talent, he should use it while he was still young.
Wonderful, Angoulême. Your allowance is officially capped for the next year—locked tight, no room to rise. In fact, it might be time to review whether it should be cut.
Victor smiled brightly and nodded. "No problem. I'll write Shani a song." Copy a good one, make his friends happy—no big deal.
Dandelion chuckled and raised his cup. "At least in my eyes, becoming a musician is far, far better than becoming a witcher."
The moment the words left his mouth, he knew he'd said the wrong thing. Not wanting the mood to sink again, he hurried to explain, "No—no, that's not what I meant."
Victor simply smiled and waved it off, signaling that he didn't need to worry about it.
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