The innermost room on the second floor of the Hairy Bear Inn was where Ramsmeat—the leader of Ramsmeat's gang—often ate, and where he entertained friends.
Tonight he was dining here, with his friend Victor Corion seated across from him. Neither of them was the type to just talk without eating, and both had healthy appetites, so they spoke as they ate.
"I'm really sorry about this. I had some private business yesterday and it delayed the delivery."
"It's fine. We haven't even finished the last batch of healing potions yet. There's no rush."
Reading the hesitation on the other man's face, Victor lowered his lashes, pretending he saw nothing, focusing on the thick soup in front of him—but the attempt to stall didn't work.
Ramsmeat stopped reaching for food. "The world is changing," he said.
Victor set down his chicken leg, dabbed his mouth with a napkin in a practiced, polite way, lifted his cup to take a small sip, then placed it down again—inviting him to continue.
"The shadow of the Catriona plague is fading. The blockades between districts are being lifted. The curfew is over."
"Sounds like all good news."
"But there's a bad side, too. The understanding we had with Salamandra is about to become worthless. Rivalry between gangs is going to turn bloody and brutal again." Ramsmeat's eyes stayed on Victor. "So I can't help thinking—Victor. We've worked together so well. Why can't we deepen that cooperation?"
After a brief silence, Victor shook his head. "Sorry. I'm a witcher apprentice. I stay neutral. And if Salamandra starts trouble, why not let the city guards deal with them?"
"Salamandra has certain powerful people backing them. The city guards have been instructed to sit back and watch. As for neutrality…" Ramsmeat smiled with faint amusement. "After you've sold us this many healing potions, do you really think you're still neutral?"
"Maybe you won't believe it. Maybe you'll think it's ridiculous," Victor replied calmly, "but I'm still trying to hold to the neutrality we've kept for centuries. And since it's a sale, it's an honest transaction. Salamandra just hasn't found me. If they came to me, there's a chance I'd do business with them too.
"Of course, I have no intention of putting myself in their path."
Ramsmeat closed his eyes and said nothing. A silent pressure settled onto Victor's shoulders, but he had no intention of changing his stance.
After a moment, the bald, scar-faced boss opened his eyes again. "I understand. I can accept your neutrality. But what if Salamandra comes after you?"
At that, Victor's gaze sharpened into something dangerous. "Anyone who comes looking for trouble with me—or brings trouble to my doorstep—will regret it in the end, directly or indirectly."
Ramsmeat chuckled. "In negotiations, eyes tell you a lot. Don't show your anger so easily. It only makes it easier for people to see your panic and unease.
"Don't worry. I have no intention of selling you out. I won't do that." His tone softened, almost conversational. "Like I told you a month ago—I like you. I think we've worked well together these past weeks, and you've come to appreciate the way I do things.
"When the tide rises, no one on the shore keeps their feet dry. With how Salamandra throws its weight around, sooner or later you'll end up standing on my side." He rose, wearing a confident smile. "So when you need help, you know how to find me."
With that, he left the room.
After Ramsmeat was gone, Victor felt the urge to smash his cup—because he'd slipped just now, and the man had seen right through him: how much he hated trouble, and the weakness he didn't want exposed.
For now, the boss was still courteous, still restrained. But Victor trusted something else more: if the world changed again, people would change with it.
…
The next day, in the Scoia'tael camp deep in the swamp forest, there wasn't much different from a month ago—except that amid the broken, worn-down look of the place, a lot of brand-new tools and weapons now stood out sharply.
Inside a tent, Victor raised a drink and gulped it down, then let out a sigh. "Alright. Say it. What does Lord Yaevinn want with me?"
The black-haired elf smiled. "Why the sigh, my friend? Must it always be trouble when I come to you? I thought when long-separated friends meet, they start with polite greetings and a hug—not with an attack, demanding to know what the other wants."
Victor answered darkly, "Precisely because we're friends. When you solemnly tell me you want to see me, I worry you're about to ask something that puts me in an impossible position. In fact, I'm almost certain of it."
Yaevinn burst into laughter, laughing so hard he nearly ran out of breath.
Then he thumped his chest. "Relax. It's nothing that difficult. You know the Catriona plague has receded…"
"Yeah," Victor cut in flatly. "And I also know the district lockdowns have ended and the curfew's been lifted. Lately there's not a single person who isn't talking about it."
"Since you already know, I'll be direct." Yaevinn's expression turned intent. "A few months ago, we learned there are elven temple ruins in the sewers beneath Vizima. For a city built on elven ruins, that's not surprising.
"After investigating, we believe a mage from the Elder Days once hid there. He may have left something behind. But just as we were preparing to explore, the spread of Catriona threw everything into chaos."
"District blockades, curfews, the whole city on alert," Victor said.
"Exactly. And now Catriona is gone. If you agree to help—and you promise to keep this confidential—then I'll tell you the details. Will you help your friend Yaevinn?"
"If it won't violate a witcher's neutrality," Victor replied, "then I'm standing here, ready to be put to work."
The elven commander narrowed his long, sharp eyes. "Thank you… A few days ago, I sent a unit into the sewers to scout the ruins. None of them returned. Not one.
"I need a specialist to find out what happened down there.
"You're young, my friend Victor, but whether it was the Archespore contract or the cemetery ghoul incident, you showed professionalism…"
…
That same night, in the sewers beneath the Trade Quarter, the Scoia'tael guide—an outer-ring member—pointed in terror at the corridor ahead, where the passage twisted downward into darkness.
"It's in there. The whole squad—more than ten men—walked in like that, and not a single one came back out."
Victor looked down at him and asked seriously, "Are you sure you've told me every sound you heard?"
The dwarf nodded firmly. "They told me to wait here, so I waited. Everything I heard, I told you."
Victor turned to Angoulême. Her face looked awful—pale, bloodless.
"Every nerve in my body is screaming danger," she said. "Screaming at me to leave this place."
Victor sniffed the air. The corridor was well ventilated; there was no unusual scent. He shook his head.
"Let's go back up first."
They replaced the manhole cover, left the alley, and returned to the Trade Quarter as it grew livelier with every passing hour. After sending the frightened dwarf away, Angoulême's color gradually returned.
Victor closed his eyes and thought. There was definitely something down there—but they didn't have enough information to judge it, and scouting would be dangerously risky.
He opened his eyes. "Yaevinn's commission is a headache. I'm going back to look through the books. Tomorrow in daylight, we'll come back."
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