Braving that brazen, ill-intentioned gaze, the young man forced himself to hold Keira's stare until the herald's clear announcement sounded in his ear:
"Now, let us welcome Master Victor Corion, from Bell Town beyond Zerrikania. He has studied music since the age of four, all so that today he may bring us greetings from the far side of the Blue Mountains, and an immortal legendary epic…"
That introduction sheet was the one Victor had handed to Lily Knight Roderick to submit. You had to establish your image before stepping onto the stage—once your "role" was set, you had room to maneuver. Selling a persona was far easier than selling talent.
Strictly speaking, his verse might not perfectly match local tastes for meter and rhyme, but with the label of exotic flair pinned on it, none of that mattered. All he needed to do was tell a complete story.
He steadied his breathing, then walked onto the stage at an unhurried pace. His plain clothes and unremarkable looks—especially after Dandelion's flamboyance—made the audience's expectations drop straight down. If this weren't a royal hall but a marketplace, he might have been met with boos.
He noticed Foltest turning his head to speak to Mayor Velerad, perhaps asking about him. It didn't matter. Every doubt became irrelevant the moment a lute rested in his hands.
His fingers plucked the strings—notes snapping bright as shattered silver. The sorceress folded her arms. The king closed his eyes.
Victor's voice was clear and luminous, and in an instant he pulled the entire Pure White Hall into his world, guiding them through a story that flowed like a spell.
"Our hero, our hero—he bears a warrior's heart…" He began in a low chant, singing the origin of the champion.
"I tell you, I tell you—the Dragonborn will return…" The hero in his tale was called the Dragonborn. (TN: From Skyrim)
The opening fit perfectly with what people west of the Blue Mountains already believed: that Zerrikanians worshiped dragons. And when the poet spoke of the black dragon Alduin, only a few lines were enough to paint the beast—fangs bared, claws outstretched, ferocity leaping to life.
In his song, in a distant eastern land, an evil black dragon led a host of dragons to devour the world. And only a fearless warrior—the Dragonborn—answered the ancient prophecy: a slayer of dragons who could absorb their souls and unleash a Dragon Shout to stand against them.
The idea that killing a dragon could grant its power differed from local magical common sense, yet it carried a strange, irresistible charm. The novelty won the crowd almost immediately.
As the singing softened, the lute grew sharper and faster—the build-up before the climax struck.
Then they heard him cry out an ancient prayer of the old folk:
"Dovahkiin, Dovahkiin—
He swears by honor: evil will not return.
Hear his victorious roar—
Even the fiercest foe will flee in fear.
Dragonborn—grant us your blessing!"
The voice was vast, rugged, and heroic.
Without realizing it, the king adjusted his posture, settling more comfortably. Keira, too, finally let her arms fall from her chest, her fingertips tapping a rhythm against her thigh.
At last the song ended—and the hall fell into absolute silence, because the performance had far exceeded anything they'd expected.
The tale of the Dragonborn, Dovahkiin, truly was a sweeping heroic epic worth remembering, and Victor's singing struck straight through the heart.
Everyone knew it was good. And so everyone waited for the highest-ranking person in the room to speak first.
The silence held for about a full minute. Then Temeria's king—Foltest the Siegemaster—opened his eyes and beckoned the bard to come closer.
Victor noticed that when the king made that motion, none of the protectors at his side tried to stop it. That meant absolute confidence: even if the poet were an assassin, they believed they could block the strike in time.
Victor stepped forward until he stood before Foltest. The king looked him up and down a few times, then spoke with the weight of a crown:
"A moving story. A splendid telling. Temeria welcomes you."
Then Foltest clapped twice—soft, deliberate. The signal unleashed thunderous applause across the hall.
Victor bowed deeply at just the right depth, gratitude measured and elegant. As he backed away, he even caught Foltest murmuring to Mayor Velerad, "Very good. A pleasant song."
He slipped back to his place and exchanged a look with Dandelion—the silent satisfaction of a job completed. Tonight, both their duties were finished.
Then the Pure White Hall rolled into the second grand act after "The King's Arrival":
"The King's Departure."
As Foltest left, that refined smile never left his face, and so Mayor Velerad, Princess Adda—everyone—was pleased.
Victor couldn't help scanning the crowd for Keira. She'd undermined him all night; if he was going to savor praise, it should be in her direction. And if she truly loved poetry, she couldn't deny how good his performance had been.
But he didn't see the sorceress—only Roderick, giving him a proud thumbs-up.
After the king departed, the banquet loosened back into its earlier, freer rhythm. Anyone who wanted to leave could simply leave. Setting aside any urge to show off, Victor was one of those who wanted to go.
He realized Dandelion had vanished at some point—probably off dazzling a circle of noble ladies again. Victor couldn't be bothered to hunt him down. He walked out of the hall alone, down the corridor, and into the garden.
After turning a few corners, a gentle female voice called out behind him.
"Victor, why didn't you come looking for me? If Dandelion hadn't told me, I wouldn't even know you were in Vizima. Don't I count as a friend of Kaer Morhen?"
Victor jolted, stopped, and turned sharply.
Moonlight poured over her like liquid silver.
Standing before him was the red-haired sorceress—Triss Merigold.
…
Not long after, Victor and Triss sat on a garden bench, keeping the proper distance between friends.
"So Angoulême is traveling with you," Triss said. "Then you should have come to me sooner. Arranging a house for you in the Trade Quarter would be easy." As she spoke, Triss's emerald eyes stayed on Victor—just like Lambert had said. She looked you in the eye when she talked.
"At first it honestly didn't occur to me," Victor admitted. "I had no idea Angoulême knew Dandelion—and knew you, too. And even if I had known, showing up out of nowhere would feel far too abrupt. Like some strange relative suddenly appearing from a distant land."
Triss didn't understand the comparison at first. It took her a moment, then she caught his meaning.
"You're young. Don't carry your thoughts so heavily." The sorceress reached out and gently tapped a finger to his forehead. "This kind of help is nothing. In a few days, bring Angoulême with you. Let's meet and talk properly. And if you run into trouble in Vizima, come to me."
The moment her words ended, the voice Victor had heard undermining people all night rang out again.
"Oh? Any trouble, you can come to you?"
And then, dripping with mockery:
"Merigold the Fearless, indeed. You found a new witcher for your collection that quickly—won't even spare the apprentices, will you?"
Triss's expression hardened. She rose smoothly to face the speaker.
"Keira. I thought you'd already picked tonight's bedmate and gone off to enjoy yourself. I didn't expect you to still be here. Do you need me to prepare a contraceptive potion for you?"
Triss's counterstrike was vicious.
Victor stood up from the bench as well, then felt—deep in his bones—that he shouldn't be here at all. He should be buried underground.
Because the two sorceresses completely ignored his existence and launched into a shouting match filled with language ugly enough to make any well-bred lady blush.
The gist of it was simple:
They were accusing each other of being whores.
Keira mocked Triss for getting over Geralt so quickly and running to a new witcher to sample something fresh. Triss snapped back that it was still better than someone who grabbed anyone she fancied as long as they pleased her eye.
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