"Skree~"
The two Witchers had barely taken a few steps when the large griffin crouched low, letting out a wary, low cry.
Allen exchanged a glance with Vesemir, a suspicion forming in his mind.
"Should we keep going?" Vesemir asked, scratching his head as he eyed the griffin's unfriendly posture.
"Yes."
Allen transmitted calming emotions through their mental link and took the lead, walking into the depths of the cavern where sunlight couldn't reach.
Vesemir glanced back as he followed.
The griffin scraped its claws against the ground, its wings flapping uneasily, though it didn't dare make a sound.
When the Witcher Master locked eyes with the creature, it bared its beak, spread its wings wide in a silent but intimidating display.
"Good girl! Vesemir is a friend; no need for that!"
Allen's voice came from beside him.
The griffin immediately whimpered and folded its wings.
"Well, I'll be damned..." Vesemir clicked his tongue in amazement.
Seeing such a ferocious apex predator behaving like a tamed pet was a staggering experience for a seasoned Witcher like him.
It was like imagining an unreachable, aloof, and regal duchess widow who inherited a vast fortune. To everyone else, she was cold and indifferent, but for the poor neighbor's kid, she was head over heels, willing to give him her all.
"What kind of metaphor is that..." Vesemir shook his head with a self-deprecating chuckle.
"Vesemir?"
"Coming."
Shaking off the strange imagery in his mind, Vesemir caught up in just a few steps.
The "duchess widow" was left behind, anxiously flapping her wings and scratching at the ground.
"Clack-clack-clack~"
The two Witchers soon reached the deepest part of the cave, the very spot where the griffin had been sleeping earlier.
There, nestled in a pile of bones forming a small hill, were eight enormous eggs, each half the height of a man, their shells a rich brownish hue blending seamlessly with the surroundings.
"As expected!"
What could make a female griffin change its nesting habits?
It wasn't hard to guess.
Still, seeing the eggs in person made Allen's heart race with excitement.
"This is a huge surprise!" he exclaimed.
Eight griffin eggs might mean eight griffin riders—or rather, griffin Witchers...
In his mind's eye, he could already see himself leading eight Witchers armed with lances, soaring through the skies and tearing through enemy lines in an exhilarating charge.
"This truly is a big surprise," Vesemir agreed with a hearty laugh. He could tell from Allen's joyful expression what he was imagining.
Not because Vesemir could read minds, but because he was having the same fantasy.
Who wouldn't want to ride a griffin, soaring freely across the skies?
"But this won't be easy," Vesemir added, his gaze fixed on the massive eggs.
"In the past, there have been daring fools who've stolen griffin eggs—or eggs of other monsters—but to this day, no one has successfully tamed a griffin. Uh, well... except for you. You're the only one."
"True, it might be tough," Allen nodded in agreement. "But I have their mother to help me, don't I?"
"That's a good point." Vesemir glanced back at the griffin, which was nervously scraping its claws and twitching its wings. "Who knows? Maybe I'll actually see a group of Witchers flying on griffins at Kaer Morhen someday."
"You'll definitely be one of them!" Allen promised earnestly, "Hopefully, the very first."
"That spot's mine, no question!" Vesemir laughed heartily, not one to refuse such an offer.
"Skree~"
The griffin's tense cry echoed from a distance.
"Where to next?" Vesemir asked, his gaze lingering on the eggs one last time.
Allen squinted as he looked out of the cave. Judging by the bright sunlight outside, it was probably around two or three in the afternoon.
"Back to the inn to grab our things, then we'll head to Ellander. With any luck, we might reach the Temple of Melitele before sunset..."
Vesemir nodded. He hesitated briefly as he glanced at the griffin before asking,
"Do I get to ride that back too?"
"Of course!" Allen replied with a hearty laugh, walking toward the griffin.
--------------------------
Vengerberg
Bang!
A pair of fists, encased in expensive leather gloves, slammed onto a table, spilling crimson wine from a tin-and-silver goblet.
"Hiding, hiding, hiding!" roared the gloves' owner. "The ruler of Aedirn, forced to scurry around his own house like a rat because of a damn flying feathered beast!"
"Am I to believe that in this vast kingdom of mine, not a single brave soul can rid me of this monster? Not one, after all those worthless traitorous dogs of sorcery are gone?!"
"ARGH!" The gloved man bellowed, his rage shaking the room so much that a portrait of a crowned figure gripping a sword tipped askew, looking ludicrously out of place in the stately chamber.
"Answer me, Hand of the King!"
The elderly man with white hair sighed but remained silent.
"Minister of War!"
The balding middle-aged man also stayed mute.
"Your Majesty!"
At that moment, a knight entered the council chamber, sparing them from further wrath.
"Speak!" King Demavend II of Aedirn, his face contorted with fury, waved a hand.
The knight knelt nervously on one knee and reported,
"There have been no citizens taken today, and the provisions for the front lines are intact..."
"Ahhh."
The gathered ministers and courtiers, even the guards and maids, collectively sighed in relief.
"But..."
"But what?!" Demavend's booming voice cut the knight off before he could even hesitate.
Frightened, the knight hurriedly continued,
"But the Vivaldi Bank in the Upper District was destroyed by the griffin, and the dwarves are now at the palace gates demanding an explanation..."
"Demanding an explanation!" Demavend leaped to his feet, slamming his fist onto the table again, cutting the knight off mid-sentence.
The silver goblet tipped over, spilling the red wine onto his luxurious black velvet jacket, further fueling his rage.
Stomp-stomp-stomp!
Demavend stormed down from his ornate high-backed chair and marched to the knight, pointing a gloved finger at his nose as he roared,
"Those damned dwarves dare demand an explanation from me—the King of this land?! Hah! An explanation for what? Tell me!"
The knight instinctively leaned back, swallowing hard.
"They... they're asking for compensation..."
Demavend said nothing, his menacing glare fixed on the knight, as though staring through him to the bankers outside the palace gates.
"And if I don't compensate them?" His voice was unexpectedly calm, yet it terrified the knight even more.
The knight stammered, his voice trembling,
"If... if Your Majesty doesn't compensate them, they... they've threatened to withdraw the Vivaldi Bank from Aedirn."
Before the knight could finish speaking, the balding Minister of War slammed his hand on the table and shouted, "Let them try!"
"Of course, they dare," Demavend said coldly, his earlier fury replaced by an eerie calm.
The Vivaldi Bank was not just an ordinary bank.
It served as the liaison between the northern countries and Mahakam, which, in other words, meant it was the connection to the largest arms dealer in the Northern Continent.
Kings deposited funds and transferred them through this bank, which assessed the strength of nations and provided guarantees for placing orders with Mahakam.
Demavend II was well aware that Kaedwen's strength was not to be underestimated. No—one could even say it was formidable. If not for the sudden and suspicious death of "The Big Eater," Aedirn would have continued silently building its strength.
This meant the war would become a protracted one, with every factor holding significant importance, especially the critical matter of weaponry and equipment.
The most crucial batch of weapons for the war had not yet arrived. A significant stockpile of swords, spears, shields, crossbows, and arrows was still being forged.
"Tell those vampires," Demavend II took a deep breath, suppressing his anger, "that even if my palace is completely destroyed by those damned flying beasts, I will find a way to rebuild their damned, blood-of-Aedirn-sucking, ornate coffins first..."
"Should we really say that to the dwarves?" A knight froze for a moment. "Vampires and coffi—"
"Of course not!" The elderly man, referred to as the King's Hand, interjected before the king, in his fury, could hurt himself by punching an armored knight.
"Just tell them that His Majesty and the Royal Council will find a way to repair the Vivaldi Bank as soon as possible."
"Yes!" The knight, realizing his earlier misstep, bowed to the king and the other ministers in the council chamber and hurried out.
"Don't get upset, Your Majesty." The King's Hand, seeing Demavend II's face turn purple with anger, quickly tried to calm him. "Most of the experienced knights like Terek and his veterans have gone to the battlefield. It's inevitable that the rookies don't know proper protocol."
"Yes, yes," other ministers chimed in support.
"Your health is of utmost importance, Majesty. You are the one who will lead us to victory against those hypocritical, cruel, despicable Kaedweni nobles and their mages."
Demavend II took a deep breath, waved his hand, and sat back in his high-backed chair.
A servant quickly wiped the damp table clean and poured him another glass of wine.
"Glug~"
He roughly downed the fine wine in one gulp and turned his gaze toward an unremarkable-looking middle-aged man at the table:
"Have you figured out what caused the northern anomaly last night?"
"It still requires some time," the middle-aged man shook his head.
Demavend II did not press further. Placing the mages under lock and key meant some delays in intelligence gathering. Still, compared to the risk of having his intelligence leaked, this was a minor issue.
The servant refilled his wine glass. Just as he raised it for another sip, something crossed his mind. He set the glass down and asked:
"What about Houghton Qui-Gon… Any findings from Vergen?"
The middle-aged man's expression changed slightly, though only for a brief moment. It did not escape Demavend II's sharp eyes.
"What's the matter?" he asked, frowning.
The middle-aged man hesitated for a while before finally sighing under the king's increasingly piercing gaze: "There was news a few days ago. Lord Houghton intercepted the guards inspecting mages and prevented them from using detection tools before allowing a caravan into the city..."
Demavend II raised his eyebrows. "And then?"
"Our men followed and counted heads, only to find that nine people were missing." The middle-aged man reported truthfully.
Then, as if worried the king might misinterpret the situation, he paused and added a defense for Houghton Qui-Gon: "Although Lord Houghton has consistently denied it, as someone Your Majesty trusts, loyal to the kingdom, there is no way he would collaborate with the mages. Those individuals are most likely Witchers from the School of the Wolf."
"But… nine people is quite a lot," the King's Hand interjected. "I am not questioning Lord Houghton's loyalty—there is no doubt about that—but Witchers from the School of the Wolf usually operate alone or in pairs, with one being a traveling mentor and the other an apprentice…"
Demavend II remained silent, seemingly deep in thought.
The middle-aged man waited for the King's Hand to finish before speaking respectfully: "Lord Mars' reasoning is sound. However, in our subsequent investigations, we discovered that on the night before Lord Houghton intercepted the guards, there had been an alarm at his residence. The patrolling guards were dismissed by Lord Houghton himself…"
"The lock on the second floor of his residence was damaged, and the marks resembled those left by Aard, a sign used by Witchers from the School of the Wolf."
"Moreover, while the nine individuals did not carry the signature dual swords of Witchers, they looked like mercenaries. Among them, eight were particularly young, no older than fifteen…"
The King's Hand fell silent, as the conclusion was becoming evident.
After a moment of hesitation, the King's Hand said: "Lord Houghton might have acted this way because our commission was rejected by the Witchers. His resistance to the guards' inspection may stem from that. After all, Your Majesty knows he is a staunch and pure-hearted dwarf."
"A pure-hearted dwarf…" Demavend II drummed his fingers on the armrest and muttered bitterly, "Haven't I treated him well enough?"
"Of course, that's not—" The King's Hand's attempt to defend the dwarf was cut short by a raised hand from the king.
Demavend II turned to the middle-aged man. "And then? Those nine people simply vanished into thin air in my kingdom? During wartime security measures!"
"Our men have tracked them," the middle-aged man quickly explained. "The nine individuals appear to be near Vengerberg, though we have yet to confirm their exact location. That's why we didn't report earlier—"
"How many days?" Demavend II interrupted.
"Two days! No more than two days!" the middle-aged man swore. "If I fail to bring them here within two days, I will personally request to be sent to the frontlines to fight alongside the prisoners of war for the kingdom!"
Demavend II slammed the table decisively. "Fine, I'll give you two days. But no violence. Treat them with respect and invite them over. If Duke of Ellander can offer the School of the Wolf certain benefits, we can double—no, triple that!"
"Mahakam is already crowded with the Melitele temple, Ellander Castle, and the dwarven settlements. Too cramped!"
"Let them come to Aedirn. The eastern outskirts of Vengerberg, anywhere around the Adrel Mountains—they can choose any site they like. I'll cover all the costs for building their fortress!"
Demavend II's words were bold and generous. The ministers and guards flattered him in unison, though the King's Hand, with his graying hair, remained deeply worried.
When the council chamber finally quieted down, the King's Hand hesitated for two seconds before speaking:
"Your Majesty, the School of the Wolf… adheres strictly to neutrality. Perhaps… perhaps we should consider negotiating peace with Kaedwen…"
"Woo—"
Before the King's Hand could finish, just as Demavend II's brows furrowed in preparation to scold him, an alarm horn suddenly echoed from outside the palace.
"What's happening?" Demavend II roared.
"Clang! Clang! Clang!"
The knight who had just left to deliver the message to the dwarves stumbled back into the chamber, shouting:
"Your… Your Majesty, monsters… monsters are here again!!!"
"What!"
The king and the ministers in the council chamber simultaneously leaped up in alarm.
"Boom!"
A skewed portrait of Demavend II, depicting him crowned and holding a sword, fell to the ground with a crash.
.....
📢20 advanced chapters on p@treaon📢
For advance chapters: p@treon.com/Uchiha_Itachi007 (replace @ with a)
355. The Truth Exposed?
356. The Purpose of Vilgfortz.
357. The Next Conjunction of spheres.
358. If Only You Were My Child.
359. How to Deal with Ban Ard?
"Your Majesty… Your Majesty, please… please come with me quickly…"
"Lord Faol…"
"Let His Majesty go first!"
The council chamber was instantly thrown into chaos, a scene of frantic disarray.
For nearly a month now, the Royal Griffin had developed a regular pattern of harassment, showing up in the mornings and leaving before noon.
As a result, King Demavend II and his key court ministers had adapted to this routine—spending their mornings hiding in the newly constructed underground chambers or private rooms in the palace, only to return in the afternoons to discuss national and military affairs.
Why not hold meetings underground all the time?
Would the King's dignity allow such a thing?
How could the court deliberate a nation's future like a group of rats, constantly hiding in the shadows?
"This is disgraceful! Absolutely disgraceful!"
King Demavend II roared in fury, though his heart was filled with a rising sense of dread.
The Royal Griffin altering its usual pattern of attack was no trivial matter.
If the palace was already in such disarray, he didn't need to imagine how chaotic the situation must be in and around Vengerberg.
The hard-won order would undoubtedly crumble in an instant.
Worse still, during peacetime, this might have been manageable, merely resulting in a slight blemish on the royal family's reputation.
But now!
Especially now, when the frontline was seeing significant success!
Because of the Royal Griffin's attacks, the supplies destined for the frontlines—scheduled for transport this afternoon—were already struggling to meet demand.
The grumbles from within the city had been growing louder, with the complaints from the Vivaldi Bank merely being the tip of the iceberg.
If the Royal Griffin wasn't dealt with soon, no amount of effort would allow him to hold out for even… no, perhaps not even half a month.
Demavend II dared not even think what might happen if the Royal Griffin began attacking twice a day. If this continued, the frontlines would collapse in no time.
Forget half a month; perhaps it would take less than three days for the entire royal court to be engulfed by protests.
Merchants and nobles would use every means to obstruct the war effort, potentially leading to riots or even a palace coup.
"Damn beast, of all times… of all times!"
Demavend II roared as his attendants hurriedly escorted him out of the council chamber.
His eyes fell on a trampled portrait on the floor, its wooden frame broken.
It depicted his own sharp and ambitious gaze from when he first ascended the throne. Now, it seemed to silently mock him.
Is this your ambition?
Will the vow you made before the late king's tomb end like this?
All because of a flying beast?
"Never! I will never allow it to end like this!" Demavend II shouted.
"Your Majesty! Hurry! The Royal Griffin is already here!" the Hand of the King urged.
"Boom!"
The grand wooden doors of the council chamber slammed shut, cutting off the king's view of his portrait, as if sealing away the dream of a nation's revival.
"Ah!"
The chaos outside the council chamber was even greater. Palace servants, overwhelmed by the familiar oppressive air, ran about like headless flies.
"Don't block the way! Step aside! Let His Majesty through!"
Surrounded by guards, Demavend II and his ministers finally pushed through the crowd, rushing down the long corridor toward the underground chambers.
Demavend II waved off the attendants trying to steady him, walking with his head down and brows tightly knit, lost in thought.
The other ministers, understanding the king's foul mood, held their breath, not daring to provoke him.
"Clack, clack, clack~"
For a time, the only sounds in the long corridor were their footsteps and the distant noise of the city's turmoil coming through the windows.
The silver-haired Hand of the King, Duke Mars, sighed softly, quickening his pace to whisper near the king's ear: "Your Majesty, it's time to consider it."
"Consider what?" Demavend II turned his head, asking reflexively.
But when he saw the Hand of the King's expression, his pale, sweat-dappled face instantly flushed red.
"Are you advising me to end the war?!"
Demavend II halted abruptly, scanning the surrounding ministers.
He noticed that even the typically silent intelligence minister was lowering his head, saying nothing.
The military minister, who usually scoffed at any suggestion of negotiation, stood silently staring at the stone walls of the corridor as though they held the secret to Aedirn's conquest of Kaedwen.
"Your Majesty, the losses are still manageable. Kaedwen hasn't realized yet. Missing this opportunity would be disastrous!"
The Hand of the King stumbled forward another step, imploring him.
Demavend II stared at him, his eyes wide, but said nothing.
"This place is too dangerous. Let's leave, Lord Mars," a royal guard interrupted.
At that moment—
"Caw!"
The oppressive cry of the Royal Griffin suddenly echoed near the corridor's windows.
"Danger! Get down!"
Everyone instinctively crouched, pressing against the walls.
"Whoosh~"
The wind in the corridor intensified, lifting their robes and hair. But it lasted only a moment before dying down again.
"That… that creature, did it fly away?"
A young, rash knight peered out the window, astonished.
"What?!"
Once the danger had passed, the group cautiously approached the corridor windows.
The familiar, loathsome figure of the Royal Griffin soared in the clear sky, flapping its wings as it flew westward.
"What's that? Is the Royal Griffin carrying something in its talons?" someone asked curiously.
"Two horses, two black horses!" the military minister confirmed. "And they're alive!"
At that moment, Demavend II noticed the intelligence minister's sudden reaction—a look of disbelief crossing his face as though he had pieced something together.
The Royal Griffin's figure gradually disappeared into the distant sky.
"It's gone. Do we… still need to leave?" someone asked.
Everyone exchanged glances. After the earlier chaos, they were all disheveled. The minister in charge of the royal treasury had only one shoe on his foot.
Yet no one laughed or joked. They were all equally embarrassed.
"Let's go," Demavend II sighed. "If the Royal Griffin comes back, are we to flee a second time?"
Refusing assistance from his attendants, he led the group toward the underground chambers.
Though it lacked a grand name like the "council chamber," the room itself was tastefully furnished—adorned with expensive court paintings, high-backed chairs carved with Aedirn's founding myths, and a soft burgundy carpet.
Other than the damp and dim atmosphere, it was even slightly larger than the council chamber.
"Clap~"
The door shut.
The king and his ministers sat in silence for a long time before finally beginning to discuss the matter with the Vivaldi Bank. But their minds were elsewhere.
Until—
"Clap~"
The door opened.
A young man entered, whispered a few words to the intelligence minister, then left.
"The commotion in the city has already subsided. Other than a few people getting injured at the beginning, there's not much damage."
"And nothing was destroyed…"
The middle-aged man paused before continuing, "The Royal Griffin… it seems to have just passed through…"
"Passed through…" Everyone in the basement found this absurd.
Never mind whether a Royal Griffin would act so human-like; over the past month, this monster had angrily shown up every morning without fail, more punctual than the ministers discussing state affairs.
With such a display of hatred, even if it were humanized, it should at least stomp around and spit before leaving.
"Could it be a different griffin?" someone asked.
"It's the same one," the middle-aged man confirmed. "The feathers on its wings, its size and shape—everything matches."
The group fell silent.
Not because they had nothing to say, but because there was too much to say, and they didn't know where to start.
"No losses is always a good thing," the Hand of the King tapped the table with his finger and then looked at Demavend II. "But Your Majesty still needs to think carefully and make a decision soon."
Think about what?
Everyone in the room knew, but none of them spoke. They didn't even dare look at Demavend II sitting at the head of the table.
Bright candlelight flickered in the darkness, casting overlapping, wavering shadows on the walls.
"I will think about it carefully," Demavend II let out a long sigh, waving his hand in exhaustion. "Dismissed."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
Everyone stood, bowed, and left.
"Creak—"
The door opened.
"Kurt, stay behind," Demavend II said.
The middle-aged man in charge of intelligence froze mid-step as he reached the doorway.
The Hand of the King and the Minister of War exchanged a subtle glance.
"Bang—"
The door shut.
The candlelight wavered silently for a moment.
Demavend II stood up and positioned himself before an oil painting. The painting depicted a crowned king astride a horse, pointing a sword skyward.
Before the king stood a ferocious elf with long ears, and behind him were human knights cheering.
"Do you think we should cease the war?" Demavend II asked without turning around.
"Your will is my will, Your Majesty," the middle-aged man replied, placing a hand over his chest.
Demavend II nodded, as if seeing the man's respectful demeanor behind him.
His gaze shifted to a small, inconspicuous corner of the painting—a man in nondescript gray with an indistinct face.
"The Monton family has been loyal for generations. I trust you," Demavend II paused. "When that monster attacked, what were you thinking? Why did you seem surprised?"
The middle-aged man raised his head in astonishment, hesitating for a moment before replying, "A baseless, unfounded guess…"
"What guess?" Demavend II turned around.
The middle-aged man hesitated for a few more seconds. "The griffin was carrying two black horses…"
"Yes, and then?"
"The group of mercenaries suspected to be Witchers of the Wolf School—their two leaders were also riding black horses. Moreover…" The man paused again. "The direction the griffin flew was exactly where I had sent people to track their movements."
"You think the monster's unusual behavior is because of the Witchers?" Demavend II's eyes lit up as he stepped closer.
"No," the man shook his head. "It's just that we were discussing those Witchers earlier, so I was suddenly reminded…"
"That's it," Demavend II began pacing excitedly in the basement. "Otherwise, how could that damned beast have just passed through without destroying or taking anything?"
"It didn't even kill the two horses, did it? For such a violent and stupid creature, why wouldn't it kill those two black horses?"
"Could it be…"
Demavend II's eyes grew brighter and brighter.
"Could it be that the Witchers tamed that damned beast?"
"Your Majesty!" The middle-aged man couldn't help but raise his voice to interrupt. "Your Majesty, such a thing has never happened before. No one has ever tamed a large magical beast, not even sorcerers, let alone Witchers!"
"Just because it hasn't happened doesn't mean it's impossible. How could those damned sorcerers compare to the masters of the Wolf School?"
"Your Majesty, they've even been avoiding the people we sent, deliberately hiding their whereabouts…"
"The Wolf School adheres to neutrality, but the atrocities Kaedwen's despicable sorcerers and nobles committed against them are well known. They're just avoiding unnecessary trouble caused by those damned sorcerers and nobles… That's it… It must be!"
"Your Majesty!"
"It must be the Witchers! It must be the Witchers!" Demavend II's bloodshot eyes looked ferocious, like a wounded beast, as he roared at the middle-aged man.
The dim candlelight flickered timidly, the shadows trembling with fear.
The middle-aged man remained silent, merely watching Demavend II quietly.
"My apologies," Demavend II took a deep breath, patting the man's shoulder.
"I just… I just…" He looked at the painting of the king astride his horse, sword pointing to the heavens. "It's been twenty years. My father, my elder brother, my uncles… your father… Kaedwen killed our kin. I want revenge… revenge… This is the only chance. If we miss it, it's gone forever. Do you understand, Kurt?"
Listening to the king's near-delirious voice, feeling the increasingly strong grip on his shoulder, the middle-aged man sighed softly. "Your Majesty, I will bring the Witchers back. I will. For certain."
Demavend II was silent for a moment before asking, "Is it really impossible?"
The middle-aged man shook his head. "If something has never happened before, what else could it be but impossible—unless… a miracle occurs."
"A miracle…" Demavend II sighed again, gazing back at the painting, at his invincible ancestor.
"A miracle indeed…"
--------------------------
Meanwhile.
Allen was aware the Royal Griffin's flight would cause unrest, but he hadn't expected it to almost prompt a ceasefire between Aedirn and Kaedwen.
Even if he had known, there wasn't much he could do.
The Royal Griffin wasn't like a modern airliner with radar and a navigator.
Allen needed to fly low along rivers and cities with recognizable landmarks to find his way back to the inn. High-altitude flying wouldn't work, as everything on the ground would look like a blur.
Perhaps in the future, the Royal Griffin would memorize a few key locations and navigate on its own, but for now, it wasn't possible.
"Good girl, wait for us here," Allen patted the griffin's beak after landing in the woods mentioned in Vilgefortz's provocative letter.
"Caw—"
The Royal Griffin nudged Allen gently, causing him to stagger and almost fall over.
Vesemir chuckled softly as the two Witchers dismounted and led their horses out of the forest.
The reason they didn't ride was not due to the terrain being unsuitable, but because the horses were trembling too much to be ridden.
Both Witchers cast Axii signs to calm the animals, allowing them to leave the forest smoothly.
Before long, they returned to the village where the inn was located.
But as soon as they entered the village through its ramshackle wooden fence, Allen and Vesemir simultaneously raised their eyebrows.
"This place… feels off…"
.....
📢20 advanced chapters on p@treaon📢
For advance chapters: p@treon.com/Uchiha_Itachi007 (replace @ with a)
356. The Purpose of Vilgfortz.
357. The Next Conjunction of spheres.
358. If Only You Were My Child.
359. How to Deal with Ban Ard?
360. Kaedwen, the Omen of a Fallen Kingdom?
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