"Impossible."
Vesemir shook his head. "We just passed through Drakenborg. Even the Royal Griffin there kept its pressure in check."
"And after landing, we searched for your traces for quite a long time at the end of the Duppa River."
"If a Foglet had left even a trace there, there's no way we would have missed it."
Danthe furrowed his brow at these words.
"Master Danthe," Erni chimed in at that moment, "The captain searched the area thoroughly back then. All he found were some ordinary beasts. Using the same tracking method—"
He glanced at Allen, then paused and corrected himself: "Using the same method, the captain was able to locate you hiding in a bear den from nearly a kilometer away..."
"Hmm?" Danthe froze. What kind of tracking could discover someone from that far?
Wait a second!
I never told Allen and the others I was hiding in a bear den!
Danthe shot Erni a deep look. Seeing how Erni was clearly trying to cover something up, he didn't press further, but his curiosity about Allen only deepened.
"I'm not doubting Allen or Vesemir," he shook his head, "But the one who filed the contract isn't some careless child. Montecalvo, in the past few years, has suffered monster attacks from the aftermath of the Falka Uprising. Because of its remote location, they've mostly had to rely on passing witchers to take contracts."
"They have no reason to offend a witcher by fabricating a fake Foglet."
"Maybe they mistook a Leshen for a Fog—"
"No!" Allen suddenly cut off Danthe. "The Foglet was fabricated!"
The dried-up riverbed fell into silence.
No one had expected Allen to be so assertive.
"What did you find?"
Vesemir noticed his expression and stepped forward, uneasily.
Allen's face darkened. "Bond was knocked out by someone here!"
In an instant—
"What?! Bond was drugged?!"
"Who had the guts to do that?!"
...
The noise burst out, then abruptly fell silent.
All eyes turned to Danthe—including Allen's.
Bond hadn't suffered any major wounds, and with the body of a witcher, there was no way he'd suddenly faint from blood loss.
This was the wilderness. Hunters and loggers wouldn't venture this deep.
Moreover, when Bond encountered the intruder, he wasn't alert—instead, he stood on tiptoe, greeting them excitedly, only to be drugged up close. Whoever approached him must've been someone he recognized.
Considering the kind of toxin that could knock out a witcher, this had clearly been planned long in advance.
After all, what kind of acquaintance would a freshly graduated witcher have in a remote place like this?
"Danthe! Did you encounter any warlocks in Montecalvo?" Vesemir immediately thought of their age-old foes—the mages of the Viper School.
"No..." Bond frowned. "Montecalvo is just a tiny town of less than a thousand. The most prominent family is the House family. Their patriarch is merely a hereditary baron. Where would they get the resources to recruit a warlock?"
"Besides, the House family has no ties to magic. Not even an apprentice mage appears in their bloodline."
"Are you close with them?" Vesemir asked.
Bond shook his head. "I don't know the current patriarch well, but I knew his father."
"Old House—also known as Limping House—broke his leg falling off a horse during the Falka Uprising."
"But that broken leg earned him a baron title. Otherwise, based on his contributions alone, he wouldn't have made the cut for ennoblement."
"Still, he was a good man. A generous employer too."
"Back when he was alive, I used to visit every few years to have a drink with him."
"After his death more than a decade ago, I mostly took pre-booked contracts and rarely came back to Montecalvo."
"This time, since I was bringing an apprentice, I decided to swing by."
"I never expected…"
Danthe's voice grew quieter as he spoke.
Vesemir patted him on the shoulder. The death of an old friend to age or illness—this was a sorrow every witcher who lived long enough had to face.
The fact that the son of an old friend might actually be a suspect—deliberately setting him up...
Putting himself in Danthe's shoes, even Vesemir couldn't help but sigh silently in his heart.
"Allen, are you certain the people who came were sent by the House family?" he asked on Danthe's behalf. "Could it be that Danthe's group passed through somewhere, were spotted by someone with ill intentions, and then followed until the right moment came?"
Danthe also looked up at Allen.
"It's possible…" Allen could only nod.
After all, all he saw was Bond's two-legged trail. Everything else was just deduction.
Maybe Bond really did just faint on his own.
No one knew what he might have encountered along the way besides the crows summoned by the Leshen.
What Vesemir said was a plausible theory, too.
Some old enemy of Danthe's could've run into him by chance, sought revenge, and happened upon Bond. It was a stretch—but not entirely impossible.
"That's good, then."
Vesemir patted Danthe's shoulder.
Danthe gave a strained smile. "Now that we've lost Bond's trail, is there still any way to track him?"
"No problem," Allen shook his head. "There are still traces here… from when they drugged and took Bond away…"
Unless it was a situation like right after landing at the Duppa River—no clues at all, and the Leshen had used its authority granted by the Mother of Nature.
Otherwise, in the entire world of witchers, there likely wasn't anyone better than Allen at tracking.
Two tracking signs, Wild Speech, Whispers of Life, Pyromancy, Hydromancy—at least one of those skills would work.
Allen focused his mind.
Countless red footprints appeared across the dark, dried-up riverbed, like a winding red serpent stretching south into the forest.
He couldn't be bothered to examine each individual print or analyze the leg movement. He directly selected the set of footprints closest to where Bond's trail had vanished—one whose depth had visibly changed.
With a wave of his hand—
The sea of red markings vanished from his vision, leaving just that single set of tracks.
"Let's go…" Allen said softly, then quickened his pace.
----------------------
Aside from the conspiracy earlier this year involving the late King Henselt of Kaedwen, the sorcerers of Ban Ard, and the School of the Cat against the School of the Wolf…
Right now, the Wolf School was basking in glory—burning bright like oil-fed fire, blooming like flowers in full spring. It was the most glorious era since the founding of Kaer Morhen.
Witchers were still far from the infamous figures they would later become—easily deceived and mistreated by anyone.
Even in Kaedwen, where rumors about them had already spread widely, it was only in Ban Ard that people dared speak ill of witchers. In other places, not even a small village chief would dare withhold payment on purpose—let alone the nobles.
These nobles had their own lands and holdings. Didn't they fear that if word got out they were mistreating witchers, no witcher would be willing to come clear out monsters for them again?
So—
Even though Danthe didn't argue this time the way he did when they were tracking Bond, deep down, he probably didn't believe it either… No—he likely just didn't want to believe that outside of Kaedwen, someone would deliberately try to harm a witcher.
Vesemir likely felt the same.
Change always arrives quietly, before anyone notices. By the time it's recognized, it's already deeply rooted—impossible to reverse.
Before Allen ever came to this world, the witchers had already reached their peak—and from there, began their inevitable decline into an irreversible abyss.
Just as Dandelion, Geralt's bard companion in the original story, once said: "Witchers are always slowly—yet undeniably—working themselves out of a job. The better you are, the more monsters you kill, the fewer there are left. After all, your goal is a world without monsters—a peaceful, quiet world. A world that doesn't need witchers…"
And those within it—like Vesemir, like Danthe—were always the last to realize. And by the time they did, it was in the ugliest, most devastating way possible… when the dust had settled, and there was nothing left to fight back against.
Fortunately…
That happened in another world. A world without Allen.
The clouds parted, and the moon emerged.
After being hidden for most of the night behind thick clouds, the moon finally revealed her graceful figure.
A towering fortress clung to the steep slopes of the mountains, nestled tightly against the cliffside.
Bathed in gentle moonlight, its oppressive, grim, and sinister aura remained undiminished.
The dark, pitted walls were lit by glaring white torches. Ballistae designed to slay dragons gleamed coldly, their bolts menacing. A deep, shadowy moat encircled the base, while faint, tortured screams echoed from within.
The moment this fortress came into view, everyone knew without Allen having to say a word—this was their destination.
"Drakenborg…" Danthe took a deep breath. "I should've thought of it sooner. Who else but someone from Drakenborg would dare venture this deep into the Kestrel Mountains and take Bond south…"
"But why would people from Drakenborg want to capture Bond?"
"No…" Vesemir's voice was low and stormy. "Bond wouldn't trust someone just because they were human, Danthe."
"The real question is—why would Bond know anyone from Drakenborg? Have you ever brought them to this place before?"
"Of course not," Danthe shook his head. "We've never been to Drakenborg. And the people of Drakenborg never stray far from their fortress…"
He suddenly trailed off.
They never stray far… and Montecalvo was the nearest town to Drakenborg.
"This is a setup, Danthe!" Vesemir's face turned grave. "A trap set against your group! There's no need to guess anymore—the baron from the House family is definitely involved!"
"Damn it! I've never encountered a noble who dared deliberately deceive a witcher!"
Danthe's face flushed bright red.
Just moments ago, he had been trying to convince Allen and Vesemir—and himself—saying, "Allen might've made a mistake," "Bond was probably rescued," "Young House had nothing to do with this"… It was all just coincidence, he told himself. A stroke of bad luck. He had let his guard down and failed to notice they were being followed…
Now the shame of betrayal burned so hot it made the veins on his forehead pulse, his teeth clenched until they creaked.
Because of his trust, Hughes had nearly died from his injuries.
If not for Vesemir and Allen, he and Fred would have been dead for sure!
And Bond… Bond!!!
Drakenborg was the cruelest prison in all of the Northern Continent.
They drugged Bond. What were they planning to do to him?
Recalling the bloody tales he'd heard in the past, his eyes turned bloodshot. He let out a low, furious growl: "I'm going to kill them! I'll get Bond back!"
A sharp metallic clang rang out.
Danthe had drawn his gleaming longsword and was about to charge straight toward the heavily fortified fortress.
"Don't let your rage cloud your judgment," Vesemir grabbed him by the arm. "Stay calm in front of the apprentices, Danthe!"
"You're a Witcher master, not some brute who only knows how to swing a sword!"
After a long round of persuasion, Danthe finally calmed down. He slumped to the ground, sitting heavily and covering his face in shame.
Vesemir sighed and turned to Allen.
"Allen… what do you think we should do now?"
Allen didn't answer right away. He narrowed his eyes, staring off into the distance.
Blood-red footprints shimmered along the winding mountain path, vanishing into the gates of the fortress.
The gates were shut, and the drawbridge had been raised.
The rushing Duppa River below was nearly twenty meters wide—dark and impossibly deep.
Though the moat was vast, it posed no real obstacle to a group of Witchers. A single leap would suffice—especially with a royal griffin at their disposal.
But charging in blindly, as Danthe had just threatened in his fury, was out of the question.
Forget the fortress's defenses for a moment—they didn't even know where Bond had been taken inside.
Drakenborg was no small keep. Vesemir had said earlier that even the local "residents" didn't know the full layout of the place.
"Have you ever been inside that fortress?" Allen turned and asked.
"All of us have…" Vesemir glanced at Danthe. "Like I said, Drakenborg's contracts were always lucrative—most of the Witchers from the School of the Wolf have been there at some point…"
"When money was tight, I once took a royal contract from the king of Redania to clear out a few wraiths, corpse eaters, and barrow hags from there."
"Of course, that was many years ago… probably twenty."
"I went in eight years ago," Danthe took a deep breath and raised his head. "During repairs on Drakenborg, a collapse in the east wing unleashed a horde of venomous scorpions and giant centipedes. Aristo and I took the job—also a commission from the King of Redania."
He was already used to the strange fact that some Witcher expedition teams were led by apprentices, and right now, all he cared about was getting Bond back—so his answers came swiftly.
After finishing, he added, "I know Drakenborg better than Vesemir—not just because I went there more recently. After the east wing collapsed, we were stationed in the northern district. But the incident was big enough that some of the scorpions even made it into the south wing."
Allen pretended not to hear Danthe's pointed hint and asked again, "Is Drakenborg well-defended?"
"I mean… if I ordered the griffin to carry us down from the skies and launch an aerial assault on the fortress—do you think we could get Bond out?"
"Yes…" Danthe immediately sprang to his feet, seeming ready to say yes without hesitation.
But he only got a single word out before stopping.
He furrowed his brows and thought hard. Then, with a defeated expression, he shook his head. "No."
"Why not?" Allen pressed, frowning.
Danthe had seen their strength with his own eyes.
Not even counting Allen and Vesemir, just the seven young Witchers—Erni, Klar, and the others—could take on fifty armored knights by themselves.
And that wasn't even mentioning himself, Vesemir, or the massive griffin that had brought even Aedirn's royal capital of Vengerberg to its knees.
"Allen…"
Danthe paused, then said,"Drakenborg isn't like other cities…"
......
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