The Witcher’s Alchemy Workshop

In a certain medieval fantasy world, there was a small town where the warmth and peace of fairy tales truly existed. On a hillside near this town stood a little wooden cottage, with a well and a flowerbed in front and an herb garden behind. It was in this herb garden that the Kelpie seized the corner of a young boy’s shirt in its teeth.

The boy’s name was Victor. He had just turned twelve, stood five feet tall—an utterly average height—and bore blond hair and blue eyes, his features unremarkable in every way.

Victor was gathering herbs for a restorative potion when the Kelpie caught his shirt. He glanced aside at the Kelpie—a glossy black mare, perfectly proportioned, with powerful muscles, a graceful gait, and a mane shining like oil. She could surely run as swift as the wind, a creature of beauty found only in a world of fantasy. And now, this beautiful being was gently tugging at his shirt, coaxing him to follow.

Brushing the last traces of soil from his hands, Victor stood and let the Kelpie lead him to the cottage door. There, he saw her—a silver-haired girl, a longsword strapped to her back, her clothes tattered and stained with blood, lying face-down on his doorstep.

…

Roused from a nightmare that clung to her like shackles, Ciri became aware of something probing her face. Panic flared as she opened her eyes and struggled instinctively—only to find a young, honest-faced boy with crystal-clear blue eyes gazing at her.

The furnishings spoke of a lived-in home: a wooden clock, a stone fireplace, animal-shaped trinkets, bedsheets wh