Prologue (Part One)

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 white and plain. All reassured her—she was far from that place of nightmares.

He’s just a child, she thought. I’m safe. At this realization, her tense body slackened, and she collapsed back onto the bed, the dull ache of a fractured arm a faint reminder of her ordeal.

His warm, dry hand pressed to her forehead, checking for fever. Satisfied, he lifted a cup and offered her a generous portion of warm water, watching as she drank greedily and without pretense.

She was young, with fine, thick brows and large oval green eyes. Her pale skin was marred by a scar that ran from beneath her left eye down her cheek—a face marked by stubbornness and grit.

He spoke: “I’m Victor, from Bell Town. What’s your name?”

Meeting his guileless gaze, she hesitated. “…Fa…Farga. My name is Farga,” Ciri replied.

She lied. In an unfamiliar place, she dared not reveal her true name.

Victor smiled. “And the horse?”

“Kelpie.”

He nodded. “It doesn’t seem too serious. Eat something, then get some more rest. We’ll talk tomorrow when you’re feeling better.”

He rolled a small serving cart to her bedside, laden with crispy bacon, soft whole-wheat bread, a bowl of vegetable soup—those she recognized—and two fried eggs with yolks far too large to be from chickens, alongside a handful of unfamiliar fruits.

Then he left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

Pulling back the covers, Ciri sat up and found her upper body cleansed and wrapped in firm bandages, though her lower half was a little better covered, with a simple cotton undergarment.

“Don’t worry. He’s just a child,” she reassured herself. Any other concerns could wait until hunger was sated.

…

The next day, Ciri discovered that the medicine Victor had used for her wounds was remarkably effective; the pain in her arm had eased considerably. Dressed and refreshed, she stepped out to find the boy—at least nine inches shorter than herself—standing on a stool and stirring a great cauldron with a long rod. The cauldron was nearly half his height, large enough for a bath if one squeezed in.

“Hold on, let me finish this batch of potion. If you’re hungry, start eating—there’s nobody else here,” he called.

She moved to the table, set for two, its surface heavy with breakfast. Yet her mind drifted elsewhere.

Alchemy was no mystery to her; she was skilled in it herself. Though she could not drink potions, Uncle Vesemir had taught her many blade oil recipes, and she prided herself on being a good student.

She remembered, back at Kaer Morhen, how her foster father, the White Wolf Geralt, would sometimes stand at a cauldron, stirring for hours before bottling brightly colored potions and elixirs.

Lost in thought, she watched as Victor finished his work and sat across from her. He gestured for her to begin, smiling. “Hey, Farga, I’m Victor, the town’s alchemist. I’m twelve, but you can call me Vic.”

“Do you live here alone? No one to look after you?” She had thought he was only small for his age—she hadn’t expected him to be four years younger than herself. Children rarely lived alone.

“I used to live with my grandmother,” he replied, head bent over his soup, his voice muffled.

Ciri paused. “I’m… sorry. I didn’t mean to bring that up. I’m sorry for your loss…”

He looked up, blue eyes first confused and then bright with laughter. “Oh, no, I’m sorry for misleading you. My grandmother is alive and well—too well, in fact! She went traveling overseas with my great-grandmother and third aunt.”

Ciri felt a flush of embarrassment, then joined him in laughter.

He cut into a muffin, forking a bite. “Don’t worry. I chose not to go with them. I can take care of myself. Staying home lets me practice alchemy and help the neighbors too.”

“Aren’t they worried about you?” Ciri asked, her guard lowered as she savored the perfectly crisped bacon.

“Actually, it’s usually me looking after them. Their cooking is terrifying, and they’re experts at making a mess. Ever since I learned alchemy, they’ve even left making medicines and selling nutritional tonics to me…”

Victor was eager to talk, chattering on about rural life, because he genuinely liked this young girl—in the purest, most innocent way, not with any sinister intent. He was still a child, incapable of malice or mischief.

Ciri found herself enjoying his stories. They were free of blood and fire, free of pressure, intrigue, or threats. Unwittingly, Victor soothed the wounds in her heart.

Books lined the tidy shelves, the spacious dining room gleamed with clean tableware, and morning sunlight filtered through the window, bathing the alchemist’s cauldron in a gentle peace. Laughter rang out between them.

…

In the blink of an eye, half a year passed. Without realizing it, Ciri had become immersed in the town’s warmth—the peace and happiness here were unlike anything she had ever known. There was no war, no sickness, no want, and people lived in harmony.

After spinning a wild, barely believable tale about being a traveler in distress, Victor simply accepted her, sharing his cottage and giving her a place to heal. The townsfolk of Bell welcomed her easily, greeting her with hearty beer and delicious cake, paying no mind to her many suspicious traits.

Even the keen-eyed Kelpie succumbed to sweet temptations—dainty bean cakes and chopped hay—and allowed the local children to pet her to their hearts’ content. They adored the beautiful, noble mare.

But fate would not allow her to remain in such peace forever…