Chapter Thirty-Three: The Wheel of Fate Begins to Turn

He looked up, and without warning, the rain came pouring down—a sudden afternoon thunderstorm. Victor set the letter aside and pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh.

It was the third day since Megatron’s assault, and Catherine had brought the expected good news, along with an unforeseen outcome.

“Commander, just as you predicted, Taylors is no longer a problem.

As I write this letter, an announcement has spread throughout the city: Prince Seward has relieved him of his post as Captain of the City Guard and ordered him to return immediately to the Dornedale Fortress to report. They say he received the news at the city guard station and, in utter disbelief, made a scene demanding to see the prince. Instead, Captain Kramer and his men tied him up and dragged him out of the city.

You always have a way, Commander—you’ve stripped him of all his power. I’ve confirmed that the men he had lying in ambush outside the city were also ordered to withdraw by evening.

You’ve been living in the temple for nearly twenty days now. With Taylors’ threat eliminated, how much longer must we stay here? The last few days’ purchases have not gone well—many things can’t be found in the markets of Eirland. I think our chances will be much better once we get to Vygema…”

Angoulême’s letters were growing longer and more rambling; she must truly be bored out of her mind in the city.

Victor reached out and smoothed the eagle’s feathers. With time, though she still wouldn’t let him touch her from behind, Catherine at least allowed him to stroke the feathers within her line of sight.

After a moment’s thought, Victor went downstairs and exchanged a few words with some commoners in the front hall. Returning to his room, he took out a sheet of paper and wrote to Angoulême, arranging to meet her the next morning by Lake Azuredeep in the forest, and asking her to bring the alchemical materials she’d bought for him.

If he didn’t store some of the ingredients soon, they might spoil; besides, it would soothe his loyal companion’s restlessness. Victor himself also felt it was time to get some air after being cooped up in the temple for so long.

…

The next morning dawned clear. Dressed in a simple linen shirt, steel sword at his side, and herbal satchel slung as always, Victor left the temple gates. He walked for half an hour down the poplar-shaded avenue, then turned left into the woods and continued another half hour, finally reaching the shores of Lake Azuredeep.

He’d learned of this hidden spot from townsfolk the day before—a favorite rendezvous for lovers, some of whom came at night in search of excitement. But in the early morning, the lakeside was deserted.

A cool breeze drifted over the crystal-clear water, the grass along the shore lush and green. Victor imagined how pleasant it would be to lie down and bask in the sun—and so he did.

It had been a long time since he’d relaxed like this, soaking in the sunlight. The gentle warmth brought back memories of his life in the world of alchemy—days of leisure, when closing his eyes almost let him smell the scent of cakes, sweet pastries, and hot tea.

Curiously, though he felt nostalgic, he realized he didn’t want to return. Somehow, he had come to like this war-torn, perilous world of witchers…

…

The rustling of branches broke Victor’s reverie—someone was approaching through the woods. It should have been Angoulême…

No! That heavy footfall was not hers!

A sudden surge of danger made Victor spring up to face the intruder, but he was a moment too late. A heavy, iron-gauntleted fist struck his abdomen, landing squarely on his liver. The crushing impact wrenched his vagus nerve, compressed his diaphragm, and in a flash, he was left breathless and weak, pain radiating through his body.

But his assailant was not finished. Without giving Victor a chance to fall and catch his breath, another hook crashed into his already staggering face, sending him flying to the ground.

The attacker stepped beside him and kicked his right calf; a sharp crack echoed—bone fractured. The man seemed surprised it hadn’t broken cleanly, but seeing Victor’s face go slack with pain and his mind cloud over, he stopped. Any further and the boy would lose consciousness, and a witcher must be fully aware when receiving judgment.

Victor was dragged by his uninjured left leg to the lakeshore. A jug of water splashed over his face, and as his senses returned, he was unsurprised to see the once-handsome but now hate-twisted face of Sir Taylors.

“Sir… Taylors… why?” Victor stammered, barely able to form the words.

“Why? After you repeatedly humiliated me with your contemptuous gaze, your insolent actions, your arrogant words—you dare ask why?

Did you think I knew nothing?” Taylors bent, seized Victor’s collar in his left hand, and raised his right fist to strike again.

But seeing the boy writhing in agony, hanging by a thread, the knight sneered and released him, letting the witcher apprentice collapse on the ground.

Drawing his sword, Taylors pressed the tip to Victor’s left cheek, slicing a gash as he spat out, “You charlatans, you disgusting freaks—did you think hiding in that dark, superstitious lair would save you from me?”

Another stroke, another cut, as he raged on: “No! My eyes have seen your crimes. I will not stand by while you corrupt my lord with your vile potions and disgrace the honor of the White Rose Knights.”

Announcing the witcher’s crimes, Taylors was lost in the supreme satisfaction of self-righteous judgment.

He never guessed that Victor, splayed on the ground like a dying dog, was not as badly hurt as he appeared. As a witcher apprentice, his body had been honed to withstand the Trial of Grasses. Blows to the liver and face were effective, but not enough to keep him down for long.

From the moment he was dragged to the lakeshore, Victor had feigned helplessness. While not an expert at playing dead, his youthful, unformed features were deceptive enough.

As the third cut was drawn, Taylors raised his sword high, exulting, “You’re first, monster. With your blood, I’ll cleanse the insult to the knightly order.” He prepared to deliver the killing blow.

Victor’s left leg suddenly drew back, then lashed out, smashing into Taylors’ unsuspecting shin. Using the momentum, he rolled aside, snatching up the fallen Mahakhan blade as he rose. In a flash, he drew his sword and leveled the point at the fully armored knight.

Taylors wore a lavish breastplate trimmed in brass, a blood-red cloak billowing behind him. Seeing Victor on his feet, sword drawn, he flicked crimson droplets off his blade and grinned with savage delight.

Taylors swung his steel sword with a casual flourish, weaving a few sword flowers through the air. His voice was manic: “Heh, heh, heh… So be it! I’ve waited years for this day. Ever since that damned scoundrel scarred my face more than a decade ago, I’ve trained for the chance to return the favor.

But he’s dead now, died in the gutter like a stray dog.

No matter—you’re a witcher too. I’ll cut you to pieces and prove your kind never deserved to exist!”

In stark contrast to the knight’s twisted joy, Victor’s face was grim and wary. He was disappointed his kick hadn’t done more than unbalance his foe—a fully armored knight was slow, but with his own right leg fractured, Victor was in even worse shape.

Besides, it was obvious: Taylors, shamed and embittered, was no longer the incompetent weakling of a decade past. Victor doubted he could win this fight. There was nothing else for it.

A faint, ethereal voice drifted through his mind:

“Kill him. You can do it, can’t you?”

“There’s no reconciling this conflict—it’s not your fault! He’s the fool here.”

“His unemployment is none of your doing; you bear no responsibility. He provoked you first… kill him.”

“Doesn’t your face hurt? Give the pain back to him!”

Victor shook his head to clear away the whispers. Resolute, he took up a one-handed guard, sword tip to the ground.

“Taylors!” he shouted. “This is your final warning! Leave now, and I’ll act as if nothing happened. You can still return to Dornedale Fortress and serve as a White Rose Knight.

Otherwise, you will die here—struck down by the secret killing technique of Victor of the School of the Wolf.”

Taylors merely sneered, snapping down his visor with a click. He raised his sword in both hands and strode toward Victor, convinced the boy was bluffing. A fractured shin was a fatal handicap; no sword art could overcome that.

Facing the knight’s stubborn madness, Victor began:

“Ultimate technique—”