Chapter 18: The Road and the Blade
POV: Viktor
The merchant road stretched before them like a ribbon of packed earth threading through the endless green of the Continent's forests. Five days had passed since their exile from Blaviken, and Viktor was beginning to understand that walking was apparently the primary form of transportation in a world that hadn't yet discovered the joys of motorized vehicles.
His legs ached. His feet were developing blisters on top of blisters. And the pack Geralt had procured for him in their last village felt like it was filled with rocks rather than camping supplies.
But for the first time since arriving in this world, Viktor felt like he belonged somewhere.
[CURRENT MANA: 10/100]
[MEDITATION WHILE WALKING: UNCONVENTIONAL BUT EFFECTIVE]
[ESTIMATED REGENERATION: 2 HOURS TO 20 MP]
Viktor had discovered that he could meditate while walking—a skill that his companions found both amusing and slightly disturbing. Something about the repetitive motion of putting one foot in front of the other helped him achieve the mental clarity necessary for MP regeneration, though the process was slower than sitting meditation.
"Company ahead," Geralt announced, his enhanced hearing picking up sounds that were still beyond Viktor's range. "Merchant caravan. They'll give us wide berth."
Viktor looked up to see a train of wagons approaching in the distance, their canvas covers bright against the forest backdrop. As they drew closer, he could make out armed guards, nervous-looking traders, and horses that stepped with the kind of skittish energy that suggested their owners had good reason to be paranoid.
The caravan's reaction when they spotted Geralt was immediate and predictable. Conversations died. Hands moved to weapons. The lead merchant actually crossed himself—a gesture that seemed to have carried over from whatever Earth culture had influenced this world's development.
"The Butcher," Viktor heard someone whisper as the wagons rolled past at a carefully maintained distance. "And his band."
"His band?" Viktor muttered to Renfri, who was walking beside him with the fluid grace of someone whose body had been trained for violence since childhood. "We're a band now?"
"Apparently." Renfri's lips twitched in amusement. "What does that make us? The Outcasts? The Exiles?"
"The Butcher's Sidekicks," Viktor suggested, falling back on his old joke. "Has a nice ring to it."
"Speak for yourself. I refuse to be anyone's sidekick."
Viktor was about to respond when he caught something in Renfri's tone—not quite playfulness, but not entirely serious either. She was bantering with him, engaging in the kind of casual conversation that spoke of growing comfort between them.
It was a small thing, but Viktor found himself treasuring it. For most of his life on Earth, social interaction had been a source of anxiety rather than pleasure. But here, walking through a fantasy forest with a cursed princess and a legendary monster hunter, he felt something approaching natural ease.
"Time for practice," Renfri announced as they reached a suitable clearing for their afternoon rest. It had become their routine—travel in the morning, rest and train during the heat of the day, travel again in the evening when the temperature dropped.
Viktor groaned theatrically as he dropped his pack. His knife work had improved marginally over the past few days, but he was still approximately as dangerous as a particularly aggressive butterfly.
"Do we have to? My everything hurts."
"Your everything always hurts. That's what makes it character building."
Renfri produced her practice knife—a blunted blade that could still probably kill someone if she really tried, but was less likely to accidentally dismember her student. Viktor drew his own practice weapon, a piece of metal that charitable people might call a knife and realistic people would call a very dull letter opener.
"Guard position," Renfri instructed, settling into the fluid stance that had become familiar over their sessions. "And remember—don't think about what I'm going to do. Feel it."
Viktor tried to empty his mind and let his Premonition Sense take over. The passive ability had been growing stronger with practice, giving him flashes of insight into immediate dangers. Not the comprehensive foresight of Temporal Sense, but enough to occasionally avoid being stabbed.
Renfri moved like liquid violence, her practice blade carving through the air in patterns that spoke of years of training. Viktor's conscious mind couldn't follow the attack, but something deeper—some enhanced instinct that the system had gifted him—suddenly screamed a warning.
Strike incoming, high right, 1.8 seconds.
Viktor's body moved before his brain finished processing the information, his practice knife rising to intercept Renfri's strike. The blades met with a metallic ring that echoed through the clearing, and for one glorious moment, Viktor had successfully parried an attack from someone who actually knew how to fight.
"Ha!" Renfri lowered her blade, her green eyes bright with something that might have been pride. "You're cheating with that foresight of yours, but I'll allow it."
"I'm cheating?" Viktor protested, though he was grinning like an idiot. "You're the one with decades of professional knife-fighting experience."
"And you're the one who can see attacks coming before I decide to make them. I'd say that makes us even."
They continued the session for another hour, Viktor's success rate slowly improving as his Premonition Sense grew more attuned to Renfri's fighting style. He managed to block perhaps one attack in five—not exactly impressive by normal standards, but a vast improvement over his previous record of zero successful defenses.
[TRAINING COMPLETE]
[STRENGTH INCREASED: 1.9 → 2.0]
[HEALTH POINTS: 19 → 20]
[COMBAT SKILLS: MARGINAL IMPROVEMENT]
"Better," Renfri pronounced as they settled by their small fire for the evening meal. "You're still terrible, but you're terrible with potential."
"High praise from Princess Renfri of Creyden."
Viktor meant the words as light banter, but he saw something flicker across Renfri's face at the mention of her title. Not pain, exactly, but a kind of hollowness that spoke of identity stolen rather than lost.
"I keep meaning to ask," he said carefully, trying to navigate the conversation with more sensitivity than his usual blunt approach. "The brooch you wear. I've seen you touch it when you're... thinking."
Renfri's hand moved instinctively to the silver ornament pinned to her cloak, her fingers tracing the intricate metalwork with practiced familiarity.
"It was my mother's," she said quietly. "The only thing Stregobor didn't take when he had me exiled. The only connection to... before."
"Before the curse."
"Before I became a monster." Renfri's voice was matter-of-fact, but Viktor caught the undercurrent of pain that ran beneath the words. "I was five when he marked me. Everything I learned after that was about survival, about becoming strong enough to take revenge. I never learned how to be anything else."
Viktor felt his heart clench with sympathy for this woman who'd been forced to build her entire identity around trauma and vengeance.
"What was she like? Your mother."
Renfri was quiet for so long that Viktor thought she wouldn't answer. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft, almost dreamy.
"Beautiful. Kind. She used to sing to me—old ballads about knights and princesses and happy endings. Stupid songs, really, but they made the world seem... possible."
"They don't sound stupid."
"They were lies. There are no knights, no princesses, no happy endings. Just people trying to survive in a world that wants to break them."
Viktor wanted to argue, wanted to tell her that happy endings were possible if you were willing to fight for them. But looking at Renfri's face in the firelight—beautiful and scarred and marked by decades of pain—he realized that platitudes weren't what she needed.
"I was clutching it," she continued, her voice barely audible. "The brooch. When you warned me about my death in Blaviken. I thought I'd die with it, like she did. Holding the last piece of who I used to be."
"But you didn't die."
"No. I didn't." Renfri looked up at him, her green eyes reflecting the firelight. "And now I don't know what to do with all this... life... that I'm supposed to have."
Viktor met her gaze and saw something there that took his breath away—not the hard confidence of a trained killer, but the vulnerable uncertainty of someone learning to hope for the first time in decades.
"You live it," he said simply. "One day at a time. One choice at a time. You figure out who you want to be instead of who you were forced to become."
"And if I don't know who that is?"
"Then you experiment. Try things. Make mistakes. Be terrible at stuff and then get better. Be human."
Renfri laughed—a sound with more warmth than bitterness for perhaps the first time since Viktor had met her.
"Be human. I like that."
They sat in comfortable silence as the fire burned lower, the forest around them settling into its nighttime rhythm. Geralt had taken first watch, moving through the perimeter of their camp with the silent efficiency of someone who'd spent a century keeping dangerous things at bay.
Viktor found himself studying Renfri's profile in the firelight, noting the way her features softened when she wasn't actively being a trained killer. She was beautiful—had always been beautiful—but there was something different about her now. Something that spoke of possibility rather than inevitability.
As the evening wore on and exhaustion began to claim him, Viktor felt his head starting to nod. He tried to fight it, tried to maintain some dignity, but sleep was pulling at him with irresistible force.
He was toppling sideways toward the ground when Renfri caught him, her hands surprisingly gentle as she guided him into a more comfortable position. Instead of letting him fall, she shifted so that his head rested against her shoulder, her cloak providing warmth against the evening chill.
"Sleep, prophet," she murmured, her voice soft enough that he might have imagined it. "I'll keep watch."
Viktor wanted to protest, wanted to insist that he could stay awake and contribute to their security. But Renfri's shoulder was warm and solid, her presence comforting in a way that made arguing seem impossible.
As consciousness faded, Viktor's last coherent thought was wonder at how much his life had changed. A month ago, he'd been dying alone in an apartment on Earth. Now he was falling asleep against the shoulder of a princess in a fantasy forest, protected by a legendary Witcher and apparently belonging to something that might actually be called a family.
From the edge of the clearing, Geralt's voice drifted through the darkness—quiet, but carrying the kind of authority that brooked no argument.
"Don't hurt her, prophet."
Viktor tried to respond, tried to promise that he would never do anything to cause Renfri pain. But sleep claimed him before he could form the words, leaving only the feeling of safety and belonging and the gentle weight of someone who trusted him enough to let him rest against her shoulder.
"I won't," he whispered to the darkness.
And meant it with every fiber of his being.
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