"Ugh… I should've listened to Vesemir and stopped after the third mug," Aren groaned, clutching his aching head as he stirred awake.
They'd had a small farewell gathering last night — just Geralt, Vesemir, Ciri, and himself — but even that had been enough to leave him regretting every sip of Alcohest.
He rubbed his eyes and pushed himself up from the rough blanket on the floor. The tattered cabin had sunlight spilling through the holes in the ceiling, cutting across the dusty air — morning had already arrived.
Across the room, Ciri lay sprawled out, her ash-gray hair splayed across the pillow, a line of drool running down her chin. Aren couldn't help but chuckle. The girl was even more of a lightweight than him; she had passed out after a single glass.
Letting her sleep, he reached for his steel sword and stepped outside.
The warm forest air greeted him immediately — damp, earthy, and annoyingly fresh. He stifled a yawn and made his way around the cabin.
There, in the clearing behind the house, Geralt was already at it — shirtless, silent, and methodical — moving through his morning sword drills. He was always here earlier than him; well, Witchers didn't really need much sleep anyways.
"Morning, Geralt," Aren called out, raising a hand in greeting.
Geralt only grunted, his blade still slicing through the air in slow, deliberate arcs.
Aren didn't take it personally. The man wasn't rude — just... Geralt. He spoke only when he had to, his silence saying more than most people's words ever could. Even after fifteen years of knowing him — since he was practically a baby — Aren still felt like he only knew the edges of who the Witcher really was. People said Witchers had no emotions, and sometimes, Aren almost believed it.
He waited for a while, watching the smooth rhythm of Geralt's movement, then unsheathed his own sword. Setting the scabbard down, he stepped beside the Witcher and joined in.
The morning drills weren't about power — they were about rhythm, repetition, and patience. The goal was to burn the movements into your muscles until they became instinct. No imaginary enemies. No fancy flourishes. Just the blade, the breath, and the rhythm.
Aren fell into step beside Geralt, his sword cutting through the air in sync with the older man's. He had done this every morning for five years — five full sets that took nearly an hour to complete.
As he moved, his thoughts drifted back to Vesemir's lessons — the old Witcher's gravelly voice still echoing in his head.
"The School of the Wolf fights like its namesake — fast, silent, merciless. Strength and speed. Fangs from every angle."
Aren had never been particularly good at it. In fact, Vesemir had once called him one of the five worst students he had ever trained — and considering Vesemir was centuries old, that was saying something.
It wasn't for lack of effort. He had trained until his hands blistered and his arms felt like lead, but talent wasn't something you could force. Even in his past life, he had never been athletic. He had spent most of his time behind a screen, playing games — The Witcher among them, ironically. And apparently, dying and getting a new body hadn't magically turned him into a sword prodigy either.
Still, hard work counted for something. After five years of daily drills, he could handle himself well enough. Not Witcher-level, of course — just decent. Against a normal person, though? He would probably wipe the floor with them.
But Witchers weren't normal people. They were made — forged by mages centuries ago to hunt the beasts that plagued the Continent. Those mages had used mutagens, strange alchemical concoctions distilled from monster tissue, to twist human children into something faster, stronger, tougher… and far less human.
Most people in Westeros saw Witchers as freaks — monsters who hunted monsters.
Aren wasn't a Witcher — not fully. But he wasn't quite human anymore either. He had been administered a few controlled mutagens — just enough to strengthen his body, make his wounds heal faster, and age his body up beyond his fifteen years. But he had never gone through the Trial of the Grasses or the brutal transformations that forged true Witchers.
He existed somewhere in between — tougher than a man, yet far from a Witcher level. And with no new Witcher made in centuries, Aren had long accepted that he would never become one himself.
Still, the recent discovery that he could use magic had opened a path he once thought was permanently closed.
"You're too distracted," Geralt said without looking up. "Go tend the horses."
"Right, sorry," Aren muttered, wiping sweat from his brow. He knew today would be a hard one to keep his focus on just the forms.
"That's what you get for drinking too much," Ciri said from the side, stifling a yawn as she dragged her sword out. Her ash-grey hair stuck up in every direction.
"Morning, Geralt," she added with a smile.
Geralt answered with his usual grunt.
"You're one to talk," Aren shot back, rolling his eyes. He picked up his sheath and started toward the cabin.
Ciri yawned again, dropped her scabbard, and began moving through her own sword forms beside Geralt.
Inside, Aren grabbed a clean shirt and pants, slung his gear over his shoulder, and headed for the treeline where the horses were tethered. Only three stood there — Vesemir must have taken one out earlier.
The tall black mare was Roach, Geralt's. The smaller dark one, Kelpie, belonged to Ciri. The brown one was his — Bojack. No one ever got the reference, which somehow made it funnier. To everyone else, it was just a weird name.
He unbound the horses and led them toward the nearby stream. They needed a drink and some grass — and he could use a bath himself.
While keeping an eye on them, Aren stepped into the water. The western part of the Continent had a mild climate, so the stream wasn't too cold — just cool enough to feel refreshing against his skin. The water was clear, sunlight dancing over the ripples like glass.
Before bathing, he pulled a small vial of oil from his pouch and began tending to his gear—a habit drilled into him by Geralt. He worked the oil into the leather of his jacket, then along the length of his twin blades: one steel, one silver. The silver was for monsters; the steel for men—and in Aren's experience, men were usually the more dangerous of the two.
It wasn't just one place that was dangerous—the entire world seemed designed to kill you.
Being reborn here had been… terrifying, especially once Aren realized exactly which world he had ended up in.
The first few years were brutal. First, he was a grown man trapped in a baby's body; second, he couldn't even speak the language and had to relearn everything from scratch. Recognizing Geralt and Vesemir early on hadn't helped—it had only confirmed his worst fears about the kind of world he was in. But over time, he realized this wasn't quite the Continent he remembered from the games or the show. The name Westeros alone had been warning enough.
Even now, his knowledge of the wider world was limited — understandable, given he had been raised by Witchers who weren't exactly welcome in most cities or towns. But what he did know, he knew well: monsters. That was the one subject he had truly mastered.
Setting his gear aside, Aren stripped down, washed his clothes in the stream, and laid them on a rock to dry. Soap was a luxury they couldn't afford, so cold water and patience had to do.
He waded back in, the chill biting pleasantly against his skin. People in this medieval world had appalling hygiene — most hated bathing daily and looked at him like he was insane for doing it. But Aren couldn't help it; he needed to feel clean.
At least his habits had paid off. His skin stayed fair and smooth, his hair dark and glossy. When he dressed properly, he could easily pass for a young noble — though the sword at his back usually kept people from getting too curious.
As he scrubbed his arm, Aren's mind wandered back to the letter — the one from Hogwarts.
He had heard the name before, of course. It was one of the most famous schools of magic in Westeros— at least, that's what Triss had told him. When she had first mentioned it, he had thought she was joking. But after some questioning, he realized many of the details from the Harry Potter world actually existed here too.
Back then, he had been thrilled. For years, he had cursed this world — a place of monsters, blades, and blood — and mourned the quiet comfort of the modern life he had lost. He couldn't even remember how he had died, just that he had woken up in this medieval nightmare.
So when Triss told him wizards and witches were real, he had thought fate was finally throwing him a bone.
Until she crushed his hopes.
She couldn't sense any magic in him at all. In her words, his magical aptitude was so low that no sorcerer would ever take him as an apprentice.
That news had wrecked him for days. But after nearly dying to a drowner during one of his late night baths, Aren decided he wouldn't waste this second life sulking. He begged Vesemir and Geralt to train him — and eventually, they agreed. He even accepted the mutagens, knowing that without them, he would never survive long in this world. The idea of them slowing his aging was a small bonus.
But now… the letter from Hogwarts had changed everything.
It meant he did have magic — or at least, Hogwarts thought so.
He really hoped they hadn't made a mistake. That would be one cruel joke.
The sound of crunching leaves snapped him from his thoughts. He turned sharply.
"What are you doing here, Ciri?" he asked, more annoyed than surprised.
"Apparently I'm not that focused in training today either," she said, plopping down on a nearby rock.
"I meant what are you doing here?" Aren said, gesturing at the water. "Can't you see I'm taking a bath?"
"Yeah, and? Is it a crime to watch someone bathe?" she asked, smirking. "Or did you want me to join you? I didn't know you were such a lecher, Aren."
"Do as you wish," he muttered, turning his back to her and focusing on rinsing off.
Aren had learned long ago that women in this world were shameless. Every time he had tried to argue or act embarrassed with his "modern morals," it had only encouraged them to tease him more. Eventually, he had given up.
"You're no fun," Ciri said with a laugh. "Hey, why were you acting so weird yesterday? What was it again—'Oh, I didn't know I can use magic'? Can't you already use the Signs? Or did that Nekker hit your head too hard?"
"It's you who has forgotten Vesemir's lessons," he replied, facing her. "Signs like Igni or Aard are just low-level spells. They only need a bit of magic and focus. I can use them because of the Wolf medallion." He touched the silver emblem hanging from his neck.
"Huh? I thought it just vibrated near monsters and magic," she said, pulling out her own medallion.
"It does that," Aren said, rolling his eyes. "But it can also store a small amount of magical energy. I can cast Signs maybe twice from what's stored in it, then I need to meditate for an hour to recharge it." He gave her a puzzled look. "Wait… did Vesemir never teach you that? Is that why you still can't use Signs?"
"Hey, that's not true!" she huffed. "Triss said I've got too much magic to control properly, and it messes with the Signs—that's all."
Aren just shook his head. He knew all too well how powerful Ciri really was. If not for the problems that came with her Elder Blood, he might have envied her. Despite taking the Witcher mutagens only a year ago, she had already caught up to him in almost every way—from swordplay to sparring. She was terrifyingly talented, a real sword prodigy.
"You'll manage eventually," he said, dunking himself under the water to cool off.
A moment later, her voice softened.
"Aren… do you really think I should go to Hogwarts?" she asked quietly. "Vesemir and Geralt both want me to, but… it feels like they just want to get rid of me."
"They're not trying to get rid of you," Aren said, sighing. "Vesemir knows he can't teach you magic, and even Triss gave up after last month. Hogwarts might actually be the best place for you to learn. And come on—do you really think Geralt, who practically obsesses over your safety, wants to send you away?"
"You know nothing about him, Aren." Her voice trembled slightly. "This isn't the first time he's tried to get rid of me. We've met so many times since I was a child. We both knew I was his Child of Destiny, and still… he never accepted it. He always ran from me." Ciri's hand struck the rock beside her, frustration flashing across her face. "If it wasn't for the fall of Cintra…" She stopped, her words dissolving into the sound of running water.
"I'm sure it's not like that this time," Aren said with a sigh. "So stop overthinking and start packing your things already—Ciri?"
He turned, frowning.
Ciri wasn't moving. She sat perfectly still, her gaze unfocused, pupils wide and glassy. The air around her seemed to grow thick, pressing in on him. Aren's medallion began to hum — faint at first, then stronger.
"Ciri?" he whispered, taking a cautious step closer.
Her lips moved — but the voice that came out was not hers.
It was deeper. Hollow. Ancient.
"In the Forest Forbidden,
the fire will descend, seeking power below.
You will follow her into the dark—
and the forest shall claim your last breath."