Chapter 24: THE WITCHER'S CONTRACT — Part 1
The capital of Temeria hummed with nervous energy.
Servants whispered about the cursed princess. Merchants complained about trade disrupted by fear. Nobles danced around the subject with elaborate euphemisms, as if not naming the monster might make it less real.
I worked the taverns while Geralt investigated the castle. My reputation preceded me now—"Toss a Coin" had reached Temeria ahead of us, and people recognized the bard who'd written it. They bought me drinks, asked for performances, shared gossip without being pushed.
"Lord Ostrit, that's who you want to watch." A serving girl leaned close, her voice low despite the tavern's noise. "He was in love with the queen, everyone knows it. When she chose the king instead..."
"Chose her own brother, you mean."
The girl shrugged uncomfortably. "Royal matters. But Ostrit's been strange since the princess was born. Stranger since she died. Or whatever happened to her."
I filed the information away. Ostrit. The name surfaced from my meta-knowledge—he was the one who'd cursed Adda, who'd transformed a newborn princess into a monster out of jealous rage.
But I couldn't tell Geralt that. Couldn't explain how I knew.
"I've always been good at reading people" wouldn't cover this. The truth—that I'd watched these events play out in a story from another world—would raise questions I had no way to answer.
So I gathered intelligence the hard way. Talked to servants who'd worked at the castle before the curse. Bought drinks for soldiers who'd lost friends to the Striga's hunts. Built a picture from fragments, hoping Geralt would reach the right conclusions on his own.
That evening, I spotted Ostrit watching me.
He sat across the tavern, nursing wine he wasn't drinking, his eyes fixed on my face with an intensity that made my Evasion awareness prickle. Not immediate danger—but something wrong. Something calculated.
I played my set without supernatural influence, keeping my voice natural, my movements casual. But I watched Ostrit back, noting how his hands trembled, how his jaw clenched when I mentioned the Witcher's mission.
He's afraid. Not of the Striga—of being discovered.
After my performance, I found Geralt at our lodgings.
"There's a lord named Ostrit. He's been watching me all evening." I kept my voice neutral. "Something feels wrong about him."
"Wrong how?"
"Nervous. Calculating. Like he's trying to decide whether I'm a threat." I handed Geralt a plate of food I'd brought from the tavern. "I asked around. He was... involved with the queen, before she chose the king. Supposedly took her rejection badly."
Geralt's eyes narrowed. "You think he's connected to the curse?"
"I think he knows more than he's saying. And I think he's terrified that someone will figure out what."
The Witcher chewed thoughtfully, processing the information. "The curse on Adda... it would take powerful magic. A mage, or someone who hired one. Someone with motivation to hurt the royal family."
"Someone like a rejected lover?"
"Hmm."
We sat in silence for a moment. I could see Geralt assembling the pieces, reaching toward the conclusion I already knew.
"I'll look into him," he said finally. "Keep gathering information. But stay away from Ostrit directly—if he is involved, you don't want his attention."
"Too late for that, I think." I smiled grimly. "But I'll be careful."
The next day, I learned Geralt's plan.
"Survive until dawn inside the crypt. Keep the Striga away from her sarcophagus until the first cock crows." He was checking his equipment—silver sword freshly oiled, potions arranged in precise order. "If she doesn't return to her resting place before sunrise, the curse breaks."
"And if she gets past you?"
"Then the curse doesn't break and I'm dead."
The casual way he said it made my stomach turn. Three years of preparation, and I still wasn't ready to lose him after barely a month of traveling together.
"I could help," I said. "Create a distraction. My voice can affect creatures—I've done it before." I thought of the drowners at the temple, the way my Terror Ballad had driven two of them into the water. "Not a Striga, maybe, but it might buy you a few seconds."
"No." His voice was flat. Final.
"Geralt—"
"You'd die. The Striga is faster than anything you've faced, stronger than anything you can imagine. One hit would kill you." He met my eyes. "I won't have your death on my conscience."
"And I won't have yours." The words came out sharper than I intended. "I'm not some helpless tagalong anymore. I've survived things that should have killed me. I can contribute."
"By dying heroically?" He shook his head. "Stay in town. Sing songs. That's what you're good at."
The dismissal stung. All my training, all my carefully developed abilities—and he still saw me as a liability.
"Fine." I stood, gathering my things. "I'll stay in town like a good little bard. But if you don't come back, I'm coming to find you."
"Don't."
"Try to stop me."
We glared at each other for a long moment. Our first real disagreement, after a month of cautious partnership.
Geralt looked away first. "Do what you want. You will anyway."
That night, while Geralt prepared for his confrontation, I made my own preparations.
I sharpened my knife, knowing it would be useless against a Striga but needing something to do with my hands. The repetitive motion helped me think, helped me plan.
I can't fight a Striga directly. But I can watch. I can be ready if something goes wrong.
Geralt had forbidden me from helping. He hadn't forbidden me from following at a distance, from keeping vigil outside the castle, from being present if everything fell apart.
He might hate me for it. But he'll be alive to hate me.
I checked my equipment one more time—lute secured, knife sharp, boots tied tight. The castle loomed in the darkness beyond my window, its towers silhouetted against stars.
Tomorrow night, Geralt would face the Striga.
And I would be there, whether he wanted me or not.
I slipped out of the inn before dawn, heading toward the abandoned palace where a monster slept and a Witcher waited.
Whatever happens, I'm not letting him face this alone.
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