The cave flashed with steel.
Bodies lay scattered across the stone, small and twisted, already cooling. A torch burned on the cave floor, kicked aside, its light guttering against the walls.
A tall silhouette moved through the dark, each swing carrying weight. Small shapes rushed him, shrieking—nekkers, their claws clicking against rock.
He cut one down and stepped over the body without slowing. Another lunged. His blade met it in the air and split it open, the body hitting the stone already limp.
His armor was dark leather reinforced with steel plates, dulled and scarred, built to take weight and punishment. One sword worked in his hand. Another rode his back, untouched.
When he turned, his eyes caught the torchlight—orange, narrow, catlike.
They came faster than before.
Three at once, shrieking, emboldened by numbers. He planted his feet and met the rush head-on.
His left hand flicked up.
The impact rolled through him like a shove, boots grinding against stone as the shield held. Bodies were thrown back across the stone—one hit the wall hard, another skidded to a stop, something was already moving again.
He stepped aside as claws flashed past and cut the thing down in a single motion, steel opening it from shoulder to gut.
The other one came straight for him. He met it head-on and ended it with a single downward cut.
Silence fell.
Pain flared at his side.
The one from the wall was already there, claws buried between the plates of his armor. Shallow. Sharp. Close enough to smell.
He didn't pull away.
He brought the pommel up and drove it down. The skull caved in with a wet crack. The body sagged and slid off him.
He stepped back, breathing steadily, blood darkening the leather at his side.
—
Silence held.
Not clean silence. Water still dripped somewhere deeper in the cave. The torch hissed where it lay, smoke crawling along the ceiling. He stood where he was for a moment, breathing slow, letting the tremor leave his hands.
The pain in his side settled into a dull burn.
He reached down and pressed two fingers against the wound. Wet, but not deep. The plates had taken most of it. He exhaled once and straightened, rolling his shoulders. Nothing caught. Nothing broke.
The medallion at his chest shifted as he moved. Cold metal, heavy against the leather. Shaped like a bear's head. It trembled faintly, then went still.
Good.
He waited anyway. Listened past his breathing, past the crackle of fire. No claws. No scrabbling. Just water and smoke.
He wiped the blade clean and turned toward the back of the cave.
The nest stank worse than the bodies.
Bones were piled together in a shallow hollow—animal, human, things half-chewed and dragged in to rot. Torn cloth hung from the heap. Old leather. Straps and bits of iron pulled loose and abandoned. He poured oil without ceremony, soaking the mess until it ran into the cracks between stones.
He lifted the torch and tossed it into the pile.
The fire took slowly.
Smoke thickened, biting at his eyes and throat. Heat crawled up the walls as the flames spread. Something shifted deeper in the bones, a thin wet sound cutting through the crackle, then stopping.
He waited until there were no more sounds worth listening for.
When he turned back, nothing moved.
He sheathed the sword and walked out of the cave, leaving the smoke and the stink behind him.
—
He rode into the village in the late afternoon.
The horse's hooves drew every eye. Conversation thinned and then stopped altogether. A few people stepped back from the road. Others just watched, hands busy with nothing.
He reined in near the well.
The elder came out last. Grey-haired, wrapped in a wool cloak despite the warmth. He stopped a few paces short and looked up at the witcher's face, then at the leather darkened at his side.
"Well?" the elder said. "Is it done, master witcher?"
"It's done."
The elder nodded once. "Proof?"
He didn't dismount.
He reached down and dropped the sack at the man's feet. It hit the dirt with a dull sound. The smell followed a moment later.
The elder recoiled despite himself. Someone nearby turned away.
He looked down again, then up. "Ah. Yes. Right."
The pouch changed hands.
He took it without comment and weighed it once in his palm. It felt right.
"That's what we agreed," the elder said.
He held the man's gaze for a moment longer, then turned the horse away.
No thanks followed him. No curses either. Just the sound of the village starting to breathe again as he rode out.
At the edge of the road, he slowed long enough to adjust the torn strap at his side. The stiffened leather pulled at his ribs, the pain answering briefly before dulling again.
He set his heels and rode on.
—
He followed the road until the light began to fail.
The village was already out of sight.
Fields gave way to scrub and broken stone. He rode until the shadows stretched long and the air cooled, then left the road and turned into the trees.
The place he chose was unremarkable. Low ground. Some cover from the wind. Nothing that stood out.
He dismounted and loosened the tack, letting the horse lower its head and graze while there was still light. The motions came easily now. They had for some time.
It had been a little over a year since he'd left Haern Caduch.
He ate while the sky darkened—bread, salt, dried meat. Enough. The ache at his side made itself known when he shifted, then dulled again. He ignored it.
The fire stayed small. Just enough to see by.
When he lay back, the ground was warm beneath him.
Sleep came lightly, as it usually did.
—
The wound at his side had healed completely, leaving only a scar.
Summer pressed down hard.
The road ran dry and cracked beneath the horse's hooves, dust clinging to boots and hems. Heat gathered in the low places and refused to leave. By late afternoon, flies hung thick in the air, drawn to anything that sweated or bled or rotted slowly enough to matter.
The smell reached him first.
Not sharp. Not fresh. Old rot, thinned by heat and distance, carried farther than it should have. He noted it and kept riding.
Smells meant little by themselves.
The horse snorted and tossed its head, pace faltering. He tightened his knees and felt the animal resist before settling again. Its ears stayed pinned forward.
Then he heard it.
Low sounds, wet and irregular. Scraping. Tearing. Not loud, but close enough to carry over the road.
Too close.
The verge ahead dipped slightly, the road pressed inward by tall grass and broken scrub. Passing meant riding blind past the sound, close enough that the horse would spook if something rushed out of the shade.
He slowed and reined in.
The ground off the road was churned and dark, grass flattened in long, uneven lines. Drag marks. More than one.
They led into the trees.
The light thinned beneath the canopy, pooling in long shadows where the sun no longer reached cleanly. He dismounted, tied the horse to a low tree off the road, and went on alone.
Something lifted its head when it sensed him.
Skin hung loose, stretched thin over a frame that had once been human. Another shape shifted behind it. Then a third, hunched low, fingers digging into the dirt.
He drew the silver sword and brought it forward.
Ghouls.
The sound they made changed when the blade caught the light.
A wet, grating shriek tore out of the nearest one. The others answered it immediately, claws tearing at the ground as they surged toward him.
The nearest ghoul lunged. He stepped into it and cut through its left arm just below the shoulder. The limb came away and fell twitching in the grass.
The ghoul shrieked in pain and staggered back, blood pouring down its side. It didn't fall. It turned instead, hunched and swaying, clutching at its ruined shoulder.
Another rushed him wide and low, jaws snapping for his legs. The third came straight on through the brush, heedless, all weight and hunger.
He turned into the low one first, caught it as it lunged, and drove the silver blade through its chest. It collapsed hard but did not go still, claws scraping weakly at the dirt.
The straight-on ghoul reached him a heartbeat later. He brought his blade up and blocked the charge, steel ringing as claws skidded along the edge. As it recoiled, he stepped through and took its head in a heavy arc.
The armless one charged.
It slammed into him shoulder-first, all weight and momentum, and tore the sword from his hand as they went down. He hit the ground hard, breath driven from him, the ghoul crashing on top of him.
The blade skidded away through the dirt, coming to rest just out of reach.
The ghoul pinned him with its weight, snarling, blood slicking its side. He jammed his forearm up under its jaw and locked his elbow, keeping its snapping teeth inches from his throat. Its one good arm raked at him wildly, claws scraping leather, tearing shallow lines across his chest and shoulder.
They strained there for a heartbeat, heat and stink and breath pressed tight between them. The ghoul forced its face closer, jaws working, saliva dripping down onto his collar.
He dragged in a breath and twisted his free hand into the Sign.
Igni.
Heat burst from his palm in a tight, punishing flare. The ghoul shrieked as its face blistered, flesh tightening and cracking. It recoiled on instinct, weight lifting just enough.
He rolled, lunged for the sword, and came up in the same motion. One clean swing ended it, silver cutting through its neck and sending the head tumbling into the dirt.
Silence crept back in slowly.
He stayed where he was for a moment, breathing steady. Sweat ran beneath the leather. The heat made everything heavier. Everything took longer in summer.
Then he went back.
The ghoul he had stabbed through the chest was still moving, dragging itself weakly through the dirt, breath rattling wetly in its throat. He ended it with a single downward thrust and pulled the blade free.
Only then did he straighten.
The light was thinner now.
He looked at what the ghouls had been feeding on.
The bodies had been dragged here deliberately, far enough from the road to stay hidden. Whatever had been taken was gone. Whatever remained had been ruined.
Human work.
He didn't stay long after that.
Ghouls were common enough. People were worse, but not his concern unless they made it so.
He cleaned the blood from his gloves and leather until there was none left to smell, wiped the blade clean, checked his gear, and led the horse back onto the road.
He kept riding until the light was almost gone and made camp farther than he'd planned, where the road ran bare and open and nothing could approach unseen.
By nightfall the road stretched empty ahead of him, and the smell was gone.