From tracking game trails to setting traps, Victor's wolf-hunting skills came straight from Vesemir's teachings. He spent an entire autumn learning, and before the first snow fell, he completed a bear trial that proved he was a competent hunter.
A witcher has to learn hunting for a simple reason: blade oil formulas use all kinds of animal fats. Dog tallow and wolf fat are considered broadly applicable, and in times like these, wolves can actually be easier to find than dogs.
After finishing the dissection on the third wolf, Victor pitched a tent out in the wild. He pulled Angoulême inside and began demonstrating how to brew Cursed Oil. Once the first batch was done, he shooed her back out to stand watch, then started on the "unbelievable" impurity purification.
There was a reason the witcher apprentice was being so "impatient."
Sometimes, the more you know, the more pressure you feel—and the kind of pressure a werewolf brought down on the boy was crushing. That wasn't an opponent normal people could handle with normal methods: speed, monstrous strength, razor claws, thick hide, and regeneration. A fully mature werewolf could easily make an entire squad of soldiers break and run.
He stirred the cauldron of Cursed Oil with steady, mechanical motions. On the surface, Victor looked calm and unhurried, but he knew perfectly well that he was tense. In a one-on-one fight, he would die for sure—no amount of School of the Wolf techniques would change that.
At the same time, he kept turning over another thought: there was no reason something that dangerous could exist in Vizima without anyone knowing, unless someone was covering for it—and unless the werewolf's killings were unusually restrained.
Otherwise, all it would take was one feeding scene that couldn't be hidden to trigger widespread panic. It wouldn't be this calm and quiet—not to the point where even Kalkstein, who'd lived in the Temple Quarter for ages, had heard nothing at all.
Seen from that angle, maybe he was too nervous. Looking past the surface to the core of it, that terrifying neighbor didn't actually seem like an immediate, pressing threat.
As he stirred, his mind settled with the rhythm. When he stepped out of the tent, Victor was composed again, feeling like there was nothing left to fear.
He handed a vial of Cursed Oil to Angoulême as she came up to him. "Clip it to your belt and keep it on you." Then he packed the other vials into the herb pouch. "If we run into it, you run and you scream, 'Werewolf! A werewolf's eating people!'"
Hearing his instructions, Angoulême blinked. "Uh… aren't we supposed to oil the blade and fight it?"
Victor lightly knocked a knuckle against her forehead. "You're thinking too far ahead. This is for a last-ditch stand when there's nowhere left to run—see if the pain can drive it off. But if I'm right, the moment you start yelling like I said, that werewolf will retreat on its own."
Angoulême froze. "You mean it understands I'm calling for help? It doesn't want to be discovered?"
Victor nodded. "Yeah. A vicious monster with features that obvious would cause a sensation the moment it's exposed. If you've been here this many days and never once heard anything about a werewolf—and the residents near the scene didn't hear any howling this morning either—then the conclusion is obvious. After it transforms, it stays aware enough to hide itself on purpose."
After the explanation, Angoulême stood there, thinking. Victor turned away and began packing up the alchemy tools and the travel tent.
…
"Let's go." A short while later, everything was packed, and the boy stepped closer to the girl.
It was still early, the air was clean, and Victor figured they could take their time—look for wild berries, gather herbs, stroll back to the city while snacking.
Unfortunately, at that exact moment—again—Angoulême launched herself at him. She tackled him into the nearby brush and rolled them behind a tree trunk.
In the hiss-hiss-hiss of a volley, Victor peeked out from behind the tree. The spot where they'd been standing was now bristling with arrows.
It was so familiar a scene that a surge of absurdity rose in him—darkly funny, in a way.
Damn it. With all the forests in the world, is there not a single one where someone can rest in peace? Wherever I go, I get ambushed.
Then, without hesitation, he shouted loudly, again and again:
"Caelm, evellienn! N'aen aespar a me." (Calm down, everyone! Please don't shoot!)
"Essea Caer a'Muirehen wed Vatt'ghern." (I'm a witcher apprentice from Kaer Morhen.)
"Ceádmil, Wedd Dol!" (Greetings, Child of Dol Blathanna!)
Then came a line he didn't fully understand—something Toruviel had pressed to his ear at parting, making him repeat each word until he'd memorized it, telling him that if he was ever ambushed by Scoia'tael again, shouting it could save his life.
"Neen evelienn 'tael marw. Cáemm aep woedd, holl Aen Seidhe."
Sure enough, the moment the last sound fell, the effect was immediate. The arrows stopped completely.
Not long after, a single elf stepped out from the brush and into the clearing. "Squass'me! wed Vatt'ghern." (I'm sorry, witcher apprentice.)
Looks like he truly owed Toruviel again. What she'd taught him clearly wasn't some casual passphrase—it was probably a key shibboleth they used to distinguish friend from foe. Otherwise, why would the elves stop the instant he spoke, and then willingly step out?
Facing the invitation to speak, Victor wasn't fluent in Elder Speech, but he at least knew the word for apology. He hesitated for a moment, patted Angoulême's hand to keep her back, didn't abandon his sword, and stood up straight. Then he walked out from behind the tree, one step at a time, toward the elf.
When he reached him, Victor spoke first. "Sorry. I just used up every Elder Speech sentence I know. Can we speak the Common Tongue?"
The elf nodded, one hand on his sword hilt, maintaining the bare minimum of caution. "Greetings. I'm a scout under Yaevinn's command. Where did you come from—friend of the forest?"
Victor's expression was calm, confident. "Greetings, Child of Dol Blathanna. I'm Victor Corion, a friend of the forests of Flotsam, a guest of Iorveth. I also attended this year's Midsummer Festival, and I played a tune there."
The moment he finished, the elves who heard him were clearly shaken—there was even the faint rustle of movement all around in the brush.
Victor didn't overreact. Their response was normal. Iorveth was practically the spiritual leader of Scoia'tael across the Northern Kingdoms. They might not all be directly subordinate to him, but they would never willingly harm his guest.
"In that case, what happened just now was a terrible misunderstanding. Please forgive our recklessness, Mr. Victor. And I believe Yaevinn will also wish to meet Iorveth's guest." The elven scout apologized again and extended the invitation in a gentler tone.
Victor nodded. "I'd like to meet Yaevinn as well. My witcher training requires long periods of activity in the forest—maybe we can help each other.
"But today I have other matters to handle. Is the swamp forest south of Vizima also within your range?"
The scout nodded. "Yes. All the forests around Vizima are within our range."
"Then from the day after tomorrow, for several days in a row, I'll be in the south dealing with an Archespore—what you elves call that bloodthirsty plant, the 'cursed flower bud.' Maybe Yaevinn would be willing to meet me there."
"Understood, Mr. Victor. I will certainly pass this message to Yaevinn."
With that, the scout saluted with a hand to his chest, slowly backed into the brush, and with a soft shivering of leaves, the children of the forest vanished—like they'd never been there at all.