Sometimes I think… if, the first time we met, I'd just followed the urge in my gut and drawn my sword to cut that bastard down—
Forget it. That would've been too cruel. Breaking his leg would've been enough. Maybe then a lot of things wouldn't have happened after that—good things, bad things.
Either way, on that autumn afternoon, under the warm slant of the sun, I caught myself daydreaming again—how nice it would've been if I'd just broken his leg back then…
…
To enter Novigrad, you have to pass the city gate—and before you even reach the gate, you have to cross the fan-shaped sprawl of Farcorners. It was like the satellite towns outside Vizima: the working poor who needed to go into the city every day but couldn't afford to live inside the walls gathered here.
In the distance, Victor spotted a long-bearded dwarf sitting by the roadside, crying. He nudged his horse closer to the wagon's driver's bench and said quietly, "Give him some room. Don't get too close."
Fergus understood and guided the wagon slightly off to the side, keeping their distance from the dwarf. Silently, he grumbled to himself: if that were a woman sitting there crying—species aside—the boss would probably ride over and offer help.
He didn't have much prejudice against nonhumans. But when it came to men and women, adults and children, the boss absolutely had different standards.
Fergus turned and met Yoana's eyes on the passenger bench. She clearly had the same thought, and she gave him a smile that said, We both know. With Angoulême setting the example, the long road north had taught them quickly how to get along with their employer.
He was an enlightened tyrant. Most of the time he was happy to hear your opinions. You could make suggestions, tease him, even joke at his expense. But the moment he gave an order, you obeyed instantly—no matter how stupid it sounded.
Hoofbeats clattered past the dwarf who might've needed help, and after a long journey, the Phantom Troupe finally arrived at the world's capital, the Pearl of the North—
Novigrad.
…
The gate guards who managed entry and exit answered to the Eternal Fire as well. They ran a simple magical detector over each face, checking for illusion-disguises and wanted criminals. If you passed, you went through.
During the scan, Victor noticed a ragged boy nearby, staring at his face like he'd forgotten how to blink. When Victor looked back out of curiosity, the boy snapped awake like someone shaken from a dream, spun on his heel, and ran—gone in seconds.
Weird. Victor didn't bother with the interruption.
As for weapons, paying the proper fee made it legal to bring even crossbows into the city. The wagon's load of tools earned them a generous reduction in entry taxes—Novigrad welcomed skilled specialists.
After they passed the gate, Victor noticed another small beggar doing the exact same thing—staring at his face, frozen. When the beggar realized Victor was watching him, he jolted upright and hurried off at a near-run.
Twice in a row.
If Victor still failed to notice something was off after that, he'd be spitting on every word Knight Tailles had ever drilled into him.
Victor quickly put on his sunglasses and flashed a quick string of hand signals: something's wrong—split up for now. Angoulême would stay with Yoana and Fergus.
Then Victor mounted his skinny horse and let it pick up into a quick trot along Glory Lane—until a line of six or seven men stepped out ahead and blocked the passage.
When Victor looked back, five more had sealed the way behind him.
He was boxed in.
He had no choice but to rein in and study the people surrounding him.
The one in front was an elf with a low white ponytail. Gray eyes, sharp and predatory. A high-collared leather cuirass. Two blades at his waist. He looked like trouble, plain and simple.
But he didn't draw on Victor.
Instead, he forced an awkward smile onto his face.
He dipped into a flawless bow, every bit the polished court manner. "Good day. Are you Master Victor Corion?"
That respectful form of address told Victor plenty. He swung down from the saddle and returned the bow. "Victor Corion, from Bell Town—east of Zerrikania. What can I do for you?"
"Boslaer," the elf said. "I represent my master, Mr. Alonso Wiley. He sincerely welcomes the Dragonborn Bard, Master Victor, to Novigrad—and he's eager to meet you as soon as possible.
If you'd honor him."
With that, the elf with the ponytail produced a formal invitation from inside his coat and held it out. This wasn't some spur-of-the-moment whim. Whoreson had truly sent people to receive him.
Boslaer lowered his voice and added, "And please rest assured—your three companions have been met as well. We sent people to escort them."
Victor looked around at the ring of toughs, each wearing that same stiff, practiced smile.
Then he sighed and shook his head. "I'm honored to accept."
…
They hadn't been separated long before the Phantom Troupe was reunited. Under gang escort, the four of them passed through the Bits—where the lower and middle classes packed in—and headed toward Gildorf, where the rich lived.
Victor rode alongside Boslaer, talking as if they were old friends. Angoulême lagged half a pace behind, relaxed and unbothered. On the wagon bench, Yoana and Fergus looked slightly lost—because for decent folk like them, getting invited by the underworld the moment you stepped into the city was a bit much.
Up ahead, the white-haired elf spoke with the ease of a man reciting a shopping list.
"This Free City sits at the mouth of the Pontar River. It's the most important port in the North—arguably on the entire Continent. Permanent residents number close to forty thousand, and that doesn't include the merchants and visitors who flow through.
The main roads are paved in stone. There's a harbor, countless warehouses, four water mills, a slaughterhouse, a sawmill, and an enormous shoemaking factory.
And beyond that, every trade you can imagine—mints, eight banks, nineteen pawnshops; twelve licensed brothels, and thirty-five inns."
"That's a very thorough introduction," Victor said mildly. "But why tell me all this?"
"Because I'm terrible at poetry," the elf answered bluntly. "I don't know what to say to you. But I want to show goodwill."
"Then tell me about your master," Victor said. "Why does Mr. Wiley know my name, and why did he have people waiting for me here?"
"That's easy," Boslaer replied. "About twenty days ago, the greatest bard in the North—Dandelion—arrived in Novigrad…"
At that name, Victor's hand tightened on its own—his hand, and nothing else.
"Mr. Wiley has been one of his patrons for a long time, so of course he invited him to perform at his salon again. This time, the bard didn't just play several magnificent new pieces—he brought poetry unlike anything we've heard before. Beautiful beyond imagining."
Boslaer smiled at Victor in a way that was almost gentle. "Even someone as cold as I am was deeply moved by The Return of the Dragonborn. You're the original author—can you tell me… is that story all true?"
Victor felt genuinely sorry, but he chose to break the fantasy cleanly. "Poetry always has… artistic embellishment."
Boslaer rubbed the back of his neck, disappointed. "All right. But there are real parts, aren't there? Like the Dragon Shout!"
"Is Dandelion still in Novigrad?"
"Unfortunately, no," Boslaer said. "After his last public performance five days ago, he left early for other business. He didn't say where he was going."
Warm afternoon sun slanted across the side of Victor's face.
"I see," Victor murmured. "What a shame. I couldn't wait to see him again… and to miss him by a hair like this is a terrible waste."
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