Before he'd even had the chance to properly taste Novigrad—the poor clawing their way up with sheer grit, and the middle class hustling with relentless ambition—the Phantom Troupe was already whisked off to Gildorf, the wealthy quarter, to experience a decayed, indulgent atmosphere and a dull, quietly "respectable" life.
The sky was scrubbed clean and bright. In the garden pond, green water shimmered in ripples. Victor crouched by the edge, watching the fish drift about—free, at a glance. Toss in a handful of feed, though, and they surged together, snapping and jostling for every crumb.
Boslaer padded up behind the bard without a sound, bent down, and murmured, "Master, the salon is ready. Mr. Alonso and Mr. Cyprian are already waiting in the hall."
Cyprian Wiley the Younger was Alonso Wiley's only son.
Victor didn't answer. He flicked the remaining feed far out across the water and watched the gold scales churn and flash—no matter how wildly they thrashed, they were still just fish in a pond.
…
Alonso was, without question, a man who understood pleasure: a salon with crisp acoustics, soft and indulgent chairs, and a spread of exquisite food that even included out-of-season cherries. Victor wasn't surprised. He'd seen what "natural" hothouses could do back at the Temple of Melitele.
In the lavish receiving room, the man in the center could only be the first Whoreson—Alonso Wiley. Dark-golden hair, blue eyes, a tall brow, a hawk's nose, deep lines carved beside his mouth. He looked old and thin, but his gaze was razor-sharp, like a hunting bird's.
When he saw Victor, the warmth and delight he showed weren't an act. But if Victor had been a fake, Alonso's coldness and mercilessness would have been just as real—proven by more than enough ghosts.
A mage and several swordsmen were present as guards. Boslaer was clearly the standout among them; when they entered, he naturally took his place behind Alonso.
The truly talented don't panic. Victor accepted the finely made lute, tuned it at his leisure, and swept his eyes over today's fortunate audience.
Alonso's eyes were half-lidded, a smile at the corner of his mouth, one hand resting easily on his knee. Angoulême looked calm and unbothered, popping cherries into her mouth one after another. Yoana and Fergus were overwhelmed by the sheer weight of wealth in the room—sitting ramrod-straight, hardly daring to move. And the one Victor cared about most, Cyprian, sat with his hands folded, expressionless.
Victor watched Cyprian so closely because, in the future, he would be infamous as Whoreson Junior. People didn't call him "Whoreson" for nothing—Alonso was a son of a b*tch, and Cyprian would inherit that proud tradition perfectly.
In the game, the player had to work through a branching chain of quests to fully grasp what a piece of trash he was—until it became obvious that no matter who killed him, it was an act of mercy for the world. Only then could you complete the main objective: bringing down the "Junior."
Cyprian looked almost exactly like Alonso: that same dark-golden hair, the hawk's nose, the deep lines by the mouth—just younger, and with the malice in his eyes even harder to miss.
If anything, that made Victor underestimate him a little. Like Ramsmeat from Ramsmeat's gang liked to say, you could read a lot in someone's eyes—and wearing your emotions out in the open was exceptionally stupid.
…
When he was done tuning, Victor brushed the strings, and the notes poured out smooth and rich, like a good vintage.
"The Return of the Dragonborn!"
His voice boomed through the salon—bold, powerful, and rough with ancient grandeur.
"Dovahkiin, Dovahkiin,
By honor sworn, he will not let evil return.
Hear his victorious roar—even the fiercest foes will flee in fear.
Dragonborn! We pray for your blessing."
The song that once shook the White Hall rang out again, and rattling a mansion like this was no challenge at all.
Whatever faint doubts Alonso still carried vanished before the first verse ended.
Because with poetry, amateurs hear the story—professionals hear the interpretation. And this thunderous, heroic delivery surpassed even Master Dandelion's performances. Only a Dragonborn Bard could do it like this.
When the final note fell away, the room went quiet for a heartbeat—then Alonso began to clap. His guards and servants followed immediately, and soon the hall was alive with applause and cheers.
Angoulême handled it better—she'd been prepared, at least. But hearing Victor play for the first time, Yoana and Fergus just stared, dumbstruck, unable to believe something this beautiful could come from their usually unreliable boss.
And for Yoana—born of the Skellige Isles—"The Return of the Dragonborn" couldn't have been more to her taste. It sang of courage, strength, and fearlessness—the kind of Skellige values carved straight into bone.
But in the middle of all that praise, one discordant voice cut in, dripping with contempt:
"Plenty of breath in you. Louder than that old hippie who sells his ass, and you can open your mouth wide, too. Maybe you'd like to put those talents to work and blow a horn for someone?"
He said it loudly on purpose.
The entire room fell dead silent—because the speaker was Cyprian Wiley.
Only his father, Alonso, reacted at once. His face darkened and he snapped, "Lowborn trash. If you can't sit still and appreciate art, get the hell out!"
No mercy. No hesitation—pure scolding and humiliation.
Cyprian's mouth twitched, like he meant to say something, but in the end he didn't force a single word out. He shot to his feet and stormed out without looking back.
Whoreson Senior had just thrown Whoreson Junior out of the receiving room.
The hall sank into a brief, awkward silence.
…
Old Alonso waved a hand. The other members of the Phantom Troupe—Angoulême, Yoana, and Fergus—were led away by servants to wash up and rest in their rooms, leaving Victor alone to keep him company.
Alonso rose and walked to the wall, staring up at a painting. "You might find it strange," he said, "how harsh I am with him."
It was phrased as a question, but Victor stayed calm and silent. The old man wasn't looking for an answer.
Alonso touched the mural and let out a long sigh. "Because he has nowhere to vent his malice—and that's dangerous. All I can do is warn him with rebuke.
"A man in my position… blackmail, robbery, murder—those are ordinary as bread.
"But not once have I stopped trying to keep my mind at peace. I do bad things because the role I occupy requires it, not because I take pleasure in it.
"If someone takes pleasure in doing evil for its own sake, they lose control quickly. And a man who loses control cannot rule Novigrad.
"Poetry is how I temper myself. But shamefully, my son never learned that. He only learned my cruelty, and he can't understand that there's still goodness in this world.
"What a pity. If even the Dragonborn Bard's song can't move him… then I owe you an apology."
As he said that, one of Novigrad's Big Four actually bowed slightly in apology.
Alonso clearly loved his son. But it wouldn't change Cyprian. And it wouldn't change the fact that he was still a son of a bitch—a Whoreson to the core.
Victor remained silent. The old man didn't need comfort. He only needed a stranger to listen.
After apologizing, he seemed to age several years in an instant. In a low voice, he said, "Mr. Victor, I'd like to trouble you to perform again in three days. Next time, we'll change venues—and I'll invite the other three remarkable figures of this city, so we can all enjoy your performance together.
"Believe me, my payment won't disappoint you.
"Boslaer—see to my guest."
With that, the old man left the room.
And by Victor's eye as an alchemist, Whoreson Senior was in decent shape—he had at least five more years to live.
So… there were still five years until Ciri came back?!
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