It was almost as if they had returned to the carefree days of two years ago.
Every morning, Victor cleaned coins, performing a little cosmetic surgery on Foltest until he turned into Radovid.
Over the past few days, the value of the oren had been plummeting without pause. The exchange rate had fallen from three-to-one to five-to-one and was now charging headlong toward six-to-one, which said plenty about how badly things were going on the Temerian front.
With the currency losing nearly half its value, Angoulême had practically become Vimme Vivaldi's favorite customer in the world. She was the only person who showed up without fail every single day, bringing him cheerful little Radovids and taking away increasingly ugly Foltests.
From the perspective of evil capitalism, using Nilfgaardian florens would actually have produced even greater profits, but Victor had no desire to make anyone misunderstand his relationship with the Black Ones.
Possessing a large quantity of crowns in Novigrad was nothing unusual, but possessing a large quantity of florens, even if their exchange value was higher, was extremely sensitive at a time like this.
Mornings were spent laundering coins. Afternoons were devoted to brewing potions and crafting bombs, occasionally interrupted by trips to Books and Scrolls to buy books or visits to Lacehalls to take in the local color. As for the evenings, there was no changing the routine, Victor always went to the Kingfisher Inn to listen to Priscilla sing.
Both Victor and Angoulême thoroughly enjoyed this leisurely life.
Compared with the Phantom Troupe's relaxation, however, Yoana was considerably less happy.
The day after Victor returned, her slave-driving boss once again made a request, ordering her and Hattori to forge a full suit of heavy armor made from black steel mixed with dimeritium.
Once again, the specifications he demanded nearly made Yoana explode with rage.
That damned thing would be completely useless once it was finished!
If they forged it to the thickness Victor requested, the final product would be unbelievably heavy. Anyone wearing it would barely be able to move unless Victor happened to have troll or giant blood.
And he very obviously did not.
Unfortunately, the slave-driving boss remained completely unwavering in his desire, so his exploited employees had no choice but to humor him and make his toy. Yoana and Hattori had spent much of their recent time working on this absurdly heavy armor.
Victor had even chosen its name in advance.
He said it would be called the Berserker Armor.
...
That day, after finishing lunch in the Alchemy Workshop, Victor was preparing to head outside for a stroll when he unexpectedly ran into an old friend.
Lambert, a witcher from the School of the Wolf.
Back at Kaer Morhen, Victor had mentioned the business he ran in Novigrad, so when Lambert discovered he needed help while passing through the area, the witcher immediately came looking for him.
"Damn good to see you, Vic. Got some time? I need your help with something."
"Just say the word, brother."
The two embraced and lightly slapped each other on the back.
"Remember Aiden? I told you about him back in Vergen."
"Very clearly. The witcher from the School of the Cat. You said he was your best friend and that I didn't even come close!"
"Hey! Don't get jealous of a dead man. Since I lost him, the only person still ahead of you is the White Wolf."
"He died!?"
The moment Victor asked in surprise, he remembered the general circumstances surrounding the incident.
As he vaguely recalled, Aiden, a witcher from the School of the Cat, had accepted a contract to lift a curse from a duke's daughter. That dragged him into a political struggle, and in the end, the opposing faction hired another Cat School witcher, who gathered a group and ambushed Aiden.
Lambert's subsequent investigation, following the trail and killing every participant one by one, had made for quite a memorable questline.
"That's right. It took me a long time to uncover what happened. He got dragged into... then... and eventually... Several of the people involved in murdering him are operating in Novigrad now..."
The slightly balding witcher continued talking at length, explaining the progress of his investigation and his own conclusions to the blond witcher.
Victor listened quietly, completely unaware that on this very same afternoon, in a valley at the eastern edge of Aedirn beneath the Blue Mountains, another extremely important event connected to him was taking place.
...
"For the past several hundred years, Francesca Findabair, the Daisy of the Valley, has been universally acknowledged as the most beautiful woman in the world."
The important part of that sentence is "several hundred years."
Sapience Ignis
...
Within the simple yet exquisite palace of Dol Blathanna, the officials of the Valley of Flowers witnessed an argument of a kind that had become exceedingly rare in recent years.
"I thought you were never coming back?"
"So did I."
"Then why have you returned? Nilfgaard has started another war, and right now the North needs the Scoia'tael to make their strength count!"
"I was under the impression that the Duchess of Dol Blathanna condemned the Scoia'tael's actions and refused to acknowledge them!"
The woman being mocked by Iorveth sat upon her throne.
Her long, dark-gold hair had been coiled into an elaborate bun held in place by silver pins. Her large eyes resembled those of a gentle doe, and her gray-green dress was trimmed with delicate lace.
She was breathtakingly beautiful.
"Iorveth, everything was done for the greater good. I believe you can understand that. Without those sacrifices, we would never even have regained this land beneath our feet where our people can rest and recover."
"We lost our dignity!"
"And gained something tangible in return!"
The hall fell briefly silent.
Iorveth, the Woodland Fox, and Francesca, the Daisy of the Valley, were incapable of convincing one another to accept their respective views.
Nor, of course, could either of them change what had already happened.
Toruviel, who had been listening nearby, coughed softly twice before changing the subject.
"Iorveth, let's leave the past aside for now. What made you change your mind and come back?"
Her question came at exactly the right moment.
Not only the duchess, but every other elf present wanted to know the answer.
Taking a deep breath to calm himself, the one-eyed elf rubbed his cheek.
"The reason I refused to return before was simple. This Valley of Flowers... rather than a place where our people could recuperate and rebuild, it felt more like a graveyard where the old simply waited to die."
Iorveth's words brought sorrow to the faces of his elven comrades.
Francesca folded her arms across her chest, but she did not dispute what he had said.
"But in the North, I met a great alchemist. And he offered me something I could not refuse."
Toruviel blinked.
The moment Iorveth mentioned an alchemist, the image of a certain young man suddenly appeared in her mind.
Four blade scars marked his face, while stars seemed to shine within his eyes.
"Oh? What did he give you?" Francesca asked curiously.
"A miraculous potion. According to his explanation, between the sixth and twenty-fourth hour after drinking it, male elves who have already passed their reproductive years will temporarily regain the ability to impregnate a woman, regardless of how old they are."
The instant the one-eyed elf finished speaking, Francesca shot to her feet from the throne.
Toruviel and every elf present stared at him with eyes suddenly blazing with light.
Francesca's voice trembled faintly.
"Iorveth, what you are describing is an extremely serious matter. I hope you are not joking! This... can it be mass-produced?"
"I don't know yet, but I don't believe he would lie to me. In fact, I'm willing to stake my honor on his word.
"He asked me to bring samples and the formula back to Dol Blathanna so we could test it ourselves. One of the ingredients is relatively rare, so he told us to find a substitute on our own.
"I don't know much about alchemy, but none of the other ingredients described in the formula seem particularly rare."
"Who is this alchemist? And what is this potion called?"
The duchess was so tense that her lips had gone pale.
That day, something extremely unusual occurred above the palace of Dol Blathanna.
Dark clouds gathered, lightning flashed, and thunder rolled across the valley. Although it was only afternoon, the sky descended into a darkness that seemed to herald the end of the world.
Within the flickering candlelight of the hall, Iorveth placed the iron chest beside him onto the table and opened it.
Inside lay twenty-four crystal-clear tubes of translucent green potion, arranged in perfect order.
The one-eyed elf swept his gaze across the surrounding faces.
Every pair of eyes held the same mixture of desperate hope and fear of disappointment.
He understood them completely.
He had felt exactly the same way when Victor first told him.
"Everyone, the alchemist Victor, Mr. Victor of Kaer Trolde, gave this to me!
"A great gift for the Aen Seidhe!"
Purple lightning tore across the heavens as serpents of electricity danced wildly through the clouds.
Amid the endless rumble of thunder, Iorveth stared directly into Francesca's eyes.
He lifted the tip of his tongue and carefully enunciated the name in three deliberate beats, letting every syllable fall into place.
"Gal. Va. Tron.
"Its name is Galvatron."
His tone was perfectly calm.
And the world trembled.
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