The ancient oak stood sentinel over the clearing, its gnarled branches reaching toward the pale morning sky and Sebastian stood before it, his yellow eyes fixed on the twisted roots that had grown over the grave of the young woman, He knelt and his fingers moved with precision, gathering the bones he had uncovered the night before and he arranged them on the ground before the tree, forming a rough outline of the body they had once supported. The skull he placed at the head, its empty eye sockets staring up at the sky.
Then he rose and walked to the tree itself. His hands moved among the strange objects that hung from its branches, bundles of herbs, strips of cloth, small bones tied with string. He selected a few of them, their surfaces worn and weathered by the years, and brought them back to the arrangement on the ground.
He drew a circle in the dirt around the bones, his finger tracing a perfect circumference in the damp earth. Then he drew another, and another, until the ground was marked with a complex pattern of concentric circles and intersecting lines. It was not a circle that a mage would draw, not a circle of power that called upon the elements. It was something older and rawer, a witcher's circle, a circle of intention and will, of respect for the dead and the determination to set things right after it gone horribly wrong.
Sebastian settled into a meditative position, his legs crossed, his hands resting on his knees. He closed his eyes, and for a long moment, he was calm.
Then he began to speak.
His voice was low, resonant, they were words of power and purpose, words that had been passed down from witcher to witcher, from Vesemir to the boys he had trained, from the old world to the new. "By the blood that was spilled, by the life that was taken, by the earth that holds your bones, I call to you. You who were wronged, you who were betrayed, you who were silenced before your time... I call to you. I do not come to bind you. I do not come to banish you. I come to hear your truth, I come to give you what was denied, I come to set you free."
The words echoed through the clearing, the objects hanging from the branches swayed, though there was no wind. The bones on the ground trembled, shifting slightly.
Sebastian opened his eyes.
In his palm, a single ember flickered to life, a tiny point of orange and gold that grew and swelled, fed by his power. It danced across his skin, casting shadows across his face, its light reflected in his yellow eyes. He extended his hand toward one of the bones.
The ember leaped from his palm.
It struck the bone of the young woman, and in an instant, it blazed into a pillar of white-hot flame. The fire consumed the bone, the herbs, the cloth, the tied strings, leaving nothing behind but ash and the lingering scent of smoke. The flames rose high, twisting and writhing , their light casting dancing shadows across the clearing.
And then the wraith appeared.
The shriek that tore through the clearing was not a mere sound, it was a force, a physical presence that seemed to shatter the very air. It rose from the ashes, a figure of pale light and swirling mist, its form shifting and unstable. It was a woman, or had been once, her face contorted with grief and rage and a pain so profound that it had survived beyond death. Her spectral form flickered, her features shifting between the girl she had been and the monster she had become.
Sebastian drew his silver sword.
But he did not attack. He stood his ground, his eyes fixed on the wraith, his posture calm and ready, his sword held in a defensive position.
And the wraith screamed again.
The sound was deafening, a wave of pure sonic force that tore through the clearing. Leaves were ripped from the trees, the ground shook, and Sebastian's ears rang with the intensity of it. He cast Quen, a barrier of energy surrounding him, but the scream struck it with such force that the barrier shattered like glass, dissolving into motes of golden light.
Sebastian's eyes widened, but he did not retreat. He steadied himself, his sword still raised, his stance shifting to absorb the impact.
"Wow," Sebastian breathed. "Not only hostile... she is pretty powerful for a wraith. She clearly holds immense hatred for the living..."
He studied her, his mind racing through the catalog of knowledge that Vesemir had drilled into him over the years, on top of his knowledge of all monsters. The way she moved, the way her form flickered, the sheer force of her scream, it was unmistakable.
"At first I thought it would be a maiden plague.." Sebastian murmured to himself. "But no... that's a banshee, the wails and the cries are a dead giveaway now, she must have suffered a very traumatic experience, one that she endured even before death..."
The banshee's form solidified, her features becoming more distinct, her face frozen in an expression of terror and anguish. Her eyes, red and yet still hollow, fixed on Sebastian with immense hatred, her hands, spectral and clawed, raised as if to strike.
Sebastian's grip on his silver sword tightened, his mind was already working, calculating, planning his next move. He had faced wraiths before, had learned their patterns and their weaknesses. But this one was clearly different and stronger, more filled with rage than the ones he had encountered in the Elven Ruins of Redania.
She attacked without wasting time.
Sebastian met her charge, his sword flashing in the morning light, his body moving with the fluid grace of a witcher who had been trained for exactly this moment.
.
.
.
Zoltan who had retreated to a safe distance, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes fixed on the clearing where Sebastian had begun his ritual. The dwarf had seen many things in his long life, battles, monsters, the cruelty of men and the desperation of the desperate. But he had never seen a witcher perform an old rite like that, not even with Geralt.
He watched as Sebastian arranged the bones, drew the circles, settled into his meditative pose. He watched as the witcher's voice rose in that ancient, resonant cadence, words that seemed to vibrate in the very air. He watched as the ember leaped from Sebastian's palm and consumed a single bone in a pillar of white-hot flame.
And then the wraith appeared.
The shriek tore through the clearing like a physical force, and Zoltan staggered back, his hands flying to his ears, his face contorting in pain. The sound was not just loud, it was a scream that had been building for five years of rage and grief and betrayal.
From a distance, Zoltan could see the figure that rose from the ashes, a woman's form, spectral and writhing, her face a mask of pure, undiluted hatred. Her eyes fixed on Sebastian with an intensity that made even the dwarf's blood run cold.
Zoltan's mouth opened. A word escaped him, half curse and half prayer, a word from his dwarven homeland that he had not spoken in years.
"Duvvelsheyss..."
His hands were shaking, he was not the type of person to fear a monster but there was something about this wraith, the raw, unfiltered rage of a soul that had been wronged beyond measure, that made his heart pound in his chest.
The banshee screamed again, and the sound sent a shockwave through the forest. Zoltan shielded his eyes, his body bracing against the force, his dwarven stoutness the only thing keeping him on his feet.
Zoltan breathed. "What have you summoned lad?!"
.
.
.
Back at the camp, Dandelion's eyes snapped open.
The scream had cut through his dreams, tearing him from a pleasant slumber filled with wine and warm embraces and the adoration of beautiful women. He sat bolt upright, his heart pounding against his ribs, his hand clutching his chest.
"Good gods!" Dandelion gasped.
He looked around wildly, his eyes searching for the source of the sound. The camp was empty, Sebastian's bedroll was cold, Zoltan was gone. The fire had gone out.
"What in the name of all that is holy..." Dandelion began.
Another scream tore through the forest, closer this time, and Dandelion's face went white. He scrambled to his feet, his hands shaking, his mind racing with a thousand terrifying possibilities.
"Seb?! Zoltan?!" Dandelion called out, his voice cracking with fear. "Is that you?! Are you being eaten?! Should I run?!"
There was no answer. Only the rustle of leaves and that distant terrible sound.
Dandelion clutched his heart, his breathing ragged. "Right," Dandelion said to himself, his voice trembling. "Right. I am a brave and courageous bard. I have faced down many monsters... I have sung in the presence of kings. I am not afraid of a little.."
The scream came again, and Dandelion's bravery evaporated like mist in the morning sun.
He dove behind a tree, his hands over his ears, his eyes squeezed shut.
"I'm not here!" Dandelion whispered. "I'm not here! I'm just a small, harmless, very invisible bush!"
The scream faded, replaced by the sound of something, someone fighting in the distance. The clash of steel, the crackle of fire, the grunt of effort that could only belong to a witcher in the midst of battle.
Dandelion peeked out from behind the tree, his heart still racing.
"Seb?" he breathed. "If that's you.. I haven't finished composing that ballad about you yet! Kill whatever is screaming and I promise it will make you famous!"
He pressed his back against the tree, his eyes fixed on the direction of the sounds, and waited for whatever would come next.
/-\
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