Chapter 5 - Trial of grasses

The wind howled through the cracked battlements of Kaer Morhen, but inside the laboratory, the air was unnervingly still, smelling of ozone and the sharp, biting scent of refined spirits. Ciri stood by a narrow arrow slit, her gaze fixed on the valley below. The distant horizon, once a sea of untamed forests, was now dotted with the faint, orange glow of industrial chimneys from the lowlands.

{Her voice tight with a mix of awe and unease} The Northern Realms changed so much while I was in the Far North. It's like a different world, Robin. People don't look to the stars for signs anymore; they look to the factories.

Robin nodded slowly, his hands steady as he filtered a shimmering emerald liquid through a fine silk mesh.

It is a world built on logic now. And I have to live with the fact that it is partially my doing, though I never intended it. I was just a Witcher who made alchemy his hobby—I wanted to understand the natural laws so I could modify our potions and oil, and sharpen the power of our runes.

He paused, watching the thick liquid drip into a glass vial.

I shared what I found with my friends. I thought we were just curious. I didn't expect those early subjects to become the building materials for a revolution. I gave them a spark, and they turned it into a flame that burned the Old World away.

In the corner, sitting on a cold stone bench, was Tom of Temeria. The young recruit looked small, his eyes darting between the bubbling vats and the heavy iron shackles on the mutation table. To Tom, the grand conflict between Modernists and Traditionalists was a distant noise; his entire universe had shrunk down to his primal fear of the Grass Elixirs.

{His voice trembling} Robin, you saved my life... you gave me a purpose when I was a nobody. I trust you. But the stories... they say seven out of ten boys don't wake up from this.

Robin stepped toward the boy, holding a small, fourth vial that glowed with a soft, constant bioluminescence.

The stories belong to the age of superstition, Tom. I've used the chemistry of alchemy to perfect this. This fourth elixir is a stabilizer; it makes the process painless and ensures a 100% success rate. A perfect mutation.

Robin's gaze flickered to the vial with a hint of gravity.

The ingredients are so rare I don't know if I can ever brew another. But it means you won't suffer.

Despite the assurance, Tom's heart hammered against his ribs as he climbed onto the table. He looked at the leather straps and the cold glass tubes. He wanted to believe in Robin's laws of nature, but as the needles were prepared, he couldn't shake the doubt: could a few drops of refined alchemy truly stop the Trial from being a death sentence?

{Stepping in to assist} Stay still, Tom. The world is moving forward. You're just the first to step into the light.

******

The transformation was unnerving in its silence. As the last of the modified elixirs hissed through the glass tubes and into Tom's veins, the boy didn't scream. He didn't convulse or claw at the stone table as generations of Witchers had done before him. Instead, his breathing slowed, his muscles relaxed, and his eyes drifted shut as he fell into a deep, heavy slumber.

{Exhaling a breath he hadn't realized he was holding} It worked!

He began disconnecting the apparatus with practiced, steady fingers.

The process is exactly as I calculated. Painless.

Ciri stepped closer, looking down at the sleeping recruit.

He's so still. Is he...?

He's in a deep sleep, Ciri. His body is rewriting itself according to the natural laws I mapped out. It will take two days for the mutations to finish. Only then will he wake up as something more than human.

The heavy oak doors of the laboratory creaked open, admitting a gust of mountain air and the rhythmic thud of heavy boots. Geralt, Eskel, and Lambert filed into the room, the candlelight catching the silver of their medallions.

Geralt stopped at the edge of the table, his gold eyes scanning the sleeping boy and the strange, refined equipment Robin had built.

So, the rumors were true. You've found another recruit?

Tom of Temeria. And the Trial... it didn't hurt him, Geralt. Not at all.

Lambert let out a short, sharp bark of a laugh, leaning against a weapon rack with his arms crossed. He looked at Robin with his trademark mix of cynicism and dark humor.

Painless mutations. Steam carriages. Guns that kill Griffins from a league away. Tell me, Robin—you trying to break the whole world again, or just this one boy?

Eskel frowned, placing a steadying hand on Lambert's shoulder.

Leave it, Lambert. Robin didn't do this intentionally. It was those friends of his—the noble sons in Toussaint. They took his notes and built the colleges. Robin just wanted to fix a few potions.

Robin turned away from the table, his expression somber as he faced his elders.

Eskel is kind, but Lambert isn't wholly wrong.

He looked at his hands, the hands of a scholar and a killer.

I provided the spark. I was the one who looked at the natural world and tried to strip away the mystery. My friends just turned that spark into a flame that became the industrial revolution. The responsibility is mine, whether I wanted it or not.

Geralt looked from Robin to the sleeping Tom.

The world is already on fire, Robin. We just have to decide if we're going to be the ones to put it out, or the ones who survive the heat.

******

Two days had passed in the quiet, drafty halls of Kaer Morhen. The sun was just beginning to crest the mountain peaks when Lambert walked into the main hall, tossing a heavy, ink-stained newspaper onto the wooden table in front of Robin. The headlines were bold, printed with the sharp precision of the new Gnomish presses.

{His voice dripping with his usual cynicism} The tinkerers finally did it. The Magitech War is officially over. The Modernists dismantled the coalition. The mages are in hiding, and the technologists are the new kings of the hill.

He leaned back, crossing his arms.

I doubt this victory is the end, though. Smells more like the calm before a much bigger storm.

Robin picked up the paper, his amber eyes scanning the reports of steam-tanks and flintlock divisions breaking alchemical lines.

I'm not surprised. Technology, if used correctly, can beat magic. But magic is not inferior, Lambert. Both have their own strengths and weaknesses. It all depends on how they are used.

Well, I just hope the Traditionalists' loss doesn't end up biting us here. Word is getting out that the 'culprit' behind this whole industrial mess is a certain Robin of the Wolf School. If they come looking for someone to blame, they'll follow the trail right to these gates.

Before Robin could answer, Ciri appeared at the doorway of the infirmary, a small smile on her face.

The wait is over. Tom is waking up.

The group hurried to the bedside. Tom lay there, his skin now possessing the faint, healthy sheen of a successful mutation. His breathing was deep, but despite the sun hitting his face, he remained motionless, clearly content to stay in the sanctuary of sleep.

Ciri leaned over and shook his shoulder gently.

Tom? Come on, wake up. The Trial is over.

Tom groaned and pulled the blanket higher, mumbling something incoherent. He had slept like a log for forty-eight hours and seemed determined to make it seventy-two.

Robin stepped forward, a mischievous glint in his eye.

It seems Tom isn't interested in the world of the living. {Glancing at others} That's a shame. I suppose we'll just have to finish that chocolate parfait ourselves. No sense letting it go to waste.

The effect was instantaneous. Tom's eyes snapped open—amber and slit-pupilled, glowing with the new light of a Witcher. He bolted upright, nearly knocking Ciri over.

{Voice cracking} Please don't eat it alone!

The room erupted. Geralt offered a rare, dry chuckle, while Lambert and Eskel struggled to hold back their laughter. Even in a world of changing empires and industrial wars, some things—like a boy's appetite—remained gloriously simple.