The walls of Kaer Morhen rose from the mountain stone like teeth from a skull.
Elric crested the final ridge as the sun touched the western peaks, painting the ancient fortress in shades of amber and blood. The keep squatted on its rocky throne with brutal practicality—no decorative towers or elegant battlements, just thick walls designed to endure whatever the world threw at them.
His medallion hummed against his chest, but not with the chaotic resonance he'd felt during the cultist attack. This was different. Cleaner. Like the steady pulse of a great heart buried deep in stone.
The main gate stood open, framed by carved wolf heads whose eyes seemed to track his approach. Two figures waited in the shadow of the portcullis—one tall and grizzled, the other lean and suspicious.
Vesemir stepped forward as Elric approached, his weathered face breaking into what might have been relief. "Griffin. You made good time."
"The roads were... eventful." Elric dismounted and shouldered his pack, feeling the weight of eyes studying his every movement. The second figure—a younger Witcher with dark hair and a scar across his cheek—watched him with the calculating gaze of someone sizing up a potential threat.
"Eskel," Vesemir said by way of introduction. "My most level-headed student."
The scarred Witcher stepped forward and clasped Elric's forearm in the warrior's greeting. His grip was firm but not challenging. "Heard about you from the old man. Says you're worth the trouble of summoning."
"Remains to be seen," said a third voice from the shadows.
Lambert emerged from the courtyard like a hunting cat, all controlled menace and casual threat. He looked Elric up and down with undisguised skepticism, taking in the Griffin robes, the rune-scarred hands, the medallion that hummed audibly in the mountain air.
"So you're the prodigy." Lambert's tone suggested he found the concept amusing. "Veskar said you were special. Course, he also said Griffin magic was worth preserving."
"Lambert." Vesemir's voice carried a warning.
"What? I'm being friendly." Lambert's smile had too many teeth. "Just wondering if our guest here knows what he's walked into. This isn't some academy where you can experiment with pretty lights."
Elric met his stare without flinching. "I didn't come here to play scholar. Your summons mentioned magical disturbances."
"Disturbances." Lambert laughed, but there was no humor in it. "That's one word for it."
"Enough." Vesemir gestured toward the main hall. "Let's get you settled before the explanations. You look like you've had a long journey."
The interior of Kaer Morhen felt older than the mountains themselves. Stone walls bore the scars of centuries—sword cuts, scorch marks, and darker stains that spoke of battles won at terrible cost. Tapestries hung in tatters, their original colors faded to grey and brown. The air smelled of old smoke, weapon oil, and something underneath that made Elric's nose wrinkle.
"Home sweet home," Lambert muttered. "Hope you're not expecting luxury."
They climbed a spiral staircase worn smooth by generations of boots. Elric's medallion hummed steadily, the sound echoing off the stone walls in ways that suggested the fortress itself was responding to his presence.
"Here." Vesemir opened a heavy oak door. "It's simple, but warm enough. Supper's in an hour."
The room contained a narrow bed, a writing desk scarred by knife cuts, and a window that looked out over the training yards. A small brazier provided heat, though the mountain cold still found ways to creep through the ancient stones.
Elric set down his pack and turned to find all three Wolf Witchers still watching him. The silence stretched until Eskel broke it.
"Your medallion," he said quietly. "It's been humming since you arrived. That normal for you?"
"Not like this." Elric touched the silver griffin hanging against his chest. The vibration was stronger now, almost urgent. "Something here resonates with it."
"Resonates." Lambert snorted. "There's that academic language again."
"Cut it out, Lambert." Eskel's voice carried quiet authority. "He's here to help."
"Is he? Or is he here because something wants him here?" Lambert's eyes narrowed. "Funny how his fancy medallion starts singing the moment he shows up."
The words hit closer to home than Elric cared to admit. Marwyn's voice echoed in his memory: The Flame has been shaping you since childhood, preparing you for what's to come.
"What do you mean by that?" Elric asked.
Lambert opened his mouth to respond, but Vesemir cut him off with a sharp gesture. "Enough speculation. We'll discuss everything at supper. All of it."
The older Witcher fixed Lambert with a stare that could have frozen summer wine. "And we'll do it without accusations or posturing. Clear?"
Lambert shrugged, but stepped back. "Clear as mountain air."
After they left, Elric sat on the narrow bed and tried to make sense of the tension crackling through the keep. The Wolf Witchers were hiding something—something that had them on edge enough to summon outside help despite their obvious reservations.
His medallion pulsed against his chest, and for a moment he could swear he heard something underneath the sound. A voice, vast and patient, speaking words in a language that predated human civilization.
Soon.
The word seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, echoing through the stone bones of the fortress. Elric's blood turned to ice water.
He stood and walked to the window, looking out over the courtyard where ancient training dummies stood like scarecrows in the fading light. The mountains stretched away in all directions, peaks sharp as broken glass against the darkening sky.
Something was wrong here. Something older and more dangerous than cursed forests or chaos cults. His enhanced senses picked up traces of it in the air—a corruption so subtle it was almost hidden, like poison mixed with honey.
The door opened behind him. Eskel entered without knocking, carrying two wooden cups that steamed in the cold air.
"Thought you might want something warm." He offered one of the cups. "It's just mulled ale, nothing fancy."
"Thanks." Elric accepted the drink and breathed in the scent of cinnamon and cloves. "Your friend Lambert doesn't trust me."
"Lambert doesn't trust anyone these days. Too many things have gone wrong." Eskel settled into the room's single chair. "But he's not entirely wrong to be suspicious."
"About what?"
"About timing. About coincidences." Eskel studied him over the rim of his cup. "Tell me about your journey here. Everything."
So Elric did. The cultist attack, Marwyn's claims about the Old Flame, the strange resonance he'd felt growing stronger with each mile north. Eskel listened without interruption, his scarred face giving nothing away.
"Interesting," the Wolf Witcher said when Elric finished. "Especially the part about your magic feeling like remembering rather than learning."
"You think there's something to it?"
"I think there's something to everything these days." Eskel drained his cup and stood. "The question is whether you're here by choice or because something else made the choice for you."
He paused at the door. "Either way, you're here now. Best to see it through."
Alone again, Elric returned to the window and watched the stars emerge one by one above the mountain peaks. Somewhere in the darkness, wolves howled—real ones, not the metaphorical beasts that had claimed this fortress as their own.
His medallion hummed its steady song, and he wondered if he was walking toward salvation or damnation. In his experience, the two often looked identical until it was too late to change course.
The mountains watched with the patience of stone, keeping their secrets buried deep in shadow and snow.