"Bloodlines of the Unknown"- A witcher tale

The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and pine. Mira watched from a fallen log, arms wrapped around her knees, as Kael moved through his drills. The steady rhythm of his strikes echoed through the clearing, the dull rasp of steel meeting the air with deadly precision.

His style had changed. It was sharper now—faster. More fluid. His movements lacked hesitation, each strike flowing into the next as if he had been fighting with two weapons his entire life. A sword in one hand, a dagger in the other. It was like watching a dancer—except every step, every motion, was designed to kill.

Mira swallowed. He was getting stronger.

She had noticed it weeks ago. Kael had been quick before, skilled beyond most men she had met. But now? Now he was something else entirely.

His body had adapted in a way that defied logic, muscle memory returning as if his flesh itself remembered what his mind could not. He was faster than any Witcher she had ever heard of. Stronger. More precise.

And she was the opposite.

Mira clenched her fingers. She could feel it—her own strength slipping away.

Magic had always been second nature to her. She had wielded it effortlessly, bending it to her will without thought. But now? She extended a hand, tried to summon even a spark of power. A simple trick—one that should have been as easy as breathing.

Nothing.

Mira exhaled sharply, curling her fingers into a fist. The magic was gone.

She already knew why. The ritual. The curse. She had bound her life force to a power beyond her control, and in return, it was draining her dry. The magic she had once wielded was slipping away, burned up in whatever slow, cruel death awaited her. She was dying in more ways than one.

A sharp, unnatural crack jolted her from her thoughts. She snapped her gaze back to Kael—who was staring at his hand, his expression unreadable.

Mira frowned. 'What had just happened?'

Kael flexed his fingers, rolling his wrist, before he raised his off-hand again. This time, she saw it. A flicker of something cold. Not the heat of Igni, but something else entirely.

He tried again. A brief pulse of magic—faint, almost imperceptible—but it was there.

Ice.

Mira's breath caught in her throat.

"That's new," she said, standing.

Kael exhaled, shaking out his hand. "It's unstable."

Mira stepped closer, studying him carefully. He wasn't using normal Witcher signs anymore. This was something different—something instinctual. A chill ran down her spine.

Kael was changing. And she wasn't sure what that meant.

Mira hesitated before speaking, watching as Kael flexed his fingers, shaking off the last remnants of frost.

"I can't do that anymore," she admitted, her voice quieter than before.

Kael turned to her, curious. "Magic?"

She nodded. "Not like I used to." Her gaze drifted to her hands, once steady and full of purpose. Now, they trembled—only slightly, but enough for her to notice. Enough to remind her that time was running out.

"I was never a sorceress," she continued, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Not in the way people think. I never had talent for grand spells, never summoned storms or bent reality to my will. My magic was… different."

Kael raised a brow. "Necromancy?"

Mira scoffed. "That's just what they call it when they don't understand it." She sighed, crossing her arms. "I didn't pull souls from the abyss or force the dead to march. It was more… subtle. Magic tied to the ebb and flow of life, to the spaces between breath and silence. I could feel what lingered, hear the echoes of what had been left behind."

Kael watched her carefully. "And now?"

"Now it's fading." She clenched her fist, frustration flickering across her face. "I can barely sense anything. The whispers are gone. The power is slipping through my fingers like sand."

She exhaled, staring at Kael. He was growing stronger, and she was fading. It was undeniable. Where his body was returning to something beyond even a Witcher's prime, hers was withering, breaking down piece by piece.

"Maybe it's the price for what I did," she murmured, more to herself than to him. "Or maybe it's because I was never meant to have it in the first place."

Kael remained silent for a moment before speaking. "Do you regret it?"

Mira smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Regret is a luxury for the living."

She turned away, as if that was the end of it. But Kael could tell—it wasn't.

Kael studied her carefully, noting the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers curled as if grasping at something unseen. He had met many mages before—some arrogant, others wise, all of them wielding their power with confidence. Mira was different.

She wasn't mourning the loss of her magic. She was mourning herself.

"You still have time," Kael said. It wasn't a reassurance, just a fact.

Mira laughed softly, shaking her head. "Not enough."

A gust of wind swept across the camp, rustling the trees and causing the fire to flicker. The horses shifted, uneasy. Kael ignored it, watching her.

"If you had time," he asked, "what would you do with it?"

Mira hesitated, as if the question had never crossed her mind before. "I don't know," she admitted. "I spent so much of my life trying to escape death, trying to control it. I never thought about what I'd do if I failed."

Kael considered her words, then glanced at the frost still clinging to his fingers. His power was growing, instinct shaping it into something new. But hers—it was slipping away, piece by piece.

"You weren't meant to have it," Kael repeated her words from before. "But you took it anyway."

Mira's gaze darkened. "I did what I had to."

"For what?"

She turned to face him fully now, eyes sharp, daring him to judge her. "To survive."

Kael met her gaze without flinching. "And now?"

For a long moment, she said nothing. Then, finally, she exhaled.

"Now I just want to die as myself."

The words were quiet, almost lost in the wind.

Kael didn't look away. "Then fight for that."

Mira scoffed. "Easy for you to say. You're getting stronger."

Kael let the silence stretch before responding. "And you're still here."

Mira opened her mouth to argue, but no words came. She looked away, arms wrapped around herself, staring into the fire. She hadn't expected him to care. And maybe he didn't—not in the way others might. But he wasn't lying, either. She was still here. And until she wasn't, she would fight for every moment she had left.