"Bloodlines of the Unknown"- A witcher tale

Weeks passed, the road stretching endlessly beneath their horses' hooves. The forests of Aerdin thinned, giving way to rolling hills and scattered villages. The southern winds carried the scent of distant rivers and the promise of warmer lands, but for Kael, the cold had become something else entirely.

At first, it was only in his hands. A slow, creeping frost that spread across his fingertips when he willed it. Then, as the days passed and he practiced, he felt it shift—not just in his hands, but anywhere he focused his mind.

The back of his arm when he deflected a branch. His boots when he stepped on loose gravel. Even the blade of his dagger when he sharpened it at night. The ice was no longer an uncontrolled burst of power—it was becoming part of him. A weapon he could wield.

But it was still weak. It didn't bite like the first time, didn't freeze solid. It lingered only for seconds, a thin layer of frost before fading. Enough to chill, enough to slow—but not yet enough to kill.

Mira noticed, of course. She always did.

One night by the fire, as he absentmindedly rolled a throwing knife between his fingers, a shimmer of frost coated the steel for just a moment before vanishing.

"You're getting better," she observed.

Kael didn't stop the motion of the blade. "Still not enough."

She arched an eyebrow. "Enough for what?"

He didn't answer. Enough to match what I did before. Enough to matter.

Mira sighed, pulling her cloak tighter around herself. Her skin had grown paler, her movements slower. She didn't complain, but Kael could see it—the slow drain of life from her body. She wasn't dying yet. But she was running out of time.

Kael clenched his fist, watching as the frost flickered and died against his palm. He still didn't fully understand this power. Was it truly magic? Was it something else? Something buried in him since the Trials?

He intended to find out.

And when he did—he wouldn't let it be weak.

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The frost flickered in and out of existence, teasing the edge of Kael's control. He had mastered the ability to coat his skin in a thin layer of ice, to let the cold seep into his weapons, but was this truly the extent of it?

Something in his gut told him no.

Was this the only thing hidden inside him? Or was there more?

If he had awakened this ability instinctively, what else lay buried beneath the surface? The Witchers had been built for combat, their bodies honed to unnatural limits—but none had wielded elemental power like this.

None that he had heard of, at least.

He pondered this in silence as they rode, his breath visible in the morning air despite the lingering warmth of the season. Mira's condition had worsened considerably in the past days.

At first, she merely tired quicker. Then, her hands began to shake when she reached for her canteen. By the time they crossed into the borderlands, she could barely sit straight in the saddle.

Kael had to steady her more than once.

And now, she could no longer ride at all.

They had stopped near a shallow stream, their horses drinking as Kael knelt beside Mira. She was sitting against a tree, her face pale and slick with sweat. The life was draining from her faster than either of them had anticipated.

Kael offered his waterskin. "Drink."

Mira managed a weak smirk. "I'm not a child." But she took the waterskin anyway, her fingers trembling as she lifted it.

Kael didn't respond. He watched the slow, pained way she moved, the exhaustion in her eyes. She wasn't just tired—she was fading.

His jaw clenched.

This wasn't natural. Her magic had been taken from her, her soul tethered to the price of her past actions. He had seen men and women succumb to disease before, but this wasn't a sickness. It was something deeper, something pulling her away piece by piece.

He hated it.

"…We should stop for a few days," he said finally.

Mira exhaled, closing her eyes. "No. We need to reach Rivia."

"We won't reach anything if you collapse in the saddle."

She opened her eyes again, looking at him. For once, there was no argument. No sharp remark.

Just quiet understanding.

"…Fine."

Kael sat back, running a hand over his face. He could feel the cold lingering in his fingertips, waiting to be called upon. Was there something else he could do? Could this power of his be used for more than killing? As the thought crossed his mind, his gaze flickered to Mira. Was there a way to stop this from killing her?

And for the first time since he had discovered this new ability, he wondered—

Had he been thinking too small?

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The village was small—little more than a handful of cottages and a gathering hall—but it was enough. Kael found an inn at the outskirts, paying for a room with a decent bed and enough quiet for Mira to rest. She was barely conscious by the time he carried her inside, her breathing shallow, skin cold despite the warmth of the room.

He sat beside her, waiting for her strength to return.

When she finally stirred, the first thing she did was chuckle weakly. "You look worse than me."

Kael huffed. "Doubt that."

Mira smiled faintly, but it didn't reach her eyes. "We don't have much time."

He frowned. "Don't—"

"Let me speak, Kael." Her voice was firmer than it had been in days. He pressed his lips together and let her continue.

"I've taught you what I could about magic. The flow of it, the way it bends to will and instinct. But there's more to it than just wielding it as a weapon." She coughed, catching her breath before she continued. "Magic is… life. It's balance. You can destroy with it, yes. But you can also mend."

Kael stayed silent, watching her closely.

She lifted a trembling hand and placed it against his forearm. He felt a faint warmth, different from before—softer, almost soothing.

"This is what I never learned," she admitted. "Healing, real healing, requires more than just knowledge. It takes patience, understanding. I always took, never gave. You… You have the chance to do more."

Kael swallowed. "And how exactly do I learn that?"

Mira exhaled. "You feel the ice in your body, don't you? You can control it now."

He nodded.

"Then do the same with warmth. Not fire, not destruction, but warmth." She looked at him, her gaze unwavering despite the weakness in her frame. "Promise me you'll try."

Kael hesitated. He had never been one for promises. But as he looked at her, something in him twisted. He knew what this was.

A farewell.

"…I'll try."

Mira's eyes softened, and she gave a slow nod. "Good."

She closed her eyes, breathing evenly, as if gathering her remaining strength. "Get some rest, Kael. You'll need it."

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Night fell, and Kael dozed lightly in the chair beside the bed, half-awake, always listening.

The village was quiet, the air still. The only sound was Mira's soft breathing, the steady rhythm of life clinging to her fragile form.

Then—silence.

Kael's eyes opened.

The room was dark, lit only by the faint glow of the dying hearth. He turned his head, expecting to hear the familiar sound of Mira's breath.

Nothing.

A cold weight settled in his chest. He leaned forward, reaching out—his fingers barely brushed her wrist.

Cold. Still.

He didn't move for a long time. He had seen death many times before. He had caused it more times than he could count. But this… Kael sat back, exhaling slowly. No anger, no grief—just quiet acceptance.

"…Rest, Mira."

He reached over and pulled the blanket up, covering her completely. Then he stood, slipping his weapons back into place. There was nothing more he could do for her now.

But he could still keep his promise.

Kael did not leave her side.

For seven days and nights, he remained near her body, standing watch like a sentinel against the inevitable. Not from beasts or grave robbers—no, none dared approach. The weight of his presence alone was enough to keep the curious away.

It was not duty that held him there. It was not debt.

It was a promise.

The village folk came at first, offering quiet condolences, wary glances, food he did not touch. Some asked if he needed help, a priest, a burial. He dismissed them all with a simple shake of his head. They did not understand.

This was his burden to bear.

Through cold nights and quiet dawns, he remained. He sharpened his blades, tended to his gear, let the ice within him settle. Occasionally, he would speak—to her, to the silence, to nothing at all. He did not ask for forgiveness. He did not ask for peace.

On the seventh day, he finally moved.

He carried Mira's body far from the village, away from cold stone and empty graves. He sought warmth, the kind she had never truly known in life.

Eventually, he found it.

A field beyond the hills, where the sun kissed the earth with golden light, where the wind carried the scent of blooming flowers. And at the heart of it, a lone tree stood, its roots strong, its branches wide. It was a place that felt alive—where warmth lingered even as the seasons changed.

It was enough.

Kael dug with his own hands, his strength making quick work of the task. The earth was soft here, welcoming.

When it was done, he laid her to rest beneath the tree, wrapping her in her cloak as if to shield her from the cold one last time. He placed no stone, no marker—only a single letter, carved into the bark of the tree with the tip of his dagger.

M.

It was simple. It was enough. Kael exhaled, stepping back. He remained there for a time, watching the wind move through the branches, feeling the warmth against his skin.

Then, without a word, he turned and walked away.

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The life of a Witcher was always wrapped in death.

It followed them like a shadow, lingering at the edges of every path they walked. Death in the form of monsters. Death in the form of men. Death in the choices they made and the ones they did not.

Kael had long understood this truth.

Neutrality was a commodity, a shield his kind used to justify their actions—or their inaction. He had clung to it once, believing it was the only way to survive in a world that neither wanted nor welcomed him. But now?

Now, all he felt was silence.

Not grief, not sorrow. Just silence.

It stretched around him, vast and consuming, as he left the field behind. He did not look back. There was no need. Mira was gone. The warmth of her presence had already faded, leaving only memory in its wake.

His path led south once more, toward Rivia. There were supplies to replenish, contracts to take, work to be done. Life did not stop for the dead. It never had.

And so, Kael walked.