The Witcher : Against Destiny

The keep was quiet, the faint conversations of the remaining Witchers blending with the crackle of fire. Above, the pale light of the rising moon struggled to pierce the clouds. A faint chill crept through the air, mingling with the oppressive weight of grief that hung over Kaer Morhen.

Elgar stood near the edge of the courtyard, his posture stiff as Varin approached him. The older Witcher, his armor still streaked with dried blood, spoke in a low voice. "I've sent the ravens. The others on the Path will be here in about a week for the cremation."

Elgar nodded slightly. He turned his head toward the outskirts of the camp, where a lone figure sat near a solitary campfire.

Alaric sat on a log, his silhouette outlined by the flickering flames. His gaze was fixed on the fire, but his hands moved restlessly, turning over a small, intricate amulet. It glinted faintly in the firelight, the runes etched into its surface glowing softly with a magical aura. The faint pulse of power emanating from it seemed to mirror the grief and rage that simmered within him.

Tissaia approached quietly, her robes brushing against the grass as she moved toward him. She lowered herself onto the log beside him, her presence soft but grounding. Without a word, she leaned her head against his shoulder, her closeness a silent offering of comfort.

Alaric shifted slightly, acknowledging her presence. His movements stilled for a moment, but as her gaze fell to the amulet in his hand, he resumed his slow, deliberate fiddling with it.

"My father gave me this amulet," he said softly, his voice distant, yet heavy with meaning. His eyes remained on the fire, the flicker of flames reflected in his amber gaze. "The day he said I'd 'officially graduated' in his alchemy lessons."

His grip tightened on the amulet, the glow of its runes brightening briefly as a spark of magic flared unbidden. The memory lingered just on the edge of his mind, vivid and unrelenting.

The fire popped, casting brief, shadows on the sorrow etched into his face.

.....

Kaer Morhen

1087

Alaric jolted awake, his chest heaving, sweat slick on his brow. The dim glow of a single candle lit the stone chamber, casting flickering shadows across the weathered walls.

"Another one of those dreams, is it?" as voice besides him asked, calm, measured, like a steadying hand.

Beside him sat Dagobert Sulla his sharp, weathered features softened by concern.

Alaric exhaled slowly, running a hand through his damp hair. "Yes... They come less often now, though not near rare enough. Did I pass out again?" His tone was weary, tinged with frustration.

Dagobert gave a single, grave nod. "You did. You push yourself too far, boy. The strength of your Mind is no small thing, but unbridled, it will consume you. Gifted you are—perhaps too much for your own good."

Alaric sat up fully, his gaze falling to his calloused hands. His brow furrowed, half in thought, half in resignation.

Dagobert's lips curled in a wry smile, though his eyes remained somber. "Hmph. You've overexerted yourself enough for one day. Go on, find something else to busy your hands with. Varin's been grumbling again—claims you give more love to magic than to your sword. He'd have you chasing steel all day if he had his way, that blade-obsessed fool."

Alaric couldn't help but huff a quiet laugh, though the weight of his dream lingered in his thoughts. "Varin would have me sparring from dawn till the stars woke if he thought it'd make me half the swordsman he is."

Dagobert chuckled softly, leaning back in his chair. The firelight danced across his robes, catching the faint runes embroidered along the cuffs. "And you'd do well to heed some of his counsel. A sharp blade and a sharper mind go hand in hand. But for tonight, lad, rest. Not every battle is won by sheer will alone."

The room fell quiet save for the crackle of the fire in the hearth. Alaric nodded absently, his thoughts a tangle of images from his dream—visions that felt more memory than mere fancy. He swung his legs off the cot, his boots thudding lightly on the cold stone floor.

"Thank you, Dagobert," he murmured, his voice low but earnest.

Dagobert's expression softened, his hand briefly resting on Alaric's shoulder. "Sleep when you can, Alaric. Even a mind as sharp as yours needs respite."

As Alaric rose and made his way toward the door, he cast one last glance at Dagobert, the older man now lost in thought.

He stepped out of the tower, blinking against the bright afternoon sun. The crisp mountain air carried the earthy scent of pine. His boots crunched over the gravel path as he descended toward the bastion.

The bastion rose like a jagged crown amidst the sprawling grounds of Kaer Morhen. A weathered stone structure built for resilience, it housed the training quarters, armories, and dormitories for the young 'to-be-wolves' and trainees. The clang of swords echoed in the distance, accompanied by the occasional bark of an instructor's command. To the side, a small group sparred in the dirt arena, their movements sharp and disciplined, while others hauled crates of supplies to the storage shed.

Alaric's eyes caught sight of a giant of a boy perched halfway up an ancient oak tree that leaned against the bastion wall. The boy's long legs dangled carelessly from a sturdy branch, and his sharp, feline eyes glinted in the sunlight.

"Done with your magic lessons?" the big guy called down, his tone light but edged with teasing.

Alaric gave a tired nod and collapsed onto the grass beneath the tree, stretching out like a man who had carried too much weight for too long.

"Let me guess—you passed out again?" the boy smirked, leaning forward just enough to peer down at him.

Alaric groaned, pressing the heel of his palm against his forehead. "I'm too tired to even be annoyed with you, Rennes. Save your wit for someone who'll care."

Rennes let out a chuckle, shifting to lounge more comfortably on the branch. "Ah, so you did pass out. You know, one of these days you're going to keel over for good, and then where will I be? Forced to carry on without your brooding company? A terrible fate."

"Go climb another tree," Alaric muttered, though his lips twitched faintly, betraying his amusement.

Rennes glanced toward the training yard, his smirk fading. "Dammit, Alaric, he's picked up the blade again."

Alaric turned his head, following Rennes' gaze. A younger boy was in the sparring ring, his small frame moving with focused determination as he practiced swings. Unlike Alaric and Rennes, the boy's eyes were unmutated, clear of the telltale amber glow.

Alaric murmured something, propping himself up on his elbows. "He seems to have a liking for steel. Varin's finally found himself a proper disciple."

Rennes sighed heavily, leaning his back against the trunk of the tree. "Why did they have to assign him to us? We've got enough on our plates without playing nursemaids to some green pup."

"It's to prepare us," Alaric replied, his voice steady despite his weariness. "One day, it'll fall to us to teach others—just as Barmin and Varin teach us now."

Rennes scoffed, though his expression softened slightly. "A cruel jest, that. I'd sooner teach a wyvern to juggle than train some scrappy lad who barely knows which end of the sword to hold."

Alaric smiled faintly, leaning back to rest his head against the tree trunk. "Don't forget you were that 'scrappy lad' once.

Rennes snorted.

"Besides, you'd do well enough. You've got more patience than you let on." Alaric chuckled.

"Don't flatter me, Alaric. It doesn't suit you."

They sat in companionable silence for a moment, the rustle of leaves above mingling with the distant sounds of training and the occasional cry of a rook circling high above the keep.

"Still," Rennes said after a while, his voice quieter now, "he's got heart, I'll give him that. Maybe Varin's right. Could be we'll learn a thing or two ourselves."

Suddenly Rennes cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed, "Oi, pup! Get over here!"

The younger boy paused mid-swing, his wooden practice sword drooping slightly as he turned to squint in their direction. Alaric shot Rennes a sidelong glance, his brows knitting together in an expression that clearly asked, What devilry are you up to now?

Rennes, as ever, ignored him. He leaned lazily against the tree trunk, his smirk widening as the boy trotted over, his face flushed and streaked with dirt.

"What is it?" the boy asked, his tone cautious but not unkind.

"You're learning swords, aye?" Rennes drawled, hopping down from his perch in the tree with practiced ease. "How about you test your mettle against something a little... livelier?"

The boy's eyes widened. "What do you mean?"

"Rennes, what are you plotting now?"

"Simply guiding the boy, as is our responsibility," Rennes replied smoothly, brushing off the concern.

Alaric narrowed his eyes. "And what exactly do you intend to have him do?"

Rennes threw an arm around the younger boy's shoulders, ignoring Alaric's disapproval entirely. "Nothing too dangerous, I assure you. Just a small test against something that's elusive. Builds a swordsman's instincts. You've got those instincts in you, don't you, lad?"

The boy hesitated for a moment before straightening, his jaw tightening with determination. "Yes, sir," he said, his voice steady.

"Rennes," Alaric muttered, rubbing his temples, "I'm too tired to chase after your madness." But when it became clear the two wouldn't stop, Alaric groaned and forced himself to his feet. He had no choice but to follow, lest Rennes gets the pup killed.

.....

A Few hours later-

The three of them stood in Barmin's chamber, the room heavy with the scent of old leather, steel, and the faint bite of Kaer Morhen's chill. The grandmaster loomed before them, his arms folded like a shield across his chest, his expression dark as storm clouds over the valley.

Alaric, Rennes, and the younger boy stood in a line, their heads bowed like wayward recruits awaiting judgment. Barmin's piercing eyes swept over them, lingering longest on Rennes, who shifted slightly.

"You took him where?" Barmin's voice was calm, but the undercurrent of restrained anger was unmistakable.

No one answered immediately. Silence hung heavy between them, broken only by the distant clatter of steel from the training yard.

"Answer me." Barmin's voice grew sharper, like the bite of a whetted blade.

Rennes, ever the boldest of the trio, cleared his throat. "To the lake," he admitted, his tone almost too casual.

Barmin's brow arched. "The lake. And what, pray tell, possessed you to think that was wise?"

"Well," Rennes began, his smirk faltering under Barmin's glare, "we thought it'd be good for him to, you know, train his instincts. Get a bit of real-world experience under his belt."

"Against foglets?" Barmin's voice rose just enough to make both Alaric and Rennes wince. "Do you have even the faintest notion of how dangerous that was? Or do your brains melt in the sun?"

Alaric, who had remained quiet until now, spoke up, his tone measured but firm. "It wasn't my idea. I tried to dissuade him, but Rennes wouldn't listen."

Rennes shot him a betrayed look. "Oh, come on, Alaric. You didn't stop me either."

"That's because I was too busy making sure the boy didn't get himself killed," Alaric snapped. "You're the one who thought foglets were a suitable trial for someone who can barely hold a sword!"

Barmin's gaze flicked between them, his expression a mix of disappointment and irritation. "And what happened?"

The younger boy, standing a step behind the older two, shuffled his feet but raised his head to speak. "Master Barmin, they kept close the whole time. I... I wasn't really in danger."

Barmin turned his sharp eyes on the boy. "Oh, did they now?" His tone held the sharpness of a teacher catching a junior covering for a senior after hazing. "Kept close, you say?"

The older two boys stiffened but said nothing, their gazes fixed ahead. The younger boy glanced back at them, then returned his eyes to Barmin. "They made sure nothing bad happened," he said, his voice quieter now.

Barmin's lips twitched, a mix of amusement and frustration crossing his face. "The wolves value loyalty, yes. But loyalty isn't about blindly defending your fellow packmates. It's about holding your friends accountable and helping them grow." He stepped closer, his tone cutting like the chill in the room. "Did they truly teach you to fend for yourself, or are you just parroting their excuses?"

The younger boy hesitated, his face flushing. "I... I hit one of them."

Barmin's voice dropped lower, sharp as a blade. "And what did you learn from that?"

The boy swallowed hard. "That I need to keep my footing better."

"A fair lesson," Barmin allowed, though his expression didn't soften. "But understand this—next time, there may be no one to keep close. Out there, your footing is your life. Your blade is your only ally. Do you understand?"

The boy nodded quickly. "Yes, sir."

"Dismissed."

The boy scampered off, leaving the two older pups to face Barmin's unyielding gaze.

Barmin turned his attention back to Alaric and Rennes, his voice hard as stone. "As for you two—you're to know better. If you've strength enough to guide, then you'd best wield it with caution, not arrogance. The lad's life is not a gamble for your amusement or your vanity."

Rennes opened his mouth to reply but wisely shut it when Barmin's glare sharpened.

"You've a mind for teaching, you say?" Barmin continued, his tone cold. "Then let this be your first lesson: to train is to protect, not to risk without cause. This is no tavern brawl—it's life and death. Clear?"

Rennes finally nodded, though his usual bravado had dimmed. "Yes, Master Barmin."

Alaric inclined his head solemnly. "Understood."

Barmin shook his head, muttering under his breath about "reckless pups" before gesturing sharply toward the door. "Out of my sight. You'll both be mucking out the stables until winter."

The duo filed out silently, the heavy door groaning shut behind them.

As they stepped into the crisp afternoon air, Rennes let out a low whistle, running a hand through his hair. "Well, that could've gone worse."

Alaric shot him a withering look. "You dragged a boy who's barely held a sword into a fight with foglets, and you think it could've gone worse?"

Rennes shrugged, a ghost of his smirk returning. "He hit one, didn't he? That's something."

"That's madness," Alaric retorted, shaking his head. "You're going to get yourself killed one day. Or worse—get someone else killed."

Rennes clapped him on the shoulder with a grin. "Pshaw! Nay! You'll be there."

Alaric sighed, glancing at the younger boy who trailed behind them. "Maker help me," he muttered, "but I probably will."

...

Months later-

The first snow of winter had dusted the peaks of the Blue Mountains like powdered sugar on jagged stone. A bone-chilling wind howled through the high passes, rattling the trees and cutting through even the thickest cloaks.

They stood at the base of the trail: Alaric, Rennes, and nine others, their boots sinking slightly into the frost-hardened earth. Above them, the steep and treacherous path wound upward, disappearing into the mist that clung stubbornly to the mountainside. The Trial of the Medallion—so named because those who returned carried their Wolf medallions as true Witchers—was a final test of their mettle, cunning, and sheer will to survive.

Barmin stood before them, his presence a towering pillar of stoicism. He carried no weapons, no armor, only his voice and the weight of tradition etched into his every word. Beside him stood Elgar, a broad-shouldered Witcher with a face weathered by years of trials and triumphs, cradling the wooden box that contained the coveted medallions.

"This is the last step," Barmin began, his voice deep and steady, carrying over the roar of the wind. "You've survived the Trials of the Grasses, endured the countless hours of training in sword, sign, and survival. But a Witcher's true strength is tested in solitude, when no master stands at your side, no brothers are there to shield you. This mountain will strip you bare of all pretense, all weakness, and leave only the core of who you are. If that core is strong, you'll return. If it is not..."

He let the unspoken truth linger in the cold air.

Rennes shifted slightly beside Alaric, his usual smirk replaced by a grim determination. "Always with the dramatics, these old men," he muttered under his breath, though there was no humor in his tone.

Alaric didn't reply. His amber, feline eyes were fixed on the trail, his jaw set. Excitement stirred within him, restless and eager, as though the mountain itself called to him.

Barmin gestured to Elgar, who stepped forward and opened the small wooden box. Inside were eleven polished Wolf medallions. Each one gleamed like freshly forged steel, catching what little light the overcast sky offered.

"These medallions will be yours only when you reach the Circle of Elements at the summit," Barmin said, his voice like granite. "Elgar will take them to the top. Your task is to reach the Circle, activate the medallion, and complete the trial. Along the way, you must cross the frozen pond, traverse the caverns without waking Old Speartip, and climb Troll's Head to face the rock trolls. This will test not only your strength and cunning but your ability to work together. Remember, Witchers are lone hunters, but even we benefit from the wisdom of cooperation. You have three days to complete the trial. Do you understand?"

The trainees nodded, their faces pale but resolute.

"Good," Barmin said. "Elgar, take the medallions and prepare the summit."

Elgar nodded, closing the box and striding toward the mountain path. His broad figure quickly disappeared into the mist, carrying with him the symbol of their final trial.

Barmin's gaze swept over the group. "Now, take your first steps."

One by one, they approached the base of the trail. Rennes was the first to move, his usual swagger tempered by the weight of the moment. He cast a glance back at Alaric and smirked. "Try not to drown, eh?"

-x-x-x-

A/N:-

The first chap with 3000+ words.

Help me brainstorm ideas for future arcs?