Chapter 5

With a sharp crack, the cold gleam of the silver sword took the last nekker’s head.

The bearded brute wiped the blade clean with an oilcloth, slow and deliberate, then slid it back into its scabbard with a soft rasp.

The monsters that had infested this fog of power were gone.

The contract had gone just as Bordon expected, easy, efficient, and cheap.

Seventeen nekkers, faced head-on, would have forced even his School of the Bear armor to its limit once they closed in.

At best, he would have taken light wounds.

Repairs to the armor alone would cost thirty orens. Wear on the silver sword, another ten. Add elixirs and oils, and the expense would climb further.

A witcher who wanted to earn had to mind his costs.

Fortunately, his luck had held.

He tightened a loosened clasp on his armor, then lifted his steady cat eyes toward his apprentice.

The boy leaned on that ruined Velen longsword, breathing hard.

“Steady your breath,” Bordon said, his tone flat, a command.

“Our emotions are stripped by mutation. We do not fear. But the body still answers danger. Adrenaline surges, strength drains, that is normal. Control your breathing, and the body recovers faster.”

Lannor’s head was bowed. There was little sweat on him, but in the shadow beyond Bordon’s sight, a flicker of surprise crossed his face.

This was rare, instruction rooted in simple sense.

Most days, the man cared only to sharpen his apprentice as a tool, drilling him in combat and nothing else.

It seemed this time, Lannor had indeed saved him a fair sum.

He marked it in silence.

When he brushed his brow as if wiping sweat and lifted his head again, his face had gone cold once more.