Chapter 5: The Village That Stayed Silent

Crack! The silver sword’s edge bit through the last Nekker’s skull.

Bordon, the burly bearded man, wiped the blade clean with an oiled cloth, expression unreadable, then slid it back into its sheath with a soft shing. The monsters lurking in the power-laden fog were annihilated.

The hunt had gone exactly as Bordon had predicted: effortless, cheap, and clean.

Seventeen Nekkers. If he had struck them all head-on, even the Bear School armor would not have held against their encircling onslaught. At best, he would have walked away lightly wounded. Repairs alone would cost thirty orens; the silver sword’s edge, ten more. Add elixirs and oils, and the tally climbed further. Witcher work required careful accounting of cost versus gain.

Fortune, however, had smiled recently. Bordon tightened the clasps loosened by motion, then lifted his cold, unflinching cat eyes toward his apprentice. Lannor stood, still gripping the battered Velen longsword, chest heaving with ragged breaths.

“Regulate your breathing,” Bordon commanded. “Mutation wipes our emotions. Fear does not exist. But the body’s instinct survives—adrenaline surges, energy leaks. Normal. Adjust your breath, and recovery comes fast.”

Lannor’s head drooped, sweat absent, yet beneath the shadow of his mentor, a faint flicker of surprise passed through him. This was common sense instruction, rare from a man who usually cared only for combat efficiency. Lannor noted, quietly, that he had saved Bordon some expense this time.

He wiped his brow and lifted his head, expression returning to the icy stillness typical of Bear School witchers.