Chapter 9: The Price Of Shelter

The witcher’s body, reshaped by magic, outlived ordinary men; even his heartbeat was slower than most. Bordon’s bleeding, therefore, flowed far less rapidly than a normal human’s. Yet even so, with a halberd thrust into his abdomen, the witcher’s blood pooled beneath him, a spreading red stain. Both Lannor and Bordon knew time was short.

The stench was a vile blend: monster blood seeping through armor seams, human blood, and the earthy tang of trampled grass. Not long ago, such an odor would have made Lannor retch within seconds. Now, boots splashing through the gore stirred the stench into ripples, but he felt nothing. Undeniably, this world had altered him.

“You ... from the start, you ... survived Mutation intact,” Bordon said with labored speech. “You still have feeling.”

His words stumbled, yet they carried weight enough to stun the halberdiers tidying their fallen captain, who silently backed away. A normal man would have been near death ... witchers were mutated beings, but this one—Lannor—defied expectation.

He sank onto the blood-soaked mud opposite Bordon. For the first time in a month, he allowed himself to relax. A small, easy smile curved his lips. “Yes. That’s right.” He tapped his temple with a finger. “I was lucky. Mutation didn’t take anything from me.”

Bordon’s thick hair bobbed slowly in disbelief. Only he knew the sheer impossibility of what he was witnessing. Transforming an ordinary person into a witcher was agony beyond human endurance. Most witchers, twisted by pain and physiology alike, emerged with warped personalities. Yet this youth had completed seven days of Mutation and immediately assessed the situation, controlling his emotions.