Fighting, Honour and Valhalla Chapter 60 - Viking and The Witcher: Year 3 Part 2 (Patreon)

(AN: Sorry guys been a bit busy at work recently I’m not actually finished with this chapter it’s 20k words but I need probably around 10k-15k to finish it. Which I will be uploading sometime tomorrow. Itll basically be an 8 month time skip from this chapter. Which will allow our characters some training without the tediousness of writing it. Anyway thank you for the patience.)

Arwyn sat at a vanity table in a room more beautiful than anything she had ever seen, her reflection staring back at her from a mirror so clear it was almost unsettling. The manor Niketas had brought her to was unlike anything in her past—not even Bebbanburg, with its sturdy stone and polished wood, could compare to this place. The walls were adorned with intricate mosaics, tiny tiles forming scenes of warriors and gods, their colors vivid under the soft glow of oil lamps. The ceiling arched high, painted with deep blues and golds, stars and swirling patterns that seemed to shimmer. The floor was a polished marble, cool under her bare feet, veined with white and green. Heavy silk curtains framed tall windows, their rich red fabric catching the light in soft folds. The furniture was carved from dark wood, inlaid with ivory and pearls, every surface gleaming with care. The air smelled faintly of incense, a sweet, unfamiliar scent that lingered in her senses.

She leaned closer to the mirror, her fingers brushing the smooth glass. The reflection was sharp, almost too real, showing every detail of her face in a way no murky pond or polished bronze ever had. She had grown in these past three years, her body no longer that of the girl who had left Northumbria. Her face had lost its softness, her cheekbones sharper, her jaw more defined. The fine clothing Niketas' servants had given her clung to her, a deep green silk dress with long sleeves and a fitted bodice that pushed her breasts up, the neckline low enough to hint at her curves. Her blonde hair, once left loose or in simple braids, was now swept up, twisted into intricate patterns and pinned with gold clasps. The servants had dusted her face with powder, lined her eyes with kohl, and painted her lips a soft red, transforming her into someone she barely recognized. She tilted her head, watching the way the makeup caught the light, making her eyes seem larger, her lips fuller. She didn't know she could look like this. It felt good, in a way, to see herself so polished, so unlike the warrior who had trudged through deserts and mountains m.

Her thoughts drifted to Thorfinn, and she wondered what he would think if he saw her now. Would he stare, his usual scowl softening? Would he say something, or would he just look at her with that unreadable expression he always wore? Her stomach twisted, and she scowled at her reflection, shaking her head to banish the thought. He was a fool. A damned fool. If he couldn't see that Niketas was trying to help them find Geralt, then he could wander the filthy streets of this city alone, chasing shadows. Let him waste his time. She felt a sharp, perverse joy at the idea of finding Geralt first, of shoving it in Thorfinn's face, proving she didn't need him. The thought made her lips curl, but the satisfaction was fleeting, replaced by a restless irritation she couldn't name.

She sighed, her gaze dropping to the vanity table. The surface was cluttered with items—glass vials of perfume, a silver comb with delicate engravings, a small pot of rouge, a pearl-handled brush, a necklace of amber beads. She picked up the comb, turning it over in her hands, feeling the weight of it. Each item was exquisite, worth more than her father could have earned in a year of toil on their farm. Yet here they were, casually laid out for a guest, as if they were nothing. "This really is a strange place," she muttered to herself, her voice soft in the quiet room.

Her fingers moved to the perfume vial, lifting it to her nose, inhaling the sharp, floral scent. She set it down and picked up the necklace, letting the amber beads slip through her fingers, their smooth surfaces catching the light. She played with them for a moment, her thoughts drifting, until that same irritation surged again, hot and sudden. She shoved the items away, the comb clattering against the table. "Why does he have to be such an arrogant ass?" she shouted, her voice echoing in the room. She stood, pacing, her hands clenched into fists. Thorfinn's face flashed in her mind—his cold stare, his sharp words, the way he had struck her in the square. She cursed under her breath, her steps quickening. She hated how he got under her skin, how he could make her so angry with a single look, a single word. She didn't want to think about him, didn't want to care, but the frustration burned hotter, twisting into something she refused to examine.

She stormed to the balcony, pushing through the heavy curtains and stepping outside. The night air was cool against her skin, carrying the faint salt of the sea. She leaned on the stone railing, her hands gripping the edge as she looked out over Constantinople. The city stretched before her, a sea of lights flickering under the stars. Domes and spires rose against the skyline, their curves illuminated by torches and lanterns. The streets below hummed with life, even at this hour, voices and music drifting up in a constant murmur. It was beautiful, overwhelming, nothing like the muddy fields and simple wooden halls of her childhood farm in Northumbria. She rested her head in her hands, her fingers pressing against her temples.

Everything was so different here. The farm had been small, the air always thick with the smell of earth and livestock. She and Eowyn had run through those fields, laughing, chasing each other until they collapsed in the grass. Would Eowyn believe the things she'd seen since they parted? The deserts, the ancient ruins, the metal creatures that moved like men, this city with its endless wealth and strange customs? Arwyn's chest tightened, a familiar ache blooming as she thought of her sister. Eowyn's smile, her voice, the way she'd always known how to make Arwyn laugh—it was all gone, ripped away. The pain was sharp, cutting deeper than she expected, and she pressed her palms harder against her face, trying to push it down.

Her ears caught a sound—soft footsteps approaching her door from the hallway. She straightened, and walked back inside just as a knock sounded. "Enter," she called, smoothing her dress.

The door opened, and a servant stepped in, a young woman with dark hair pinned neatly under a cap. She spoke in Latin, her words clear but accented. "Mistress Arwyn, Master Niketas requests your presence downstairs."

Arwyn nodded, understanding enough to follow. "Lead the way."

The servant bowed slightly and turned, guiding Arwyn through the manor. The halls were wide, their walls covered in vibrant frescoes—scenes of feasts, hunts, and mythical creatures painted in reds, blues, and golds. Marble columns flanked the doorways, their surfaces carved with vines and flowers. The floors were tiled in intricate patterns, gleaming under the light of bronze lamps hanging from the ceiling. Arwyn passed tapestries woven with threads that shimmered like liquid silver, and shelves displaying delicate glassware and golden statues. It was all so foreign, so far beyond the simple life she'd had. Servants moved through the halls, carrying trays or cleaning, and each one paused to curtsy as she passed.

They descended a grand staircase, the banister carved with twisting serpents, and entered the dining room. The space was vast, its ceiling high and painted with a scene of a starry sky. The walls were draped with silk, and a long table of polished wood dominated the center, its surface set with silver plates and crystal goblets. Bronze candelabras held flickering candles, casting a warm glow over the room. The floor was a mosaic of colored tiles, forming a pattern of waves and fish.

Niketas stood as she entered, his dark hair neat, his robes a deep purple with gold trim. "Arwyn, thank you for joining me," he said, his smile warm. He pulled out a chair for her, the wood carved with delicate flowers. "Please, sit."

"Thank you," she said, settling into the seat, the cushion soft beneath her.

Niketas signaled, and servants entered, carrying trays laden with food. There were plates of roasted quail, spiced lamb, flatbreads studded with herbs, bowls of lentils simmered with strange spices, and fruits she didn't recognize, their colors vibrant. "These are dishes from across Asia," Niketas said, gesturing to the spread. "I doubt someone from as far north as you has tasted such flavors."

Arwyn inhaled, the aromas rich and unfamiliar. "They smell good," she said, her stomach stirring.

Niketas smiled, pointing to a dish of lamb. "This one, with the saffron, is my favorite. And the lentils—try them with the bread." A servant poured wine into her goblet, the liquid a deep red. "Have you ever tasted Falernian wine?" Niketas asked. "This one is fifty years old."

She shook her head, lifting the goblet to her lips. The wine was rich, its flavors deep and complex, unlike the sharp, sour wines she'd had before. "It's different," she said. "Much better than what I've tasted."

Niketas laughed. "I have the best collection in the city. Perhaps not as fine as the Empress's, but close."

As the servants served the food, Niketas leaned back. "Is your room suitable?"

Arwyn nodded, swallowing a bite of lamb, the meat tender and bursting with flavor. "It's more luxurious than anything I've ever seen."

He chuckled as she took another large bite, her enthusiasm evident. "You enjoy the food."

She nodded, her mouth full, and he laughed again. "Will anyone else be joining us?" she asked, wiping her lips. "Do you have family?"

Niketas shook his head, his smile fading slightly. "I'm afraid it's only me."

She didn't press, sensing the topic was closed. Instead, she ate more, savoring the unfamiliar spices, the richness of the dishes. Niketas spoke as they ate, his voice steady, recounting his family's history. "My lineage stretches back to the days when this city was the heart of an empire that spanned seas and mountains. My ancestors were senators, generals, men who shaped the world. When the empire split, they stayed here, building wealth, influence. My father expanded our lands, my brother serves in the Emperor's court. Our name carries weight."

Arwyn listened, intrigued by the depth of his family's past, so different from her own. "That's a long history," she said.

He nodded, then turned the question to her. "And your family?"

She paused, her fork stilling. "I'm the only one left."

He didn't push, but his expression softened. "Then we are not so different, you and I. Sole survivors, carrying the weight of our names alone."

She shifted uncomfortably, not wanting his pity. "Have you made any progress finding my friend?" she asked, changing the subject.

Niketas sighed, leaning back. "It's a vast city, Arwyn. Finding one man takes time. My men are searching, but it may be a while."

She nodded, hiding her disappointment. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "I hope you'll join me next week. I have friends I'd like to introduce you to. They're influential, and they'd be delighted to meet you."

Arwyn hesitated, her instinct to decline warring with the fact that Niketas had already done so much for her. "Alright," she agreed, her voice reluctant but polite.

"Wonderful," Niketas said, his smile returning. He clapped his hands. "Thea!"

A woman entered, and Arwyn's breath caught. She was stunning, her beauty almost unnatural. Her skin was flawless, a warm olive tone that glowed under the candlelight. Her dark hair fell in loose waves, framing a face with high cheekbones, full lips, and eyes so deep they seemed to hold secrets. Her body was graceful, her curves accentuated by a flowing dress of pale blue silk that clung to her hips and breasts.

"You called, master?" Thea said, her voice soft.

Niketas nodded. "Yes. Arwyn, this is Thea, your personal maidservant. She'll attend to your needs and teach you Greek to make your time here easier."

Arwyn managed a smile, still struck by Thea's beauty. "Thank you. It's nice to meet you, Thea."

Thea returned the smile, her eyes warm. "I hope we can be friends, Arwyn."

Niketas stood. "I'll leave you two to get acquainted. I'm retiring for the night." He bowed slightly and left the room, his robes swishing as he went.

Arwyn looked at Thea, who gestured for her to follow. "Shall we return to your room, mistress?"

Arwyn nodded, pushing her chair back and standing, though her eyes lingered on the untouched dishes of spiced lamb and herb-studded flatbreads still on the table. The aromas were too tempting, and she hesitated, her stomach stirring. Thea noticed, her lips curving into a gentle smile. "If you're hungry, mistress, food can always be brought to your room."

Arwyn's cheeks flushed, a touch of embarrassment creeping in. "Thank you," she said, her voice soft as she met Thea's gaze. She straightened, smoothing her dress, and followed Thea out of the dining room.

They walked through the manor's grand halls, the polished marble floors gleaming under the light of bronze lamps. The walls were covered in vibrant frescoes—scenes of feasts and mythical creatures painted in rich reds and golds. Arwyn's footsteps echoed faintly, her fine silk dress swishing with each step. Thea moved gracefully beside her, her pale blue dress clinging to her curves, her dark hair catching the light. As they ascended the carved staircase, Arwyn glanced at her. "How do you speak my language so well?"

Thea's smile was calm. "Many travelers come from your lands. King Ecbert of Wessex sends men here to purchase scrolls and writings from the old empire. Master Niketas wished for servants who could speak your tongue, to be seen as a better host."

Arwyn's brow furrowed. "It's strange, going through so much just to be a gracious host."

Thea's expression softened, but her voice carried a hint of instruction. "In this city, how people see you is everything. A man will not do business with someone who cannot show generosity to his guests. Reputation shapes your standing—your alliances, your wealth, your power. A single misstep, a guest slighted, and doors close. But a warm welcome, a display of wealth and grace, can open paths to great opportunities. A merchant might secure a contract, a noble might gain the Emperor's ear, all because he is seen as honorable, as worthy."

Arwyn's lips pressed together, her mind struggling to grasp the concept. Where she came from, strength and survival mattered more than appearances. "I don't really understand," she admitted.

Thea's smile widened, warm but knowing. "There is much for you to learn, mistress. And much I would like to learn from you."

They reached Arwyn's room, the heavy wooden door carved with floral patterns. Inside, a large copper tub stood in the center, filled with steaming water, rose petals floating on the surface. Arwyn paused, her eyes narrowing. "What's this for?"

Thea gestured to the tub. "In high society here, people bathe daily. It's expected, a mark of refinement."

Arwyn's nose wrinkled. "That's strange." She hesitated, then nodded. "But fine."

Thea stepped closer, her hands moving to the ties of Arwyn's dress. Arwyn stiffened, stepping back. "I can undress myself."

"It's one of my duties as your maidservant," Thea said, her tone gentle but firm. "Please, allow me."

Arwyn's jaw tightened, but she relented, standing still as Thea's deft fingers worked the ties. The silk dress slipped from her shoulders, pooling at her feet, followed by her undergarments. Her body was bare now, her skin pale and smooth, marked by faint scars from battles. Her breasts were full, her nipples hardening in the cool air. Her waist was slender, her hips curved, leading to strong, toned legs. Her blonde pubic hair was thick.

Thea guided her to the tub, and Arwyn stepped in, the warm water enveloping her, soothing her aching muscles. Thea knelt beside her, taking a soft cloth and dipping it into the water. She began washing Arwyn's body, her touch careful but thorough, gliding over her arms, her shoulders, her back. The cloth moved to her chest, brushing against her breasts, then down her stomach, the sensation intimate but professional. Arwyn relaxed slightly, the warmth easing her tension.

Thea set the cloth aside and picked up a sharp razor, its blade gleaming. Arwyn's hand shot out, grabbing Thea's wrist. "What are you doing?"

Thea met her gaze, unflinching. "Here, women are expected to be smooth. Men prefer it."

Arwyn's eyes narrowed. "I don't care about the men here."

Thea's voice softened, but there was a weight to her words. "You are beautiful, mistress. Beauty is a woman's weapon in a man's world. If you are to find your friend in this city, you must use every advantage you have."

Arwyn's grip tightened, her voice firm. "I need no such weapon. I'm a warrior."

Thea's expression didn't waver. "Swords and shields have no place in the game you now play. This city is not won with steel, but with influence, with perception."

Arwyn's jaw clenched, her instinct to resist warring with Thea's logic. She didn't want to play this game, didn't want to bend to these strange customs. But she thought of Geralt, of her need to find him, and her resolve wavered. "Fine," she said, releasing Thea's wrist.

Thea nodded, her movements precise as she began shaving. She started with Arwyn's legs, the razor gliding smoothly, removing the fine hairs with care. She worked up to her thighs, then moved to her underarms, the blade scraping gently, leaving her skin bare. Thea's fingers brushed Arwyn's skin as she worked, her touch light but deliberate. "You have such pale, beautiful skin," she said, her voice almost reverent.

Arwyn shrugged, her tone casual. "Everyone has it where I'm from. My sister was even paler."

Thea hummed a soft, haunting melody as she continued, the notes low and flowing. She moved to Arwyn's pubic area, the razor carefully trimming away the thick blonde curls, leaving her skin smooth. Arwyn watched, her breath catching slightly at the unfamiliar sensation. The melody was beautiful, unfamiliar, and Arwyn tilted her head. "That song—it's lovely. Where's it from?"

"My homeland," Thea said, her hands steady.

"You're not from here?" Arwyn asked.

Thea shook her head, her eyes distant for a moment. "I come from Alexandria, not far away, across the sea."

"What's it like there?" Arwyn asked, curiosity piqued.

Thea's lips curved, her voice soft with memory. "It was beautiful. A city of white stone, where the sea met the sky. The library was vast, filled with scrolls from every corner of the world. The streets were alive with traders and scholars, with statues that stood like kings watching over us. The sunsets were red, painting the water with fire." she spoke as if she could still see it.

Arwyn frowned slightly. "Why did you leave?"

Thea's hands paused, just for a moment. "Because I was forced," she said, her voice quiet. She resumed shaving, finishing the last of Arwyn's pubic hair. "We're done now."

Arwyn stood, water dripping from her body as she stepped out of the tub. She looked down, her eyes lingering on her now-bare vagina, the skin smooth and exposed. "It's strange," she said, her voice low. "I can see it so clearly."

Thea smiled, handing her a towel. "Women in my land did this as well. It's a mark of care, of pride."

Arwyn dried herself, her thoughts drifting to Thorfinn. Would he like this, her body so bare, so different? The thought irritated her, and she shook it away, her jaw tightening. She didn't care what he thought. Thea draped a silk robe over her shoulders, the fabric cool and smooth against her skin. "Our lessons begin tomorrow," Thea said. "You're free to rest for the evening. Is there anything else you need?"

Arwyn shook her head. "No, thank you."

"Goodnight, mistress," Thea said, bowing slightly before leaving the room.

"Goodnight," Arwyn replied, closing the door behind her. She walked to the bed, the silk robe slipping open as she lay down, her bare body exposed to the soft sheets. The sensation of the fabric against her freshly shaved skin was new, almost sensual, the smoothness of her legs, her underarms, her vagina heightened by the lack of hair. She ran her fingers over her thigh, then higher, her touch lingering on her smooth mound. Her breath quickened as she explored, her fingers slipping between her folds, finding the sensitive spot that made her gasp. She moved slowly at first, then faster, her body responding, heat building until she arched against the bed, a soft moan escaping her lips as her orgasm washed over her. Her breathing slowed, her body relaxing into the sheets, and she drifted into sleep, the city's distant hum fading into silence.

....

The next morning, Arwyn woke to the soft light filtering through the silk curtains, the room bathed in a warm glow. She stretched, the silk robe still open, her body feeling strangely light without its usual hair. She sat up, running her fingers over her smooth skin, still adjusting to the change. The memory of Thea's words lingered—beauty as a weapon, a game of influence rather than steel. She didn't like it, but she couldn't deny the logic. Finding Geralt in this city would take more than brute force.

She rose, tying the robe closed, and moved to the vanity, her reflection catching her eye again. The woman in the mirror was still a stranger, but she was growing familiar. She brushed her fingers over the amber necklace from the night before, then set it down, her thoughts drifting to the day ahead. Thea would teach her Greek, and she'd meet Niketas' friends soon. It was a world she didn't understand, but she'd learn. She had to.

A knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts. "Enter," she called, expecting Thea.

The door opened, and Thea stepped inside, her beauty as striking as the night before. Her olive skin glowed in the morning light, her dark hair cascading in waves, her pale blue dress hugging her curves. "Good morning, mistress," she said, her voice warm. "Are you ready to begin?"

Arwyn nodded, her resolve hardening. "Let's get started."

___________________________

Thorfinn woke with a start, his body jolting as if yanked from a dream. The air was cool, heavy with the scent of old stone and dust. He lay on a narrow cot, the thin mattress barely softening the wooden frame beneath. His eyes scanned the room—a cramped, circular chamber high in what looked like an abandoned bell tower. The walls were rough, weathered stone, cracked in places, with patches of moss clinging to the crevices. A rusted iron bracket, once meant for a bell, jutted from the ceiling, its edges flaking. The floor was littered with debris—broken tiles, splinters of wood, and the faint outline of bird droppings. A single open window let in a sliver of dawn light, the city's distant hum filtering through.

He touched his ribs, wincing as a dull pain throbbed through his side. "Ugh," he groaned, pushing himself up slowly, his muscles protesting. He shuffled to the window, his boots scraping against the gritty floor, and leaned against the sill, looking out over Constantinople. The city sprawled beneath him, a chaotic maze of domes, spires, and rooftops glinting in the early light. Ships crowded the harbor, their sails bright against the water, while the streets buzzed with life even at this hour. "Where the hel am I?" he muttered, his voice rough from sleep.

"You're at our headquarters," a familiar voice said from behind.

Thorfinn turned, his hand instinctively twitching toward where his sword should have been. Geralt was climbing the narrow spiral stairs, a wooden tray in his hands, laden with bread, cheese, and a clay mug of something steaming. His white hair caught the light. Thorfinn's face broke into a rare smile. "I thought it was a dream," he said, crossing the room in two strides. He clasped Geralt's arm.

"You must've had quite the journey here," Geralt said, returning a small smile as he set the tray on a rickety table.

Thorfinn stepped back, noticing how Geralt's gaze lingered, assessing him. "You've gotten bigger," Geralt said, his voice carrying a hint of approval. "You look strong."

"It has been a long journey for us," Thorfinn replied.

"And I want to hear of it," Geralt said, gesturing to the cot. "But first, you should rest. The healer said your ribs aren't broken, but you need to take it easy."

Thorfinn nodded, easing himself onto the cot, the wood creaking under his weight. He pulled the tray closer, tearing off a piece of bread and chewing slowly, the coarse texture grounding him. The cheese was sharp, the drink a bitter herbal brew that warmed his throat.

Geralt leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. "What do you think of the city so far?"

Thorfinn swallowed, glancing toward the window. "It's like nothing I've ever imagined. Bigger than any place I've seen, louder, stranger. I want to explore it, learn everything it has to offer."

Geralt's brow furrowed, a shadow crossing his face, but he said nothing. Thorfinn noticed, his own expression hardening. "What happened last night? My memory's fuzzy after Niketas threw me into that wall. And who were those hooded people?"

Geralt's posture shifted, his arms tightening across his chest. "They're allies. They call themselves the Assassins Brotherhood."

Thorfinn made a noise of disdain, his lip curling. Vikings saw assassins as cowards, skulking in shadows, striking without honor. "I didn't expect Witchers to keep company with such people."

Geralt's eyes narrowed, and he pushed off the wall, his voice low but firm. "Witchers are a dying breed, Thorfinn. Fewer of us every year, more monsters emerging. The Brotherhood fights the same darkness we do, though their monsters are often a different kind."

Thorfinn's jaw clenched. "Assassins are dishonorable."

Geralt stepped closer, his tone sharpening. "There's nothing honorable about fighting monsters. I thought you learned that after Dahlia destroyed your home and took your child."

Thorfinn's blood surged, rage flaring hot and sudden. He hurled the tray to the floor, the clay mug shattering, food scattering across the stone. He lunged, shoving Geralt back against the wall, his forearm pressing into the Witcher's chest. "Don't talk about my family!" he roared, his voice raw.

Geralt's hand shot up, wrenching Thorfinn's arm away. "Fighting monsters is bloody," he growled. "We're always at a disadvantage. You think a witch or a troll cares if you fight honorably? I told you to stop thinking like a Viking."

Thorfinn tutted, his chest heaving as he stepped back, turning to the cot. Geralt's voice followed, gruff and unapologetic. "You came with me to learn, boy. In this tower are some of the most skilled masters you'll find. Dishonorable or not, this is what you need to face Dahlia."

Thorfinn sat heavily, his hands clenching into fists. He hated it, hated the idea of aligning with assassins, of abandoning the code he'd been raised on. But Geralt's words cut deep, and the memory of Dahlia's destruction burned brighter than his pride. "Fine," he muttered, the word bitter.

Geralt nodded, moving to the stairs. "You'll learn everything—swordsmanship, stealth, strategy. Constantinople is a wondrous place, Thorfinn, but it's on the brink of destruction. We need everyone to fight the oncoming darkness."

Thorfinn's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"

Geralt paused, his hand on the railing. "Rest first. I'll tell you more tomorrow."

Thorfinn exhaled, nodding reluctantly. Geralt descended the stairs, his footsteps fading. Thorfinn lay back on the cot, staring at the cracked ceiling. His thoughts swirled, Constantinople's vastness, the thrill of finding Geralt. But Arwyn crept into his mind. He scowled, then laughed, a low, bitter sound. He'd shove it in her face—how easily she'd been tricked by Niketas, how he'd found Geralt first. A flicker of concern stirred, but he pushed it down. She was strong. She'd be fine until he reached her.

He closed his eyes, exhaustion pulling him under, and slept.

---

Morning light streamed through the window when Thorfinn woke, his body stiff but less painful. A pile of clothes sat on the table—simple, dark garments similar to those of the hooded figures, but plainer, without the ornate embroidery. His sword rested beside them, the blade still stained with Hakon's dark blood, unyielding to any attempt at cleaning. He dressed quickly, the tunic fitting snugly across his broad shoulders, the trousers sturdy but flexible. He buckled his sword belt, and headed downstairs.

The bell tower's interior was a maze of narrow corridors and open chambers, the stone walls scarred from years of neglect. Broken beams jutted from corners, and faded tapestries hung in tatters. Assassins moved through the space, their hooded figures blending into the shadows. Some carried blades, others scrolls or tools. As Thorfinn passed, they nodded or murmured greetings in Arabic or Greek, their eyes assessing but not hostile. "Where's Geralt?" he asked one, a lean man sharpening a dagger.

"The White Wolf is in the main hall," the man replied, pointing to a staircase descending deeper into the tower.

Thorfinn nodded, continuing down. The air grew cooler, the light dimmer, the hum of the city fading. He passed more assassins—men and women, young and old, their faces a mix of focus and wariness. The main hall was a wide, circular chamber, its floor tiled in a faded mosaic of a winged figure. Torches burned along the walls, casting flickering light over crates of supplies, racks of weapons, and a large table covered in maps and parchments.

Geralt stood by the table with three men, their voices low, their postures tense as they leaned over a map marked with red ink. As Thorfinn approached, their words drifted to him, sharp and troubling.

"The Fleders in the sewers are growing in number," one man said. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a shaved head and a neatly trimmed beard framing a strong jaw. His dark robes were adorned with silver embroidery, the fabric worn but meticulously maintained. His hands, scarred and calloused, rested on the table, one finger tracing a line on the map. "It's not just their numbers. They're bolder, attacking closer to the surface, near the merchant districts. Last week, a dockworker vanished near the western drains. His body was found drained."

Another man, lean and wiry with sharp, angular features and a jagged scar running across his left cheek, nodded grimly. His hair was dark, cropped close, and his eyes darted like a hawk's, always scanning. He wore lighter robes, gray and unadorned, designed for movement, with a belt bristling with small blades. "The Templars are preparing something big," he said. "Their patrols have doubled in the eastern districts, and they're moving supplies—weapons, coin, even alchemical reagents. I trailed one of their caravans two nights ago. They're stockpiling in the old basilica. It's only a matter of time before they strike."

The third man, older, with gray hair tied back in a tight braid and a weathered face etched with lines. His robes were simpler, a deep green with no ornamentation, but his posture—straight-backed, hands clasped behind him. His eyes, a piercing blue. "We need to act before they make their move," he said, his voice steady. "The city's fragile. A coordinated attack could break it. We're spread thin as it is."

"Geralt," Thorfinn said, stepping into the torchlight, his boots loud on the tiles.

Geralt turned, his white hair catching the flickering light, his golden eyes meeting Thorfinn's. "You're up," he said, his voice gruff but warm. He gestured to the table. "Come, meet the others. You'll be working with them closely."

Thorfinn crossed the room, his sword belt creaking, the weight of his blade a familiar comfort at his hip. The men straightened, their eyes assessing him—his broad frame, his scarred hands, the way he carried himself like a warrior. Geralt stood beside the table, pointing to each man in turn. "This is Malik, our sword master. Cassian, our stealth master. And Idris, the Grandmaster of the Brotherhood."

Thorfinn nodded, his gaze lingering on each. Malik, the tall one with the shaved head, stepped forward, his face breaking into a broad, familiar grin that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Good to see you on your feet, Thorfinn. You took quite a beating last night."

Thorfinn clasped his arm, the grip firm, recognizing Malik as one of the hooded figures who had pulled him from the alley. The man's strength was evident in his handshake, his forearms corded with muscle. "Thank you for stepping in when you did," Thorfinn said, his voice earnest.

Malik shrugged, his grin widening. "A friend of Geralt's is an ally of ours."

"Speaking of allies," Idris said, his voice cutting through the moment like a blade, "when will the other Witchers arrive, Geralt? It's been a year since we sent word, and we've heard nothing."

Geralt grunted, leaning against the table, his arms crossing over his chest. "Witchers are a solitary bunch. They move on their own time, take contracts as they go. But they know how critical this is. Vesemir and the others will be here soon, within Months if the roads are clear."

Idris's eyes narrowed, his fingers tapping the table. "Good. We need their blades. When our forces are united, we can strike and root out the darkness that's choking this city."

Thorfinn stepped closer, his brow furrowing. "What's going on here? What are you all talking about?"

The men turned to him, their expressions guarded. Geralt straightened, his voice steady. "Do you remember why we're here, Thorfinn?"

"To continue my training," Thorfinn said, his tone clipped, sensing there was more.

Geralt nodded, his eyes locking onto Thorfinn's. "That's true, but it's not the whole truth."

Thorfinn's jaw tightened, his patience fraying like a worn rope. "I don't like being lied to, Geralt. You've been dodging my questions since I woke up."

"There's much I haven't told you," Geralt admitted, his voice low, almost reluctant. "About why we're here, about yourself, about what's at stake. It will be revealed, but not yet. There's too much you need to understand first."

Thorfinn's hands clenched into fists, frustration boiling over. "Speak plainly, Geralt. I'm not a child. Stop hiding things from me."

Before Geralt could respond, the heavy oak door to the hall swung open. "He speaks of me!" a voice called, bright and brimming with confidence, echoing off the stone walls.

Thorfinn turned, his eyes narrowing as he recognized the man striding in. It was the beggar who had warned him not to ask about Witchers in the city, his ragged cloak and dirt-streaked face now gone. He was transformed, dressed in a fine tunic of deep blue, trimmed with gold thread that shimmered in the torchlight. His dark hair was swept back, clean and gleaming, and his muscled frame was evident beneath the tailored fabric, broad shoulders tapering to a lean waist. His handsome face—sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw, and piercing green eyes—lit up with a grin.

"You," Thorfinn said, his voice flat but tinged with surprise. "I remember you."

"Who could forget me?" the man said, winking as he spread his arms wide, as if presenting himself to an adoring crowd. He sauntered forward, his boots clicking on the tiles, exuding a flamboyance that seemed to fill the room.

Geralt stepped forward, his expression a mix of exasperation and amusement. "Thorfinn, this is Constantine VI, the rightful emperor of the Byzantine Empire."

The man waved a hand dismissively, his grin never faltering. "Call me Leo. My full name stirs up trouble at the moment, and I'd rather not have guards chasing me through the streets again."

Thorfinn crossed his arms, his stance rigid. "I'm sure there are people who dispute his claim, if he's hiding in a tower with assassins."

Malik let out a deep chuckle, and Cassian's lips twitched into a smirk. Idris's eyes gleamed with faint amusement, but his voice remained steady. "Constantine was deposed by his mother, Irene, four years ago. She seized the throne and declared herself Empress."

"The harlot tried to blind me," Leo cut in, his tone light but laced with venom, his grin sharpening into something dangerous. He slung an arm around Cassian's shoulders, who stiffened, his scar twitching. "Luckily, I had some very sneaky friends who spirited me out of the palace before she could finish the job."

Cassian shrugged him off, rolling his eyes. "I regret that day more with every passing year," he said, his tone dry but playful, earning a laugh from Malik.

Thorfinn pinched the bridge of his nose, his patience thinning further. He turned to Geralt, his voice hard. "This is why we're here? To help this man reclaim his throne? Why should I care about putting someone I've never met on a throne I know nothing about? I agreed to fight monsters, not play politics for a deposed emperor."

"You'll find the goals are entwined," Idris said. He stepped closer, his blue eyes locking onto Thorfinn's. "What we face is no mere power struggle. It's a threat to the city, to the world beyond."

"Speak plainly, old man," Thorfinn snapped.

Malik and Cassian bristled, their hands drifting to their own weapons, their faces hardening at the disrespect. Thorfinn's stance shifted, his fingers brushing the hilt of his blade, the air tensing like a drawn bowstring. "Enough!" Idris and Geralt shouted in unison, their voices cutting through the standoff.

Geralt grabbed Thorfinn's arm, his grip like iron, pulling him back. "Don't draw your blade on allies, Thorfinn. You know better than this."

Thorfinn shook him off, his voice low and furious. "These are not my allies. I don't know these people, and I don't care for their plight. I came to train, to fight Dahlia, not to meddle in some emperor's squabble."

Idris stepped forward, his presence silencing the room. "Thorfinn, I understand your frustration. Being kept in the dark is no small thing. But this fight involves all of us." He gestured to the table, where Leo stepped up, his playful demeanor giving way to a sharper, more focused intensity.

"The old man's right," Leo said, earning an annoyed glance from Cassian, who muttered under his breath. Leo ignored him, leaning over the map. "Four years ago, my mother made a pact with a vampire. In exchange for power and the throne, she surrendered control. She's a puppet now, dancing on strings held by a creature that feeds on this city's soul."

Idris pointed to the map, its parchment marked with the city's districts in bold lines. "The Templar Order serves the vampire, handling its affairs during the day while it hides from the sun. They've infiltrated the palace—ministers, generals, advisors. Nearly all have been replaced with their agents or turned into ghouls."

Leo's voice dropped, his eyes darkening. "The only one they haven't touched is Nikephoros, the finance minister. He's too entrenched, too connected to the nobility and the merchants' guild to remove without causing an uproar. His influence keeps the city's economy stable."

"Why not kill him?" Thorfinn asked, his voice blunt.

"It would spark chaos," Idris said. "His family, the Doukas clan, would retaliate. The merchants would pull their coin, and the city would fracture into riots and power grabs."

"Can't they control him?" Thorfinn pressed, his mind racing.

Leo smirked, leaning back. "Nikephoros is sharp as a blade. He and his family wear pouches containing the finger bones of St. Peter, a holy relic. Vampires won't go near them—burns their flesh like fire."

Thorfinn's eyes narrowed. "If he knows the city's state, is he an ally?"

Geralt grunted, his expression darkening. "No."

Leo elaborated, his tone dry. "Nikephoros isn't an enemy, but he's no friend. He serves himself, always has. He keeps the vampire's agents at bay to protect his own power, not out of loyalty to anyone. He has no allies, only people under his thumb."

They continued discussing Nikephoros, outlining his territory in the western districts, where his fortified estate stood like a fortress, guarded by hired swords and intricate locks. His influence stretched to the ports, where his ships controlled half the city's trade, and to the merchant guilds, whose loyalty he bought with coin and favors. "He's untouchable for now," Cassian said, his scar twitching as he spoke. "But he's a problem we'll need to address eventually."

Thorfinn's mind churned, the pieces falling into place. "Why not kill the vampire? That would cut the head off the snake."

The men laughed, the sound grating on Thorfinn's nerves. Malik shook his head, his grin fading. "It's not that simple, boy."

"I've done it before," Thorfinn said, his voice sharp. "I killed a one on the ship here. With all of you, surely we can take them."

Geralt cut in, his tone firm. "You didn't kill a vampire, Thorfinn. You killed a Bruxa, a powerful one, I'll grant you, but still a lesser vampire."

"They're in the book," Thorfinn countered, his memory flashing to the leather-bound tome he'd studied on the ship to Constantinople.

"They are," Geralt said. "But what we're dealing with is a True Vampire, not some feral beast."

Thorfinn's eyes narrowed, the weight of the words sinking in. "So the one controlling the Empress is a True Vampire?"

"Yes," Geralt replied, his voice heavy.

Thorfinn leaned forward, his voice steady. "How powerful are they compared to Dahlia?"

Geralt paused, his golden eyes distant as he considered. "From what we know, this vampire is a 6th generation. In a direct fight, it would be close, but Dahlia would likely win. True Witches are formidable, their magic raw and chaotic. In almost any other case, the vampire would come out on top."

"Then let's kill it," Thorfinn said, his voice resolute. If he could bring down a True Vampire, it would be a step toward facing Dahlia, a test of his strength.

Idris nodded, his expression approving but cautious. "Good. But it requires meticulous planning. A 6th generation vampire is a terrifying enemy. Their ghouls are already spread across the city, doing their bidding." He turned to Thorfinn, his blue eyes piercing his. "You met one last night."

Thorfinn frowned, then his eyes widened as realization hit. "Niketas, that nobleman."

Idris nodded. "He's one of the vampire's top servants. A few years ago, he was human, a minor lord with ambition but no spine."

Leo spat on the floor, his face twisting with disgust. "He traded his soul for power, for influence. Now he's a ghoul, bound to the vampire's will, strutting around like he owns the city."

Thorfinn turned abruptly, striding toward the door, his boots pounding the tiles. Geralt grabbed his arm, his grip unyielding. "Where are you going?"

"Arwyn is with him," Thorfinn said, shaking off Geralt's hand, his voice low and urgent. "I'm getting her out."

"No," Geralt said, his tone hard.

Thorfinn's eyes blazed, his anger flaring. "What do you mean, no? You just said Niketas works for the vampire. I'm not leaving her there with that thing."

He moved to leave again, but Cassian stepped in front of him, his lean frame blocking the door. His scar gleamed in the torchlight, his eyes calm but firm. "Move," Thorfinn growled, his hand twitching toward his sword.

"Listen to us, Thorfinn," Cassian said, his voice steady, his hands raised to show he meant no threat. "We'll get her out, but charging in now will get you both killed."

Thorfinn shoved past, his shoulder brushing Cassian's, but the assassin moved swiftly, locking Thorfinn's arm in a strange, twisting hold, pinning it behind his back. Thorfinn grunted, struggling against the grip, his muscles straining. "Calm down," Geralt said, stepping closer, his voice urgent.

Thorfinn's anger surged, raw and uncontainable, and he drew on the Leviathan's power. A low thrum filled the air, the ground trembling beneath their feet, the torches flickering wildly. His arm glowed with a faint, eerie light, the energy pulsing through his veins, amplifying his strength.

"Thorfinn, stop!" Geralt shouted, his voice cutting through the haze.

Thorfinn roared, lifting Cassian off the ground despite the lock, his power surging. He slammed his arm down, aiming for the floor, but Cassian twisted free at the last moment, pushing off Thorfinn's body and landing lightly on his feet. The impact shook the hall, the mosaic cracking under the force, a small crater forming in the tiles, dust and debris scattering across the floor.

"Thorfinn!" Geralt growled, grabbing his shoulder and shoving him against the wall, his strength pinning Thorfinn in place. "What's wrong with you? You've been short-tempered and volatile since you got here."

"I'm not abandoning her," Thorfinn said, his voice low, his chest heaving, his eyes burning with defiance.

"No one's saying you should," Geralt said, his grip tightening, his golden eyes boring into Thorfinn's. "They won't harm her yet. They need her. They know I'm connected to her, and they'll try to use that to draw me out. We'll get her out, I promise, but not until we're ready."

Thorfinn's mind flashed to Eowyn, the way he'd failed to save her. The pain was a knife in his chest and the thought of losing Arwyn the same way made his stomach churn. It felt like history repeating, like he was standing on the edge of another failure. His shoulders sagged, but his voice was firm, unyielding. "I'll be there when we get her. I'm not staying behind."

Geralt nodded, his grip loosening but not releasing. "You will. You have my word."

Thorfinn pushed past him, his steps heavy, his heart pounding as he left the hall. The assassins watched him go, their expressions a mix of wariness, respect, and faint concern. Malik shook his head, muttering something to Cassian, who rubbed his wrist but smirked. The Grandmaster, turned to Geralt, his piercing blue eyes narrowing. "Has he been told of his origins yet?" he asked, his voice low, almost a whisper, as if the walls themselves might betray the secret.

Geralt shook his head, his white hair shifting slightly. "Not yet. He's too volatile right now. I'll tell him tomorrow, when he's had time to cool off."

Idris nodded, his weathered face unreadable, but his gaze lingered on Thorfinn's retreating form as he stormed up the stairs.

---

Thorfinn reached his chamber, the small, circular room high in the abandoned bell tower. The stone walls were cracked, moss creeping into the crevices, and the rusted iron bracket overhead creaked faintly in the draft. His cot sagged under him as he sat, his fists clenched, his chest tight with anger. He wanted to fight, to break something, to feel the release of blood and steel. The world felt like it was closing in—Geralt's secrecy, the assassins' cryptic plans, Arwyn trapped with Niketas. It was too much, and he needed an outlet.

His mind flashed to the conversation in the hall, the mention of Fleders infesting the sewers. Lesser vampires, vile creatures that skulked in the dark, feeding on the unwary. Killing them would clear his head, give him purpose, even if just for a moment. He stood, his ribs aching but ignored, and crossed to the open window. The city sprawled below, a sprawl of domes and spires under the midday sun, the Bosphorus glinting like a blade. The tower's exterior was jagged, its stones weathered and uneven.

He swung a leg over the sill, gripping the rough stone, and began to descend. His movements were clumsy, his fingers slipping on crumbling holds, his boots scraping loudly. Halfway down, his foot missed a ledge, and he fell, landing hard on his backside on a lower outcropping, pain shooting through his tailbone. "Odin's beard," he muttered, rubbing the spot.

A laugh, light and teasing, cut through the air. "Is that how they climb in the North? Like a drunk ox?"

Thorfinn's head snapped up, his eyes narrowing. A woman stood on a higher ledge, her hooded figure silhouetted against the sky. Her dark robes were fitted, designed for agility, with a short cape fluttering in the breeze. Her face was partially obscured, but her eyes glinted with amusement, and her voice carried a playful edge that grated on his nerves. He ignored her, standing and brushing dirt from his trousers, his jaw tight. She laughed again, then moved, her body flowing like water as she jumped down the tower's face. Her hands found holds easily, her feet pushing off ledges with near impossible grace, as if the wind itself guided her. She landed lightly beside him, barely stirring the dust, and offered a gloved hand. "Need help?"

Thorfinn brushed her hand away, standing on his own, his expression dark. "Leave me alone. I'm in a bad mood."

She laughed, undeterred, her voice warm despite his hostility. "My mother always said a friend when you're upset is better than anything else. I'm Sophia, by the way."

Thorfinn didn't respond, turning to scale the rest of the tower. His movements were heavy, each grip tested before he trusted his weight. Sophia followed, her descent a stark contrast—fluid, effortless, her body twisting and leaping as if gravity were a meree suggestion. She talked as she moved. "The White Wolf said a lot about you, you know. Said you're stubborn as a mule but fierce, that you've faced things most men would run from. Said you've got a fire in you, but you need to learn to control it. He thinks you'll be one of the best, if you don't get yourself killed first."

Thorfinn reached the ground, his boots hitting the cobblestones with a thud. He rounded on her, his patience snapping. "What do you know about me?" he growled.

Sophia paused, tapping her chin, her hood still concealing most of her face. Her eyes, a striking hazel, gleamed with mischief. "I was told you're like me."

Thorfinn frowned, his anger faltering. "Like you? What do you mean?"

"You know," she said, leaning closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Like me. A demi-god."

The words hit Thorfinn like a hammer, his breath catching, the world tilting. He stopped listening as her voice blurred, a dull roar filling his ears. He sank to the ground, his back against the tower's base, his mind reeling. Sophia kept talking, oblivious, her words a distant hum. "—and Geralt said you've got power in you, something ancient, something—"

Thorfinn grabbed her arm, his grip tight, his voice hoarse. "Who told you I had Aesir blood?"

"Let go of me," she said, her tone sharp, her body tensing.

"Who told you!" he demanded, his eyes burning.

"The White Wolf," she said, pulling her arm free. "He said you're a demi-god. Now let go."

Thorfinn released her, his hand falling limp. He sat back, his head against the stone, his thoughts a storm. Memories flooded him—strange moments he'd never fully understood. In Northumbria, when Arwyn, trapped as a full werewolf, had bitten him and tasted his blood, she'd transformed back to human form, her curse broken in an instant. In Bebbanburg, the Revenant had craved his blood, its hunger unnatural, obsessive. When he'd fought the Leviathan, Freyr himself had appeared, aiding him, gifting him a divine artifact—his very own ship. Why would a god do that for a mortal? In Atlantis, facing Harkon, he'd unleashed a blinding light that burned the monster.

He cursed himself, feeling like a fool. The signs had been there, staring him in the face, and he'd been too blind to see. He had Aesir blood. He was a demi-god. His gaze drifted to his sword, its blade still stained with Harkon's bloo. His mother had said it was blessed by Baldr, the God of Light and Wisdom. Light. The power he'd wielded, the glow in his hands, the burning radiance—it was Baldr's gift.

"Light," Thorfinn whispered, opening his palm. He drew on the essence within, a warmth spreading through him. A faint glow flickered, illuminating his hand.

Sophia, about to ask if he was listening, froze, her eyes widening. "Is that what you can do?" she asked, her voice tinged with awe. "Can you do anything else? I can move with the wind, push off surfaces, leap higher than any mortal. It's how I climb so well. What else can you—"

Thorfinn stood abruptly, cutting her off, and started walking, his mind too full to process her words. Sophia followed, her steps light, her voice concerned. "Are you okay? You look sick."

"I'm fine," Thorfinn said, his voice flat, though his thoughts churned. "I just... I wasn't told I was a demi-god."

Sophia's eyes widened, her hood slipping slightly to reveal a glimpse of dark, wavy hair. "Oh, I'm sorry! I thought the masters told you when you arrived. It was a shock for me too, finding out. I didn't believe it at first, thought it was a mistake, but—"

Thorfinn stopped, turning to her. 'If she's a demi-god, she's the spawn of a rival god,' he thought. 'The Aesir would be furious if I allied with her. Better to cut this off now.' "I'm leaving," he said, his voice cold. "Don't follow me."

Sophia blinked, taken aback by his bluntness. 'He's shutting me out,' she thought, a pang of disappointment hitting her. She'd always felt different, set apart by her divine blood, and had hoped Thorfinn might understand that isolation. She sighed, her shoulders slumping, but then her jaw tightened. 'Mother didn't raise a quitter.' She scaled a nearby building, the wind seeming to lift her as she followed him from above, keeping to the rooftops.

Thorfinn moved through the streets, his hood up, sticking to the shadows to avoid guards. He'd memorized the map in the hall, its red-marked sewer entrances burned into his mind. He found a narrow alley, the air thick with the stench of refuse and salt, and descended stone steps to a rusted iron gate. He picked up a stick, wrapping a rag around it, then channeled the Leviathan's power into his hand. The air thrummed, a faint vibration pulsing as he gripped the lock. It shook violently, then shattered into pieces, metal fragments clattering to the ground. He pushed the gate open and stepped into the sewer, the darkness swallowing him. "Igni," he muttered, using the Witcher sign, and the rag burst into flame, casting a flickering glow.

The sewer was damp, the air heavy with rot and mildew. Water dripped from the ceiling, echoing in the narrow tunnel, and the stone walls were slick with algae. Thorfinn's boots splashed through shallow puddles, his torch held high. His mind was a tempest, questions piling atop one another. 'How did Geralt know I was a demi-god? Did anyone else?' He thought of the gods, of their aid against the Leviathan. 'Thor's enemy,' he reasoned. 'It served them to help me kill it.' But his thoughts darkened. 'They did nothing when Hild was killed, when Morgyn was taken. They blessed our marriage, yet let her die. Why?'

"Why!" he shouted, his voice echoing off the walls, raw with betrayal. If he was Baldr's son, he carried the blood of the Allfather. Morgyn did too, yet the gods had abandoned them. The revelation of his divine blood was a weight, raising questions he couldn't answer. 'Does it change anything?' he thought. 'No. But it's another weapon against Dahlia.' Geralt was right—honor meant nothing if it didn't bring Morgyn back. He'd use every tool, every power, to destroy Dahlia.

A skittering sound broke his thoughts, faint but distinct, like claws on stone. He raised the torch, the light revealing nothing but wet walls and shadows. The air grew colder, the hairs on his neck rising. Whispers echoed, soft and unintelligible, as if the tunnel itself were speaking. Shadows moved at the edge of his vision, darting just beyond the torch's reach. He spun, heart pounding, drawing his sword with a rasp of iron. The blade gleamed, Harkon's blood still staining it, and he braced for an attack.

"Thorfinn!" a voice called.

He whirled, sword raised, only to see Sophia standing behind him, her hood pushed back, revealing a striking face—high cheekbones, full lips, and hazel eyes wide with alarm. Her dark hair was tied back, strands escaping to frame her face. Thorfinn lowered his blade, his breath ragged. "Why are you here?" he snapped.

"Why am I here?" she shot back, hands on her hips. "Why are you here? Do you know what's in these tunnels? They're not safe. We need to go, now."

"I know what's here," Thorfinn said, turning and striding deeper into the tunnel. "That's why I came."

Sophia followed, her steps light. "This is foolish, Thorfinn. You can't just charge in here alone." She grabbed his arm, trying to pull him back, but he was immovable, shrugging her off. "Stop being an idiot!"

They emerged into a wide, cavernous chamber, the ceiling lost in darkness, the floor littered with debris—broken crates, rusted chains, and bones. The air was thick with the stench of decay, and the walls glistened with moisture. Thorfinn turned to her, his voice low. "Go back, Sophia. This isn't your fight."

"My fight?" she said, incredulous. "You're the one who doesn't belong here. You don't even know what you're walking into."

"I know enough," he said, his grip tightening on his sword. "Leave."

Before she could argue, a low growl echoed, followed by the skitter of claws. Sophia's eyes widened, her hand going to the short sword at her hip. "We need to leave now," she whispered.

Too late. Shadows moved, eyes glinting red in the dark. Fleders—gaunt, bat-like creatures with elongated limbs and fanged maws—swarmed from the tunnels, their screeches piercing. Thorfinn roared, bloodlust surging, and charged. His sword slashed, cleaving through a Fleder's chest, black blood spraying. He spun, decapitating another, its head rolling across the floor. He channeled the Leviathan's power, the air thrumming as he punched the ground. A shockwave rippled out, cracking the stone, sending Fleders tumbling, their bodies smashing against the walls.

Sophia fought beside him, her short sword flashing, slicing through a Fleder's throat. She threw knives each finding a creature's eye or heart. A gust of wind swirled around her, unnatural, pushing her higher as she leaped, her hidden blade extending to stab a Fleder mid-air. She landed lightly, the wind cushioning her, and sent a blast of air at another, knocking it into a pillar with a sickening crunch.

"There's too many!" Sophia shouted, dodging a claw. "We need to retreat!"

Thorfinn growled, his blade dripping, but the swarm was endless, more Fleders pouring from the dark. "Fine," he snarled, cutting down another.

They backed toward the tunnel, but the creatures circled, cutting them off. Sophia cursed, her voice trembling. "We're surrounded!"

Thorfinn's mind raced, then clarity struck. He drew on his essence, the warmth of Baldr's light surging within. He thrust his palm forward, and pure light erupted, a blinding radiance that filled the chamber. The Fleders shrieked, their flesh sizzling, and fled into the shadows. The light revealed the chamber's horror—piles of corpses, half-eaten, stacked against the walls, and a nest of writhing Fleders, hundreds strong, their eyes burning with hunger.

"By the gods," Sophia whispered, her face pale.

"Let's go," Thorfinn said, grabbing her arm and dragging her toward the tunnel. They ran, the light fading behind them, the Fleders' screeches echoing. They burst from the sewer, emerging into the alley, panting, their clothes splattered with blood.

Thorfinn leaned against the wall, catching his breath. "What was that? I thought there'd be a dozen, maybe. Not hundreds."

Sophia shuddered, wiping her blade. "I need to tell Idris. There's far more than we thought." She turned, scaling a nearby wall with effortless grace, the wind lifting her as she parkoured across rooftops, vanishing into the city.

Thorfinn stood alone in the shadowed alley, the sewer's stench clinging to his blood-spattered clothes. His anger had dulled, but a deeper pain surged in its place—a raw, gnawing wound fueled by betrayal. The gods, whom he had served with blood and sacrifice, had abandoned him. He tried to reason that perhaps they were testing him, forging him through suffering, but the thought rang hollow. If this was his test, why did Hild and Morgyn have to suffer? Why did his family pay the price for his weakness? He had killed in their name, offered his strength, his honor, yet when he needed their protection, they turned away.

His mind drifted to a moment in the desert, a lifetime ago, when he had been faced with the ghost of Eowyn. "I don't need to justify myself to you," he had snarled. "I took you because you were mine to take. I killed your family because they stood against me." Strength and honor—that was his creed. Eowyn and Arwyn's parents had been too weak to stop him, so they deserved their fate. Or did they? Did Hild deserve to die, her blood soaking the earth? Did Morgyn deserve to be torn from him, her fate unknown? The questions pounded in his skull, relentless, like rain on an endless sea.

'Is that why the gods forsook me?' he thought. 'Because I was weak?' After all he had given—his loyalty, his blade, his very soul—a single moment of failure had cast him aside. He was no longer their favored son, just a broken tool discarded to the wolves, left to be picked clean. His breath quickened, his hands trembling as anger surged, hot and consuming. He grabbed the necklace around his neck, a silver pendant etched with Freyja's rune, worn to honor the goddess of love and war. He clutched it, his knuckles white, and glared at the sky. "Do you have anything to say?" he shouted, his voice raw, echoing in the empty alley. "Anything at all?"

Silence answered, cold and indifferent. The gods were mute, their absence a blade in his chest. His rage boiled over, and with a snarl, he ripped the necklace free, the chain snapping. He hurled it to the ground, the pendant clattering against the cobblestones, glinting mockingly in the dim light. His chest heaved, his vision blurring with fury and grief. He turned, stalking into the city, his boots heavy on the uneven streets. The towering domes and spires of Constantinople loomed around him, their grandeur a stark contrast to the darkness in his heart. He moved slowly, his thoughts a storm of betrayal, loss, and unanswered questions, each step pulling him deeper into despair.

...

Sophia raced across the rooftops, as she made her way back to the brotherhood hideout. Her dark robes fluttered as she sprinted, her boots barely touching the tiles before she leaped, soaring over a narrow alley. The air seemed to lift her, a gentle gust pushing her higher. She landed lightly, sliding down a sloped roof, her gloved hands gripping the edge as she swung onto a lower ledge. Wall-running along a crumbling facade, she pushed off, the wind surging to propel her across a wider gap. She grabbed a protruding beam, flipping onto another roof.

The bell tower loomed ahead. As she neared, two assassins—Hassan and Bilal—spotted her from a lower platform, their hooded figures pausing in their sparring. "Sophia!" Hassan called, waving. "Back already? Where's the new blood?"

"No time!" she shouted, vaulting over a chimney. "I need the Grandmaster, now!"

Bilal grinned, sheathing his dagger. "Trouble follows you like a shadow, eh?"

She didn't reply, dropping to the tower's upper ledge and slipping through a narrow window. The main hall was as she'd left it, the faded mosaic of a winged figure underfoot, torches casting flickering light over crates and weapon racks. Idris, Malik, Cassian, Leo, and Geralt stood around the map-strewn table. Leo spotted her first, his handsome face lighting up with a theatrical grin. "Sophia, the star of Constantinople!" he boomed, striding toward her, arms outstretched. "Have you come to grace us with your beauty?"

He reached for her shoulder, but Sophia flicked her wrist, a burst of wind slamming him against the wall with a thud. "Not now, Leo," she said, her tone sharp but amused.

Malik roared with laughter, slapping the table, while Cassian's scar twitched as he smirked. "You never learn, do you?" Cassian said, shaking his head.

Idris raised a hand, silencing the room, his blue eyes fixed on Sophia. "You're back sooner than expected. Is Thorfinn with you?"

"No, Master," Sophia said, stepping forward, her hood slipping back to reveal her striking features—high cheekbones, full lips, and hazel eyes still bright with adrenaline.

Cassian's brow furrowed, his lean frame tensing. "You were assigned to watch him. We can't have him causing a ruckus in the district. It'll draw too much attention to the tower."

"It's an emergency," Sophia said, her voice urgent. "... I followed Thorfinn into the sewers."

The room stilled, the masters exchanging alarmed glances. "The sewers?" Malik said. "They're crawling with Fleders. You know how dangerous that is."

"I know," Sophia said, her jaw tightening. "I tried to stop him, but he wouldn't listen. He went in looking for a fight, and... the number of Fleders down there is far worse than we thought."

Idris's eyes narrowed. "How many?"

"Hundreds," Sophia said, the word heavy. "Maybe more. There's a nest, a massive one, with bodies piled like firewood."

The masters erupted into discussion, their voices overlapping. "Hundreds?" Cassian said, his scar twitching. "We estimated a few dozen at most. This changes things."

"We can't let them spread," Malik said, his hand resting on his sword hilt.

"We don't have the men for a full sweep," Idris said, his tone grim. "Not with the Templars tightening their grip."

Sophia cut in, her voice sharp. "There's more. Thorfinn... he produced a light, a pure, blinding light. It burned the Fleders, scorched their flesh, and drove them back. They fled from it."

The room fell silent, the weight of her words sinking in. Geralt's golden eyes gleamed, his expression thoughtful. "It's his divine parentage," he said, his voice low. "If I remember correctly... it was Baldr who was the God of Light, he must be his divine parent. "

Idris nodded, a spark of hope in his weathered face. "That's good news. If Thorfinn can harness this gift, it could be a powerful weapon against the vampire and its minions."

He turned to Geralt, who nodded. "I'll train him to control it," Geralt said. "He's raw, but he's got potential."

"Good," Idris said, then looked at Sophia. "You'll help him too, Sophia. Your own divine nature may offer insight he needs."

Sophia hesitated, her mind flashing to Thorfinn's cold dismissal. She wasn't sure she wanted to deal with his temper, but duty outweighed reluctance. "Yes, Master," she said, her voice steady.

"Our priority is Thorfinn's training," Idris said, his tone resolute. "With his abilities, he could be our greatest asset against the darkness."

Cassian leaned back, crossing his arms. "Who trains him first?"

"Sophia," Idris said. "Hassan and Bilal said he moves like a drunken blacksmith on the rooftops, when they witnessed him chasing one of the young thieves. He needs to master movement before he learns our subtler arts."

Sophia frowned. "Will he need to learn our language?"

Geralt cut in, his voice dry. "That won't be a problem. He picks up languages faster than anyone I've seen. He'll have Greek and the signs down by week's end."

Idris nodded, turning to the others. "After Sophia, Cassian will train him in stealth, then Malik in swordsmanship."

Malik grinned, cracking his knuckles. "I'll enjoy putting him through his paces."

Cassian's scar twitched with a smirk. "He's stubborn. I'll need to break that first."

Geralt's eyes narrowed. "Be rough on him. Strength is all he responds to. Push him hard, or he'll push back."

"That won't be a problem," Malik said, his voice laced with anticipation.

Sophia shifted, her mind still on the sewers. "What about the Fleders?"

Idris sighed, rubbing his temple. "We'll increase night patrols and set more traps at the entrances, but we can't spare the men for a full clearing. Not yet."

Malik chuckled, leaning back. "Send the boy down there. It's what he wanted, isn't it?"

Sophia glared at him. "That's not funny, Malik. He nearly got us both killed."

Geralt tilted his head, his expression unreadable. "He's got a point. Once Thorfinn controls his abilities, he and I could start clearing the sewers. His light could turn the tide."

Idris considered, his fingers tapping the table. "It's risky, but viable. We'll revisit it once he's trained."

He straightened, his voice firm. "We have much work to do. This meeting is over."

The masters dispersed, their footsteps echoing as they left the hall. Sophia lingered, her mind racing with the day's events.

....

Thorfinn climbed through the window of his chamber, the bell tower's cramped room lit by a single flickering torch. The stone walls were cold, the air heavy with dust and betrayal. His boots scraped the floor as he crossed to his cot, his body weary but his mind a furnace of pain and anger. Geralt was there, leaning against the wall, his golden eyes fixed on Thorfinn with a mix of concern and frustration.

"Where have you been?" Geralt asked, his voice low but insistent. "You can't just run off like that, Thorfinn. Your temper's going to get you killed."

Thorfinn sat heavily on the cot, his face dour, his shoulders slumped. "I'm not in the mood to talk, Geralt. Leave me alone."

Geralt didn't move, his arms crossing. "That's not how this works. You stormed out, went to the sewers, nearly got yourself and Sophia killed. We need to talk about what's going on with you."

Thorfinn's head snapped up, his eyes blazing. "I said leave!" His voice cracked, raw with emotion, and he surged to his feet. "Forbearnan!" he shouted, his eyes flashing gold, a pulse of power ripping through the air. The magic inside him thrummed, and Geralt was lifted off the ground, his body suspended as if caught in a barrier.

"Thorfinn, stop!" Geralt growled, his voice strained but commanding.

Thorfinn's rage was a wildfire, untamed and consuming. With a snarl, he thrust his hand forward, and Geralt was hurled backward, tumbling down the spiral stairs with a crash of metal and wood. Thorfinn stood panting, his chest heaving, the glow in his eyes fading. He collapsed onto the cot, his body shaking, and closed his eyes, the weight of his pain and betrayal pulling him into a restless darkness.

___________________________

Arwyn woke to the soft rustle of silk curtains and the gentle touch of Thea's hand on her shoulder. The room was bathed in morning light, the high ceiling painted with swirling gold patterns catching the sun. She sat up, rubbing her eyes, her body still adjusting to the plush bed and the smooth sheets that felt foreign compared to the rough furs of her past. Thea stood beside her, dressed in a flowing dress of pale green, her dark hair cascading in waves, her olive skin glowing. "Good morning, mistress," Thea said, her voice warm. "It's time to begin the day."

Arwyn nodded, swinging her legs over the bed's edge, her bare feet touching the cool marble floor. Thea moved to the wardrobe, pulling out a dress of deep blue silk with long sleeves and a fitted bodice. Arwyn stood as Thea helped her undress, slipping off the nightgown and guiding her into the new garment. The fabric was soft, clinging to her curves, and Thea's deft fingers tied the laces with ease. Arwyn sat at the vanity, the mirror reflecting her still-unfamiliar face—sharper cheekbones, kohl-lined eyes from yesterday's makeup. Thea brushed her blonde hair, twisting it into an intricate braid adorned with silver pins. "You look radiant," Thea said, smiling at her reflection.

Arwyn managed a small smile, but her thoughts were restless. 'This isn't me,' she thought, staring at the polished stranger in the mirror. 'I'm a warrior, not a lady.' Yet the elegance, the care in Thea's hands, stirred something—a flicker of pride in how she looked.

Thea led her downstairs to a small dining room. A table was set with silver plates, a spread of flatbreads, olives, cheeses, and sliced fruits. Arwyn sat, Thea joining her, but the room felt empty. "Where's Niketas?" Arwyn asked, breaking a piece of bread.

"He has business to attend to," Thea said, pouring her a cup of spiced tea. "He'll return this evening. Today, we begin your lessons."

Arwyn frowned, chewing slowly. "Lessons? What kind?"

Thea's eyes sparkled, her voice enthusiastic. "Language, to start—Greek, to navigate the city. Then etiquette, dancing, singing, history, religion. Everything a noble lady would know."

Arwyn's fork paused, her brow furrowing. "Why all that? I just need the language to get by."

Thea leaned forward, her tone gentle but persuasive. "Knowledge is power, Arwyn. You're a traveler, moving through lands and courts. Understanding their customs, their dances, their beliefs—it opens doors. Imagine speaking to a lord in his tongue, dancing at a feast without stumbling, knowing their history. These skills will make you unstoppable, wherever you go."

Arwyn hesitated, her mind flickering to Kattegat, to the blood and loss that had driven her here. 'I've only ever needed a sword,' she thought. But Thea's words painted a picture of a world where she could be more, where she could belong. "Alright," she said, nodding. "I'll do it."

Thea smiled, clapping her hands. "Wonderful. Let's start with language."

They began in a sunlit study, its shelves lined with scrolls and leather-bound books. Thea taught her basic Greek phrases—greetings, requests, simple questions—writing them on a wax tablet. Arwyn repeated the words, her tongue stumbling over the unfamiliar sounds, but Thea was patient, correcting her gently. Between lessons, Arwyn's curiosity stirred. "What does Niketas do, exactly? His business, I mean."

Thea paused, her quill hovering over the tablet. "He and his associates work to transform this city, to make life better for everyone. They dream of a world with no crime, where no one dies before their time, where children never starve."

Arwyn's breath caught, the words striking a chord. She thought of Northumbria, of her parents' bodies, as Thorfinn's blade had ended their lives. A world without such loss, such pain—it was a dream she hadn't dared imagine. "How does he plan to do that?" she asked, her voice soft, almost reverent.

Thea's smile was serene. "It's simple when you have the city's richest and the Empress herself on your side. Wealth and influence can reshape anything."

"But it's not happening," Arwyn said, leaning forward. "Why not?"

Thea's expression turned sad, her eyes distant. "There are obstacles. Some people cling to power, refusing to let go, even if it means keeping the city broken."

Arwyn's hands clenched, anger flaring. "Why would anyone stop that? A world like you described—it's perfect."

Thea sighed, setting the tablet down. "Some love power more than progress. Take the previous emperor, Constantine VI. He was a monster, Arwyn. He taxed the poor until they starved, executed scholars for questioning him, and worse—there were rumors he ordered entire villages burned to root out rebels, women and children included. He'd have their heads displayed on the palace walls, their blood staining the streets."

Arwyn's stomach churned, her mind flashing to Northumbria's fields, soaked red. "That's horrific."

Thea nodded, her voice heavy. "Niketas and his friends couldn't stand it. They spoke to his mother, Irene, who was appalled by her son's cruelty. With the nobility's support, she overthrew him. But Constantine didn't accept defeat. He was spirited away by a group of assassins—the Brotherhood, they call themselves. They fight against change, believing in freedom above all else."

Arwyn frowned, picking at her sleeve. "Freedom doesn't sound bad."

Thea's eyes sharpened, her tone firm. "Too much freedom brings chaos. It's why villages burn, why families die. Without order, the strong prey on the weak, and the world suffers."

Arwyn's thoughts drifted to Thorfinn, to the chaos he'd brought to her life. 'He thought he was free to take what he wanted,' she thought, bitterness rising. "You're right," she said, her voice quiet. "Freedom... it kills."

Thea leaned closer, her voice soft, almost hypnotic. "Have you lost loved ones, Arwyn? People taken before their time?"

Arwyn's throat tightened, Eowyn's face flashing in her mind. "Yes," she whispered.

"In our new world," Thea said, her words wrapping around Arwyn like a warm blanket, "that won't happen. No more loss, no more pain. We'll build a place where families are safe."

Arwyn's eyes shone, her heart swelling. "That sounds wonderful," she said. "I wish I could help, but I'm useless. I only know how to fight. I don't understand politics or any of this."

Thea stood, pulling Arwyn into a hug, her arms gentle but firm. "You're not useless. You're special, Arwyn. These lessons will make you invaluable to our cause. You'll learn, and you'll help us build that world."

Arwyn relaxed into the embrace, a hum escaping her lips as Thea's words sank deep, soothing her doubts. "Alright," she said, nodding. "I'll learn."

Their day unfolded in a whirlwind of lessons. In the study, Thea drilled her on Greek verbs, making her repeat sentences until they flowed naturally. In the ballroom, Thea taught her the steps of a courtly dance, guiding her through spins and bows, Arwyn's feet tripping at first but growing steadier. Etiquette came next, Thea explaining how to address lords, how to sit, how to sip wine without spilling. By afternoon, they moved to history, Thea recounting the city's founding, its emperors, its wars. Singing lessons followed, Thea's voice guiding Arwyn through a simple melody, her rough notes softening under Thea's encouragement. Religion closed the day, Thea explaining the city's faith, its saints and rituals, Arwyn memorizing prayers with surprising ease.

By evening, Arwyn's head ached, but she felt a spark of pride. 'I'm learning,' she thought, sitting at the dining table as servants set out plates of roasted quail, spiced lentils, and honeyed figs. Niketas entered, his purple robes pristine, his dark hair neat. "How did you find your lessons?" he asked, sitting across from her.

"They're difficult," Arwyn said, picking at her quail. "But Thea says I did well."

Thea smiled, seated beside her. "She's a quick learner."

"Very good!" He said with joy etched into his voice.

Niketas then turned to Thea. "For the party next week, ensure the musicians know the new anthem. I want the eastern nobles seated near the fountain, and the wine must be the '75 vintage, nothing less."

Arwyn stared at her plate, her fork moving absently. Niketas noticed, his voice softening. "What's wrong, Arwyn?"

"Nothing," she said, avoiding his gaze.

He leaned forward, insistent. "Tell me."

She hesitated, her fingers tightening around her fork. "I don't want to impose on your hospitality."

Niketas laughed, his eyes crinkling. "Thea's etiquette lessons are working, I see. Speak freely, Arwyn. If it's in my power, I'll grant it."

Arwyn blushed, setting her fork down. "I want my sword back. And a place to train. I know men here have different views on women, but fighting is what I'm good at. I want to improve."

Niketas nodded, his expression thoughtful. "Of course. Who am I to deny someone their passion? I'll return your sword, and I'll introduce you to a friend, a sword master. He's highly skilled and will teach you much."

Arwyn's face lit up, gratitude flooding her. "Thank you, Niketas. Truly. If there's anything I can do for you, please tell me."

He waved a hand, smiling. "Thea tells me you're sympathetic to our cause. My only hope is that you help us build this new world."

Arwyn nodded eagerly. "I'd be happy to. And when we find Geralt, he'll help too."

Niketas's smile tightened, but he nodded. "Indeed. What about your friend Thorfinn? Would he be convinced?"

Arwyn paused, her heart sinking. She thought of Thorfinn's stubbornness, his refusal to see beyond his own path. He was part of the problem. He'd never see eye to eye with her. "No," she said, her voice almost sad. "Thorfinn wouldn't want the world you're building."

Niketas placed his hand on hers, his touch warm. "A shame. But one more ally in the fight for a new dawn is more than enough."

He stood, stretching. "It's been a long day. I'll retire now. Good night."

"Good night," Arwyn said, watching him leave.

Servants cleared the plates, and Thea stood, smoothing her dress. "Would you like to walk, mistress? To settle our meal?"

Arwyn nodded, standing. "Yes, let's."

They moved through the manor's halls, before exiting the manor and walking into the lush gardens that surrounded the manor. In the gardens, the air was cool, scented with jasmine and roses, the paths lined with marble statues. Thea spoke as they walked, her voice steady. "Social politics is crucial, Arwyn. You'll need to charm noble ladies, form alliances. Compliment their dresses, ask about their families, but never overstep. A wrong word can ruin a connection."

Arwyn listened, her mind half on Thea's words, half on the beauty around her. They passed a stone staircase descending to a heavy metal door, its surface etched with strange symbols. "What's down there?" Arwyn asked, pausing.

Thea's smile faltered, her tone firm. "Never go there. It's Niketas's private workshop. Only he and those he permits may enter."

Arwyn opened her mouth to ask why, but something in Thea's eyes stopped her. She nodded, and they continued, reaching a balcony overlooking the city. Constantinople stretched below, its lights twinkling, its domes silhouetted against the night sky. Thea leaned on the railing, her voice soft. "This city is sick, Arwyn. Diseased. People don't see how broken it is, how much it needs a guiding hand."

Arwyn frowned, glancing at her. "Guiding hand?"

Thea's eyes gleamed. "Niketas and his allies will heal it. We'll end crime, poverty, death. And we won't stop here. The whole world will be better—safe, just, whole."

Arwyn's heart raced, the vision igniting something within her. "That sounds wonderful," she said, her voice fervent. 'A world where Eowyn would have still be alive,' she thought, her chest tightening. "I want to help make that happen."

Thea smiled, her hand resting on Arwyn's arm. "You will, mistress. Together, we'll change everything."

...

The week passed in a blur of lessons, each day blending into the next as Arwyn adapted to her new routine in Niketas's manor. She woke each morning to Thea's gentle knock, the soft light filtering through the silk curtains of her room. Thea dressed her in flowing dresses—emerald one day, sapphire the next—tying the laces and braiding her blonde hair with silver or pearl pins. Breakfast was a quiet affair in the small dining room, where Arwyn ate flatbreads, cheeses, and fruits while Thea outlined the day's schedule. Niketas was often absent, attending to his business, leaving Arwyn and Thea to their studies.

The lessons began with Greek, held in the study lined with shelves of scrolls and books. Thea sat across from Arwyn at a wooden table, writing words on a wax tablet. Arwyn practiced phrases—ordering food, asking directions, complimenting a host—repeating them until her tongue stopped tripping over the sounds. Thea corrected her pronunciation, making her repeat "thank you" and "please" until they were smooth. By midweek, Arwyn could hold a basic conversation, greeting servants in Greek and asking for water without hesitation. Thea then introduced reading, starting with the Greek alphabet. Arwyn traced the letters on parchment, by the week's end, she could sound out simple words like "bread" and "house," her eyes lighting up as the symbols became meaningful.

Etiquette lessons followed, conducted in a spacious hall with tall windows overlooking the gardens. Thea taught her how to sit at a banquet, keeping her back straight, her hands folded, and how to eat without making noise. Arwyn practiced sipping wine from a goblet, holding it by the stem, and learned to nod politely during dull conversations. Thea role-played as a noble, making Arwyn respond to compliments and deflect insults with grace. At first, Arwyn fumbled, laughing when she spilled wine or forgot a phrase, but Thea's patience kept her focused, and soon she could navigate a mock dinner without error.

Dancing came next, held in the ballroom with its polished marble floor. Thea hummed melodies, teaching Arwyn the steps of a courtly dance. Arwyn moved awkwardly, her feet tangling in the spins, but her strength and speed helped her recover quickly. Thea guided her hands, showing her how to step and turn in sync with an imaginary partner. By Friday, Arwyn could complete a full dance, though she still muttered curses when she missed a step.

History and religion lessons filled the afternoons. In the study, Thea recounted the city's past—its founding by Constantine, its wars with invaders, its rise as a trade hub. Arwyn took notes, her handwriting shaky but improving as she learned to read and write. Thea explained the city's faith, teaching her prayers to saints and the rituals of the church. Singing lessons were the hardest. Thea took her to a small music room with a lyre and taught her a simple hymn. Arwyn's voice was rough, unused to melody, but Thea coached her to soften her tone, to breathe from her chest. By the week's end, Arwyn could sing the hymn without faltering, though she blushed at the sound of her own voice.

On Wednesday, Niketas introduced her to her sword master, a man named Lysandros, in the manor's courtyard. He was tall, with a lean build, short black hair, and a neatly trimmed beard, dressed in a tunic and leather bracers. A longsword hung at his hip, its hilt worn from use. Arwyn's sword, returned from Niketas's armory, felt familiar in her hand, its weight grounding her. Lysandros watched her stance, nodding. "Show me what you can do," he said, drawing his blade.

Arwyn attacked, swinging her sword in wide arcs, aiming for his chest. Lysandros parried easily, stepping aside. She lunged again, faster, her blade whistling, but he deflected, his sword barely moving. They sparred for ten minutes, Arwyn's strikes powerful but predictable, her feet stomping the ground. Lysandros stepped back, sheathing his blade. "You're fast and strong," he said, wiping sweat from his brow. "But your style is crude, brutish. You swing like you're chopping wood, not fighting."

Arwyn frowned, gripping her sword tighter. "It's worked before."

Lysandros shook his head. "Against untrained foes, maybe. A skilled opponent will exploit your openings. You need finesse, control."

He began training her immediately, starting with footwork. He marked spots on the courtyard stones, making her step between them, keeping her balance light. Arwyn moved quickly, her enhanced stamina letting her drill for hours without tiring, but her steps were heavy, her Viking training clashing with Lysandros's fluid style. He corrected her, tapping her legs with a stick when she overstepped, teaching her to glide rather than stomp. By the second session, her footwork was smoother, her body lower, her strikes more controlled.

Lysandros taught her new strikes—quick thrusts to the chest, angled cuts to the arms—emphasizing precision over power. Arwyn practiced against a wooden dummy, her blade hitting marked spots, splinters flying as she adjusted her grip. She sparred with Lysandros daily, learning to read his feints, to parry without overcommitting. Her speed gave her an edge, letting her dodge his strikes, but he exploited her aggression, disarming her twice with a flick of his wrist. "Patience," he said each time, tossing her sword back. By Saturday, she landed her first hit, and he grinned, nodding approval.

Thea took Arwyn into the city most days, showing her its wonders. On Tuesday, they walked through the bustling Forum of Constantine, its marble columns towering over stalls selling spices, silks, and jewelry. Thea pointed out landmarks—the great statue of the emperor, the Senate house—explaining their history as Arwyn practiced reading shop signs. They visited a bakery, where Thea introduced her to Helena, a plump woman with flour-dusted hands. Helena offered them honeyed pastries, chatting in Greek, and Arwyn responded haltingly, earning a warm smile. Helena's daughter, Chloe, a girl of sixteen with bright eyes, joined them, asking Arwyn about her homeland. Arwyn described Northumbri, keeping her pain private, and Chloe listened, fascinated, promising to show her the harbor someday.

On Thursday, Thea took her to the Great Library, a vast building with arched ceilings and shelves stretching to the roof. Scribes worked at tables, copying texts, while scholars debated in hushed tones. Thea introduced Arwyn to Demetrios, a wiry librarian with ink-stained fingers. He showed them illuminated manuscripts, their pages glowing with gold and red. Arwyn traced the letters, reading a line about a saint's life, her confidence growing. Demetrios gifted her a small book of prayers, urging her to practice, and Arwyn thanked him in Greek.

They lunched at a tavern near the library, sitting at an outdoor table under a vine-covered awning. The server, a broad man named Petros, brought them grilled fish, olives, and wine. Thea taught Arwyn how to order in Greek, and she practiced, asking for more bread, her accent improving. Petros teased her gently, mimicking her pronunciation, but clapped when she got it right. A musician in the tavern, an older woman named Zoe with a lyre, played nearby, and Thea encouraged Arwyn to sing along to a simple tune. Arwyn hesitated but joined in, her voice blending with Zoe's, earning applause from nearby patrons. She blushed but smiled, feeling a spark of belonging.

After a while Thea and Arwyn left the tavern, stepping onto the bustling street, the evening sun casting long shadows across the cobblestones. The air carried the scent of salt from the nearby Bosphorus, mixed with the aroma of roasting meat from vendors. Thea pulled her hood up, keeping to the shaded side of the street, her pale green dress swaying as she walked. Arwyn followed, her blue silk dress catching the breeze, her braid bouncing with each step. The city hummed around them—merchants haggling, carts rattling, children laughing as they chased a stray dog.

"How was today?" Thea asked, glancing at her, her face half-hidden by the hood.

Arwyn grinned, her steps light. "It was amazing. The library was huge, and Demetrios was so kind, giving me that book. And the tavern—Petros was funny, and singing with Zoe felt... good. I didn't know I could do that."

Thea smiled, her lips curving softly. "You're learning quickly, mistress. Did you enjoy the food?"

"You should've tried it," Arwyn said, turning to her. "The fish was perfect, and the olives had this spice I've never tasted. Really good."

Thea shook her head, her voice gentle. "I wasn't hungry. But I'm glad you enjoyed it."

Arwyn nodded, but her mind lingered on Thea's words. 'Not hungry?' she thought, her brow furrowing slightly as they walked. Over the past week, she'd noticed things about Thea that didn't quite add up. Thea never ate during their meals together, always sipping wine or picking at bread without taking a bite. At breakfast, she'd pour tea but leave it untouched, her hands wrapped around the cup as if for warmth. During their trips to the city, Thea avoided direct walking in the light, sticking to shadows or wearing her hood even on warm days. Arwyn remembered brushing Thea's hand once, when she adjusted her dress, and feeling a chill, like touching a stone left in the shade. 'Maybe she's just delicate,' Arwyn thought, trying to dismiss it. 'Or sick?'. The inconsistencies nagged at her, a puzzle she couldn't solve, but she pushed the thoughts aside, focusing on the city around her.

They passed a market square, where a juggler tossed flaming torches, drawing cheers from a crowd. Arwyn paused, watching, but Thea touched her arm, urging her forward. "We should return," Thea said, her voicefirm. Arwyn nodded, following her through narrower streets, the noise of the market fading. The manor came into view. They entered through the main gate, the courtyard quiet, servants tending to rosebushes or carrying trays of linens.

Inside, Niketas waited in the entrance hall, he stood near a marble statue of a lion, reviewing a scroll, but looked up as they approached, his face breaking into a warm smile. "Back from the city," he said, setting the scroll on a table. "How was your trip?"

Arwyn smiled, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "I enjoyed it. The library was incredible, and I met some people at a tavern. I even sang with a musician."

Niketas raised an eyebrow, amused. "Singing already? Thea's lessons are working wonders."

Thea inclined her head, her hood still up. "She's a natural, my lord."

Niketas gestured for them to follow him into the sitting room, a spacious chamber with silk cushions and a low table set with a pitcher of wine. He sat, pouring three goblets, and handed one to Arwyn. "I have good news," he said, his voice carrying a note of pride. "Lysandros has been very impressed with your progress in sword training. He says you're fast, with potential to be exceptional. I've arranged for more teachers to join him, to hone your martial skills further. A dagger master and an archer, both highly skilled."

Arwyn's eyes widened, her goblet pausing halfway to her lips. The weight of his generosity hit her, a mix of gratitude and overwhelm. "More teachers?" she said, setting the goblet down. "Niketas, I... thank you. Thank you so much. I don't know what to say. You've already done more than I could ever repay, giving me a place here, lessons, helping me find my friend, and now this. I'll train hard, I promise. I won't let you down."

Niketas waved a hand, his smile kind. "Your dedication is thanks enough. Keep learning, Arwyn, and you'll play a vital role in our cause. That's all I ask."

Arwyn nodded, her throat tight, her hands clasped in her lap. "I will. I want to help, however I can."

Thea placed a hand on her shoulder, her touch cool even through the silk. "You're already helping, mistress, by embracing this path."

Niketas stood, smoothing his robes. "I have matters to attend to, but we'll speak more at dinner. Rest, Arwyn. You've earned it."

He left, his footsteps echoing down the hall, and Thea guided Arwyn to her room. Arwyn sat at the vanity, staring at her reflection, the woman in the mirror both familiar and strange. Thea began unpinning her braid, her fingers deft, and Arwyn watched her in the glass, her mind drifting back to the oddities she'd noticed. 'She's always so composed,' she thought, 'but there's something... off.' The cold hands, the untouched food, the way she avoided the sun—it was like Thea existed just outside the normal rhythm of life. Arwyn opened her mouth to ask, then closed it, unsure how to phrase the question without sounding foolish. 'Maybe it's just the city,' she reasoned. 'Everything's different here.'

'Perhaps high born ladies do this to maintain their beauty, to not be burned by the sun or to not gain too much fat from food?' She reasoned.

Thea finished, stepping back. "I'll leave you to rest, mistress. We'll resume lessons tomorrow."

"Thank you, Thea," Arwyn said, managing a smile.

Thea inclined her head and left, the door closing softly. Arwyn lay on the bed, the silk sheets cool against her skin, and stared at the ceiling, its gold patterns glinting in the fading light. The day's events swirled in her mind—the library's vast shelves, Petros's laughter, Zoe's lyre, the promise of new teachers. She felt a spark of purpose, a sense that she was building something new, something bigger than herself. Niketas's vision of a world without pain, without loss, burned bright in her thoughts, pushing back the shadows of Northumbria, of the loss of her family. 'I'm not just a warrior anymore,' she thought, her eyes drifting shut.

Yet despite all that a small part of her wished that Thorfinn could be here with her.

___________________________

Thorfinn stood on a flat rooftop, his arms crossed, his hood casting a shadow over his face. He leaned against a low wall, his boots scuffing the weathered stone, and watched the streets, where merchants closed stalls and guards patrolled in pairs. He waited, his jaw tight, his patience thinning as minutes dragged on. Sophia was late, and the delay grated on him. A soft thud broke his thoughts. Sophia flipped over the wall, landing in a crouch in front of him, her dark robes settling around her. She straightened, brushing her hands, her hazel eyes glinting with mischief. "You're late," Thorfinn said, his voice flat.

She grinned, tossing her hair. "Needed my beauty sleep."

Thorfinn didn't reply, his lips pressing into a thin line. 'This is a waste of time,' he thought, his mind churning with frustration. The past week had been endless lessons in climbing, jumping, and balancing across buildings, skills he didn't understand. How would leaping rooftops help him kill Dahlia? It made no sense, but Geralt and the masters insisted he master movement before learning anything else. He'd stumbled through the training, his body strong but unaccustomed to the precision Sophia demanded. He did it anyway, grudgingly, knowing Malik and Cassian wouldn't teach him until he satisfied her.

"Ready?" Sophia asked, adjusting her gloves.

Thorfinn nodded, shifting his weight. "Let's get this over with."

Sophia led him to the roof's edge, pointing to a series of ledges and beams across the street. "Follow my path," she said, then sprinted, leaping to a lower roof, her body twisting to grab a protruding beam. She swung, landing on a narrow ledge, then climbed a wall, her fingers finding holds in the cracked stone. Thorfinn followed, his movements heavier. He jumped, landing on the roof with a thud, his boots slipping slightly. He grabbed the beam, his grip tight, and swung, but his legs hit the wall, slowing him. He climbed, his hands scraping the stone, and reached the ledge, panting.

"Not bad," Sophia said, waiting above. "But you're stomping like a bull. Keep your weight forward."

Thorfinn grunted, following her to the next roof. They ran, Sophia leaping gaps with ease, her body light, the wind seeming to lift her. Thorfinn jumped, clearing a narrow alley, but landed hard, his knees bending too much. He climbed a tiled roof, slipping on loose tiles, catching himself before he fell. Sophia watched, calling out corrections. "Bend your knees more when you land. Use your arms to balance."

He tried again, jumping to a balcony, grabbing the railing, and pulling himself up. His landing was better, his feet quieter, but he still felt clumsy compared to Sophia. They continued, traversing rooftops, scaling walls, swinging from ropes strung between buildings. Thorfinn's muscles burned, but his stamina held, and by the third circuit, he made fewer mistakes, his jumps more controlled, his landings softer. As they ran, Sophia spoke, her voice carrying over the wind. "We've been doing this a week, and you barely talk. Don't you get bored of silence?"

Thorfinn leapt to a flat roof, keeping pace. "Haven't got much to say."

She vaulted over a chimney, landing beside him. "You've got an entire life to pull from. To know someone, you need their history. It's what makes you who you are."

Thorfinn climbed a wall, his fingers digging into cracks. "My people don't look back. We only remember those who did great things, through songs and stories."

Sophia swung from a rope, landing on a higher ledge. "And you, Thorfinn? Haven't you done great things?"

He jumped, grabbing the ledge, pulling himself up. "Not enough."

She tilted her head, studying him, then shrugged. "Fine. If you won't talk about your past, I'll tell you mine." She sprinted to the next roof, her voice steady as she spoke. "I grew up in Constantinople, in a slum by the docks. My mother was a weaver, my father... well as you know he was the God Enlil, but the man I was raised to believe was my father left when I was young. The streets were a brutal place... thieves cut throats for a loaf of bread, and slavers snatched kids who strayed too far. I saw a boy, no older than ten, gutted for stealing fish and no one stopped to help. I learned to run, to hide, to fight with a knife I stole."

Thorfinn followed, his boots thudding as he landed. Sophia continued, her tone darkening. "When I was thirteen, a gang cornered me in an alley. Three men, stinking of wine, wanting more than coin. I fought, stabbed one in the thigh, but they were stronger. An assassin saved me—dropped from a roof, slit their throats before they could scream. He took me to the Brotherhood, trained me. I swore I'd never be helpless again."

Thorfinn didn't respond, his face unreadable, but her words lingered, some of her story cutting through his annoyance. They traversed more roofs, Sophia offering advice. "You're tall, muscular. You need to compensate—shift your weight lower, use your strength to control your momentum."

Thorfinn listened, adjusting his stance. He climbed a wall, his hands steadier, and jumped to a lower roof, landing without slipping. He swung from a beam, his grip firm, but misjudged the final jump, landing awkwardly on the ground, his ankle twisting. He stumbled, cursing under his breath.

Sophia landed beside him, clutching her belly as she laughed. "By the gods, that was a mess!" She patted his back, grinning. "You'll get it next time."

Thorfinn grunted, standing and brushing dirt from his tunic. "Enough for today?"

Sophia nodded, still chuckling. "Let's head back."

They scaled a building, Thorfinn moving slower, his hands finding holds but lacking her fluidity. Sophia leapt ahead, her body twisting through the air, the wind lifting her. As they ran across a high roof, they froze, spotting a scene below. In a narrow street, six guards in dark armor surrounded a group of peasants—three men, two women, and a teenage girl—forced to their knees. The guards held swords, one barking questions, his voice sharp. "Any of you untouched? Speak, or we'll find out ourselves."

Thorfinn crouched behind a chimney, whispering, "What are they doing?"

Sophia's eyes narrowed, her voice low. "Restocking the food supply."

"Food supply?" Thorfinn said, frowning.

She nodded, keeping her gaze on the guards. "Certain vampires are picky about blood. They'll only drink from specific types—virgins, in this case. Can't stomach anything else."

Thorfinn's jaw tightened. "We should leave before they spot us."

Sophia shook her head, her voice firm. "We help them. The Brotherhood exists to protect people like these."

Thorfinn exhaled, annoyance flaring, but he nodded. "I'll distract them."

He circled around, leaping from roof to roof, his hood up, analyzing the scene. Over half a dozen guards, armed with swords and daggers, spread in a loose circle. He could take them, but he needed to ensure none escaped. He jumped to a rope, sliding down, landing in the street with a thud. The guards turned, shouting, "Who are you? Take off the hood! Stand back!"

Thorfinn walked forward, his massive frame looming, his sword sheathed but his presence intimidating, most of the guards were a full head and shoulders shorter than himself. Two guards hesitated, stepping back, but the captain, a stocky man with a scarred face, drew his sword, charging. He swung at Thorfinn's chest. Thorfinn grabbed his arm, twisting until the bone snapped with a crack, then seized his throat, lifting him off the ground. He raised the captain overhead with both hands and threw him into a wall, the man's body hitting with a crunch, collapsing in a heap.

The remaining guards attacked, swords raised. One thrust at Thorfinn's side, but he sidestepped, drawing his sword and slashing across the guard's chest, cutting through armor and flesh, blood spraying. Another swung at his head, and Thorfinn ducked, grabbing the guard's wrist, yanking him forward, and headbutting him, shattering his nose. The guard staggered, and Thorfinn kicked his knee, snapping it backward, then drove his sword through his stomach, twisting the blade, blood pooling on the ground.

Sophia dropped from a roof, rolling over a guard's back, her hidden blade thrusting into his throat, blood gushing as he fell. She spun, throwing a knife that lodged in another guard's forehead, his body crumpling. Thorfinn faced the last two, who circled him, swords trembling. He roared, charging, swinging his sword in a wide arc, slicing through one's arm, severing it at the elbow, the man screaming as blood spurted. Thorfinn punched the other in the chest, ribs cracking, then grabbed his head, slamming it into the wall, the skull splitting with a wet thud.

The fight ended, bodies strewn across the street, blood soaking the cobblestones. The peasants had fled, Sophia untying them during the chaos. She sheathed her blade, shaking her head. "You could be subtler, you know."

"It worked," Thorfinn said, wiping his sword on a guard's cloak.

"That's not the point, you brute," she said, slapping his chest. "You're loud, more elephant than assassin."

Thorfinn paused, looking down at her, her grin infectious despite his mood. "Let's go."

Sophia rolled her eyes but nodded, and they scaled a building, Thorfinn following her path, his movements steadier but still lagging behind her grace. They traversed rooftops, the city's lights flickering below, and reached the bell tower, slipping through a window into the headquarters. In the main hall, Sophia turned to him. "Want to eat with me?"

Thorfinn shook his head, his voice gruff. "I'm heading to my room."

He left, climbing the spiral stairs, leaving Sophia in the hall. Hassan and Bilal, lounging near a table, smirked. "In love with the Northman, Sophia?" Hassan teased, biting an apple.

Sophia's eyes narrowed, and she threw a knife, the blade pinning the apple to the wall behind him, inches from his hand. "Did you say something?" she asked, her voice sweet but dangerous.

Hassan paled, raising his hands. "No, no, not me!"

Bilal laughed, backing away. "Never, Sophia, swear it!"

"I thought as much," she said, retrieving her knife and heading to the table, where other assassins ate bread and stew, their laughter filling the hall.

...

Thorfinn reached his chamber, the small room dim, the stone walls cold. He lay on the cot, closing his eyes, exhaustion pulling him under. Hours later, a sharp knock woke him. Geralt stood in the doorway, his white hair stark in the torchlight, his golden eyes serious. "Get your stuff. We're going on a hunt."

Thorfinn sat up, grabbing his sword and cloak. "What are we hunting?"

Geralt led him out, moving silently through the tower's corridors. "A ghoul. One's been sniffing around our territory, likely trying to find us."

They slipped onto the rooftops, the city quiet under a crescent moon. Thorfinn followed, his boots soft on the tiles. "Killing it will signal we're here," he said, keeping pace.

Geralt nodded, leaping to a lower roof. "Which is why we'll drop the body elsewhere, far from the tower."

Thorfinn and Geralt moved silently across the rooftops, the city's quiet hum broken only by the occasional clatter of a distant cart or the bark of a stray dog. The crescent moon hung low, casting faint light over the uneven tiles. Geralt led, his black cloak blending with the shadows, his steps precise from years of hunting. Thorfinn followed, his hood up, his sword sheathed at his hip, his muscles tense with anticipation. They descended to a narrow street, its cobblestones slick with evening dew, and slipped into an abandoned warehouse district, where crumbling brick buildings loomed like silent sentinels.

Geralt stopped near a derelict structure, its windows shattered, its wooden door hanging off rusted hinges. He crouched, opening a leather pouch, and pulled out coils of thin silver wire, glinting faintly. "We're setting traps," he said, his voice low. "Ghouls are fast, strong, and tough. We need to slow them down."

Thorfinn nodded, kneeling beside him, watching as Geralt strung the wire across the street, securing it to iron hooks embedded in the walls. The wire was nearly invisible, stretched taut at ankle height. "Step over these," Geralt said, pointing. "They'll wrap around the ghoul's legs, bind it."

Thorfinn helped, tying the wire to a hook, his fingers careful not to snap the delicate strands. Geralt scattered silver caltrops across the ground, their spiked points gleaming, designed to pierce boots and slow pursuit. He then drew a small vial of white chalk from his belt and began sketching a magic circle on the cobblestones, its runes glowing faintly as he whispered an incantation. "This will weaken it," Geralt said, finishing the circle. "Stay out of it unless you want to feel it too."

Thorfinn watched, memorizing the runes, his mind sharp. Geralt pulled a small bomb from his pouch, its surface etched with alchemical symbols. "Silver shrapnel," he said, placing it near the circle, rigging it to a tripwire. "It'll explode when the ghoul crosses."

They moved to a nearby alley, setting a second trap—a net woven with silver threads, hidden in a pile of crates, rigged to a pulley system. Geralt showed Thorfinn how to trigger it, pulling a rope to drop the net. "If it dodges the wires, this'll catch it," he said.

As they worked, Geralt glanced at Thorfinn. "How's your divine power coming along?"

Thorfinn tied a knot, his jaw tightening. "Not well. It's hard to control. Comes when I'm angry, but I can't call it on purpose."

Geralt nodded, setting another caltrop. "Try using it tonight. Focus it through your sword. Let it flow, like water through a channel. It'll be stronger, more precise."

Thorfinn frowned, standing. "I'll try."

They hid behind a stack of barrels, watching the street. Thorfinn drew his sword, its blade still stained with Harkon's blood, and gripped the hilt, closing his eyes. He reached for the warmth of Baldr's light, the divine essence within. His palm tingled, but the power fizzled, no glow appearing. He tried again, his brow furrowing, but the runes on his sword remained dark. "It's not working," he muttered.

"Concentrate," Geralt said, his voice calm. "Feel it in your blood, not your head."

Thorfinn exhaled, focusing on his heartbeat, on the strength in his arms. He gripped the sword tighter, willing the light to come. A faint warmth spread, and the runes flickered, glowing softly, the blade humming. Thorfinn's body felt stronger, his muscles lighter, as if he could swing forever. "Got it," he said, his voice steadier.

Geralt nodded, his eyes scanning the street. "Good. Keep it ready."

Footsteps echoed, and four figures appeared—three guards in dark armor, swords at their hips, and a slim man in a fine tunic, his movements unnaturally quick. The ghoul. His eyes glinted, scanning the shadows, his skin pale but human-like. The guards fanned out, hands on their hilts.

Geralt signaled, and Thorfinn stayed low, watching. The ghoul stepped forward, nearing the silver wires. He paused, sniffing the air, but didn't see the trap. He moved, and his foot caught the wire, triggering it. The silver strands snapped tight, wrapping around his legs, cutting into his flesh. He hissed, falling, and the tripwire bomb detonated, silver shrapnel tearing into his side, blood spraying. The guards shouted, drawing swords, but stepped on caltrops, yelping as spikes pierced their boots.

Geralt sprang from cover, his silver sword flashing. He cast Aard, a telekinetic blast, knocking a guard into a wall, bones crunching. Thorfinn charged, his glowing sword raised, and swung at a guard, slicing through his armor, cutting from shoulder to hip, blood gushing. The guard collapsed, and Thorfinn spun, blocking a second guard's thrust, then kicked his chest, sending him sprawling onto caltrops, screams echoing as spikes dug deeper.

The ghoul tore free of the wires, his wounds healing, and lunged at Geralt, claws extended. Geralt dodged, rolling, and tossed a bomb, its explosion coating the ghoul in burning oil, flames licking his skin. He shrieked but charged, unfazed. Geralt cast Quen, a protective shield shimmering around him, and parried the ghoul's claws, his sword cutting a gash across its chest, black blood oozing.

Thorfinn finished the second guard, driving his sword through his throat, blood spurting, then turned to the third, who swung wildly. Thorfinn sidestepped, grabbed his arm, and snapped it, the bone cracking, then headbutted him, shattering his jaw, teeth scattering. He plunged his sword into the guard's chest, twisting, and yanked it free, blood pooling.

The ghoul knocked Geralt back, its strength immense, and leapt, claws aimed at his throat. Thorfinn cast Igni, flames bursting from his hand, hitting the ghoul's back, burning its tunic. It turned, roaring, and charged him. Thorfinn swung, his glowing sword cutting its arm, the light searing the wound, slowing its healing. The ghoul grabbed his arm, its grip crushing, and threw him into a crate, wood splintering.

Geralt recovered, casting Yrden, a purple trap glowing on the ground, slowing the ghoul's movements. He slashed, his sword carving deep gashes, blood spraying, but the ghoul broke free, tackling him. Thorfinn stood, gripping his sword, and tried the Leviathan's power, the air thrumming as he prepared to strike.

"No!" Geralt shouted, dodging a claw. "Too loud, it'll draw attention!"

Thorfinn growled, switching tactics. He raised his hand, eyes flashing gold, and shouted, "Forþweorpan!" A telekinetic force hit the ghoul, lifting it off Geralt and slamming it into a wall, bricks cracking. The ghoul staggered, and Thorfinn cast, "Fýr!" Fire erupted from his palm, engulfing the ghoul's legs, flames spreading. It screamed, charging through the fire, and Thorfinn shouted, "Sweþrian!" A force blast knocked it back, its body crashing into the magic circle, runes flaring, weakening it.

Geralt leapt, his sword piercing the ghoul's chest, pinning it to the ground. He twisted the blade, black blood gushing, and slashed its throat, nearly decapitating it. The ghoul twitched, then stilled, its eyes dull. Thorfinn panted, his sword still glowing, his body buzzing with Baldr's light.

Before they could relax, a second ghoul appeared, bursting from a side alley, smaller but faster, its eyes wild. It hadn't been part of the plan—Geralt cursed, drawing a dagger. The ghoul tackled Thorfinn, its claws raking his arm, blood welling. Thorfinn roared, grabbing its neck, and threw it off, his strength amplified by the divine power. It landed on caltrops, shrieking, but sprang up, charging Geralt.

Geralt cast Aard, knocking it back, and threw a bomb, silver shrapnel tearing its side, blood spraying. He moved like a whirlwind, his silver sword slashing, cutting gashes across its chest and arms, black blood splattering. The ghoul was relentless, dodging a thrust and clawing Geralt's shoulder, tearing his cloak. Geralt grunted, casting Quen, the shield absorbing a second strike, and countered, his sword slicing its thigh, slowing it.

Thorfinn joined, his glowing sword swinging, cutting the ghoul's back, the light burning its flesh. It turned, grabbing his sword arm, its strength crushing, but Thorfinn headbutted it, breaking its nose, blood streaming. He cast, "Forþweorpan!" lifting the ghoul and slamming it into the ground, cobblestones cracking. It rose, undeterred, and lunged, tackling him. Thorfinn hit the ground hard, the ghoul's claws digging into his chest, blood seeping.

Geralt threw a dagger, hitting the ghoul's neck, and cast Yrden, trapping it in glowing runes. Thorfinn rolled free, shouting, "Fýr!" Fire hit the ghoul's face, burning its eyes, blinding it. He tackled it, pinning its arms, his weight holding it down, but it thrashed, throwing him off, his body skidding across the street.

Geralt seized the moment, leaping onto the ghoul, his sword plunging into its heart, twisting, blood gushing. He slashed its throat, severing arteries, and stabbed again, ensuring it was dead. The ghoul collapsed, its body limp, black blood pooling.

Thorfinn stood, panting heavily, his chest heaving, blood dripping from his arm and chest. Geralt wiped his sword, breathing hard, his shoulder bleeding but his stance steady. They leaned against a wall, catching their breath, the street silent except for the drip of blood on stone. "You did well," Geralt said, sheathing his sword. Geralt clapped his shoulder, gesturing to the bodies. "Help me move them. We'll dump them in the river, not far from here."

They dragged the ghouls and guards to a nearby canal, its water dark and sluggish. Thorfinn tied stones to the bodies, ensuring they'd sink, and they pushed them in, the water swallowing them with barely a ripple. They moved to a different district, sticking to alleys, avoiding patrols, their cloaks hiding the bloodstains. Thorfinn's wounds ached, but the divine power lingered, easing the pain, his body feeling lighter, stronger, as if Baldr's light fueled him. He wiped sweat from his brow, his sword still faintly glowing. "I need to get stronger, Geralt. I can't be weak again. Never." He met Geralt's eyes, his voice steady. "I trust you Geralt, despite our differences I do trust you… so tell me is this the way? These lessons, the assassins?"

Geralt nodded, his expression serious. "It is. They'll make you sharper, faster, deadlier. When you are finished here you will become a weapon that cannot be broken, not even by Dahlia."

Thorfinn exhaled, gripping his sword. "Then I'll give it my all."

(AN: I’m gonna pause it right here for now. After 20,000 words it all gets a bit weird, but yeah don’t worry things aren’t pausing here. I’m gonna continue it till it’s done. Hope you enjoyed the chapter.)