1
The bustle of Novigrad did not rest even at sunset. The sooty sky that hung over the city looked, from a distance, less like the smoke of hearths and more like the fumes of burned hopes. Geralt, following the trail of Ciri, once again found himself in the narrow alleys of this cursed city. Amidst the shouts echoing between tall buildings, the laughter of drunkards, and the pleas of beggars, the Witcher walked without making a sound on the cobblestone path. Silence was no longer a habit but a necessity. Most of what he heard were lies, and most of what he saw ended in death.
The trail led him north, toward the harbor, through the twisted paths near the city dungeons. At last, he stood before the notorious building with pink shutters: Passiflora. Allegedly a house of pleasure, but the dealings inside were often more merciless than the axe of an executioner. As Geralt looked at the notice board beside the door, his eyes were drawn to a single piece of parchment. Among the others, it seemed to tremble of its own will, demanding attention. Its edges were damp and frayed, threatening to tear apart. The writing was strangely careful, yet written in haste:
“The night of the blood moon, the forest seemed to breathe. Our girl… vanished that night. We are looking for her. But the one who comes at night… is it still her? We do not know. A Witcher who can help is sought.”
Geralt tore the paper from the board. His fingers caught a faint scent left in the moist parchment. It wasn’t familiar, but it reeked of nature twisted — this was the work of a wraith. He could already feel the pull of his silver sword, like a whisper through his fingertips before he even touched the hilt.
Inside, Passiflora was even more ornate than it appeared outside. Velvet curtains, the mingling of perfume and tobacco smoke, laughter, and the murmur of liquor-laced voices filled the dimly lit space. But none of it meant anything to Geralt. His eyes went straight to her: the woman seated in a red-embroidered chair beside the staircase leading to the upper floor. Her upright posture, the elegant dress that reached her wrists, and the crease on her brow — this must be Marquise Serenity.
He approached. She had seen him the moment he stepped inside and dismissed the girls around her with a small gesture. When their eyes met, Serenity offered a weary smile and bowed her head slightly.
“A Witcher… finally,” she said. “I hope the word was true and that you know what you’re doing.”
Geralt didn’t reply, merely extended the paper. She gestured for him to sit and let out a long sigh.
“I don’t even know how many days it’s been,” she said. “But ever since the girl disappeared, windows have begun to rattle at night. Clients claim they’ve seen a silhouette in the dark corners. And the worst part… one night I heard it too. It was her voice. Singing. But it sounded… cold and hollow.”
Geralt placed the paper on his knee, fixing his gaze on Serenity’s face. “What was her name?”
“Elenora,” she said. “We called her Elly. A quiet girl. Beautiful, but shy. The clients loved her. She made money. That’s why… I don’t want her killed. If she’s still in there… can you bring her back?”
“Wraiths don’t come back,” said Geralt, with no remorse in his voice. “But I’ll see if there’s anything I can do for you. First, I need the details.”
Serenity leaned forward, her elegant dress slipping just enough to expose her full bosom toward Geralt like a deliberate offering. She pulled an old, small parchment from beneath her chair. With a finger, she pointed to a spot — a half-buried cave at the edge of the oak forest outside the city. “She would go there sometimes to meet someone. No one else knew, but I did. She went there the last time. And no one has seen her since.”
Geralt stood. He slipped the paper back into his belt. “I need to prepare my potions,” he said. “And if there’s a way not to kill her, I need to find it. There’s someone I must speak to.”
Serenity escorted him to the door, hesitating for a moment. “If she’s still… inside… please… don’t let her suffer.”
Geralt fixed his eyes on the woman, then turned. Just as he was about to step outside, someone grabbed his arm. One of the women who worked at Passiflora.
“If,” she said, “you bring her back… you can do whatever you want with me for a whole night. No charge.”
As the heavy door of Passiflora closed behind him, the hum of Novigrad reshaped itself around Geralt once more. The sun had fully set, and the sky hung over the city like a sack of black cloth. The flickering light of the street lamps spilled through the gaps between stone walls, multiplying the shadows, while drunken laughter and the moans of brawls echoed like a muffled tune from the windows. Geralt walked without haste; in his mind, the journey had already begun. No matter how fast he moved, understanding a soul twisted by magic required patience, not urgency.
Passing through the narrow streets, he reached the northern gate of the city, where Roach was waiting exactly as he had left her. Her brown coat shimmered even in the dark, ears twitching slowly, and she greeted Geralt with a familiar grunt as she turned her head. Without a word, the Witcher stepped beside the saddle and mounted her in a single fluid motion, born of habit. Roach recognized the weight instantly — she moved gently at first, then veered off the main road toward the western forests at the pressure of Geralt’s knees.
The city lights quickly faded into the distance. The forest that lay ahead began to show its true face with the night. The trees thickened, branches drooped over the path, and the occasional hoot of an owl or the rustle of small animals darting through underbrush could be heard. The air was cool, yet still; as if nature itself was waiting for something. Geralt kept scanning the surroundings without breaking Roach’s rhythm, listening to every rustle. He knew this area well — both the scent of the rotting, mushroom-laced soil beneath his feet, and the silent presence of the one who lived here.
After several hours of travel, a small house came into view, hidden deep within the forest and built from moss-covered stone. There was no fence around it, no sign marking a path. The roof was partially caved in, a thin trail of smoke curled from the chimney, and a faint, yellowish light glowed steadily from its windows. The plants surrounding the house were not random but arranged with a clear purpose, as if each stood guard in deliberate formation. Thorny herbs grew at the doorstep, dried lavender bundles lined the windows, and a stretched, dried snakeskin hung above the door… this was no ordinary house.
Geralt dismounted from Roach. He loosened the girth strap of the saddle and gently stroked the horse’s neck. “Wait here,” he said — his voice low, but enough for Roach. He stepped quietly toward the door. The sounds inside hadn’t changed — familiar sounds. A knife scraping wood, the cutting of herbs, the clinking of glass jars…
He approached the door. He didn’t hesitate. Knocked twice, then a third time after a short pause. Just like he had done years ago.
The sounds from within stopped.
And in the silence of the night, the footsteps of the woman inside the house slowly approached Geralt.
