001 - Prologue, Part One
In a quiet corner of a world haunted by monsters and old magic stood a warm, peaceful little town that might have belonged in a fairy tale.
On a hill near that town stood a small wooden cottage. A well and flower beds sat out front; behind it stretched an herb garden.
That was where Kelpie found the boy and took the hem of his shirt between her teeth.
His name was Marek Radan. He had just turned twelve, a blond, blue-eyed boy of average height and plain enough that most people found him easy to overlook.
When Kelpie tugged at his shirt, he was gathering herbs for a healing tonic.
Marek looked over.
Kelpie was a glossy black mare, powerful but graceful on her feet. Her coat and mane shone with health, and she looked born to run.
Now she was gently tugging at his shirt, urging him to follow.
Marek brushed the dirt from his hands, rose, and let her lead him back to the cottage.
That was when he saw her.
A girl with ash-gray hair lay facedown at his doorstep. A longsword was strapped across her back. Her clothes were torn, and blood streaked her from head to toe.
***
Ciri woke from a nightmare of being hunted.
Something was touching her face.
Her eyes snapped open in panic. She lashed out on instinct, fighting before she understood where she was. Then she saw an ordinary-looking boy standing beside the bed, his blue eyes clear as spring water.
The room around her was full of ordinary, comforting things: a wooden wall clock, a stone hearth, little animal charms hanging from the beams, and white sheets without lace or embroidery.
None of it belonged to the nightmare.
'He's only a child. I'm safe.'
At that thought, something inside her gave way. Strength left her limbs, and she sank back against the bed. Her arm throbbed faintly where a heavy blow had cracked the bone.
The boy placed his small, warm, dry hand on her forehead again, checking for fever. Then he picked up the cup beside the bed and offered her warm water. She drank it in great, unladylike gulps while he watched.
She was young, pale, with large green eyes and finely shaped brows. A jagged scar ran from beneath her left eye across most of her cheek.
Even shaken and wounded, she set her jaw, stubborn as flint.
"I'm Marek Radan," he said. "I live in Bell Town. What's your name?"
She looked into his innocent eyes.
"...Fal... Falka," she said. "My name is Falka."
It was a lie. But this place was strange, and she did not dare give him her real name.
Marek smiled a little.
"And the horse?"
"Kelpie."
He nodded. "Good. You're clear-headed enough to remember her, at least. Eat something, then sleep. We can talk more tomorrow."
He pulled a small wheeled tray over to the bed. On it were crisp bacon, soft brown bread, and a bowl of vegetable soup. Those, at least, she recognized. There were also two fried eggs with yolks far too large to have come from chickens, and several kinds of fruit she could not name.
Then he left the room and closed the door behind him.
She pushed the blanket aside and sat up.
Only then did she realize her upper body was bare beneath the wrappings. Someone had cleaned the blood from her skin and bound her wounds with clean, snug bandages. Her lower half was better covered, though only by a pair of cotton underdrawers.
'Don't think about it. He's still a child.'
Any other questions would have to wait. Hunger came first, and it was not inclined to be patient.
The next day, Ciri discovered that the salve he had used on her wounds was remarkably effective. Her arm still ached where the bone had cracked under a heavy blow, but the pain had eased enough for her to move carefully.
Someone had left clean clothes folded nearby. She dressed, collected herself, and stepped out of the room in far better spirits.
In the main room, Marek stood on a low stool, stirring a cauldron with a long wooden paddle. The cauldron was nearly half as tall as he was, almost large enough for someone to curl up inside and use as a bath.
"Give me a moment," he said without looking away from his work. "I need to finish this batch. If you're hungry, go ahead and eat. There's no one else in the house."
She moved to the dining table. Two places had already been set, and the food looked plentiful.
She sat down, but her thoughts drifted elsewhere.
She was no stranger to alchemy and had some skill of her own. She could not drink witcher potions, but Uncle Vesemir had taught her more than a few blade oil recipes, and she considered herself a decent student.
At Kaer Morhen, Geralt had sometimes stood just like this, stirring a cauldron until the work was done, then bottling potions and elixirs in all manner of strange colors.
When she looked up again, Marek had finished. He sat across from her, motioned for her to eat, and smiled.
"Morning, Falka. You can just call me Marek. And before you ask, I'm twelve, and yes, I'm Bell Town's alchemist."
"Do you live here alone?" Ciri asked. "No one looks after you?"
She had thought he was simply small for his age. She had not expected him to be four full years younger than she was. Children that age rarely lived on their own.
"My grandmother used to live here with me," he said without looking up, his words muffled by a spoonful of soup.
Ciri froze.
"I... I'm sorry," she said quickly. "I didn't mean to pry."
He lifted his head. For a moment, his blue eyes were puzzled. Then understanding dawned, and amusement followed.
"Oh. Sorry. I said that badly." He smiled. "My grandmother is alive and perfectly healthy. Too healthy, if anything. She's only away because she went across the sea with my other grandmother and one of my aunts."
Ciri stared at him.
Her embarrassment dissolved into laughter, and he joined in.
He speared a bite of pancake and ate it.
"Don't worry about it," he said after swallowing. "I chose not to go with them. I can take care of myself. Staying here lets me practice alchemy, and I can help the neighbors."
"They don't worry about leaving you alone?" Her guard loosened by another inch. The bacon was smoky and crisp, cooked just right.
"Honestly? Most of the time, I'm the one looking after them. Their cooking is terrible, and they can turn a clean room into a disaster faster than a pack of drowners."
He paused, then added, "Especially since I started practicing alchemy. Now they leave the routine salves and fortifying tonics to me too."
Once he started, Marek talked freely about the small, ordinary details of village life.
He had taken to her with the easy affection of one child for another.
Ciri found that she liked listening to him.
His stories belonged to a world far removed from blood and fire. There were no demands behind them, no schemes, no coercion. Only neighbors, meals, herbs, family, errands, jokes, and the gentle absurdity of a peaceful town.
Without meaning to, he loosened something knotted tight inside her.
Their laughter filled the cottage.
When she finally offered a story about being a traveler in distress, it was so ridiculous and full of holes that even she found it hard to believe. Marek accepted it anyway. He shared his cottage with her and gave her a place to heal.
The rest of Bell Town welcomed her just as easily. They greeted their new resident with mugs of ale and excellent cake, cheerfully ignoring every suspicious thing about her.
Even sharp-eyed Kelpie was defeated by bribery in the form of sweet feed cakes and carefully chopped hay. Before long, the children nearby were touching her mane and patting her glossy neck whenever they got the chance. They adored the beautiful, powerful mare.
Half a year slipped by.
Before she realized it, Ciri had settled into the warmth of life in the little town. Its peace was unlike anything she had ever known. There was no war here. No plague. Everyone had enough food, decent clothes, and a place in the community. They lived in such gentle harmony that it almost felt unreal.
For Ciri, peace had never lasted.
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