Cast off
The battlefield was drenched in a stillness that only comes after devastation. Kakashi lay there, body heavy, his limbs refusing to obey. His breath rattled with each shallow intake, his blood soaking the earth beneath him. His left eye— the one Obito had given him so many years ago —was closed, hidden beneath his hitai-ate after chakra exhaustion began to creep too far, while his natural eye flickered in and out of focus.
Obito stood over him, silent, his lone red eye burning with an intensity that Kakashi couldn’t quite read. The ground beneath Obito’s feet was cracked from the force of the battle they had just fought, but the world around them remained eerily still. Kakashi could barely lift his head, but he could see enough to know this was it.
He’s going to kill me.
His fingers twitched, the only movement his body allowed. Kakashi knew he didn’t have the strength to fight back. Not anymore. His vision blurred as exhaustion overtook him, but he forced his mind to stay sharp.
I deserve this. For Rin, for everything.
Obito stepped closer, his expression hard, unyielding. Kakashi braced himself for the end. Yet the killing blow never came. Instead, Obito’s voice, low and rough, broke the silence.
“You broke your promise.” The words cut through the quiet, sharp, but not as cruel as Kakashi expected. “But I’m not going to let you die.”
Kakashi blinked, confused.
What?
Obito’s gaze shifted, and there was something dark behind it—something conflicted—like hate and anger warring with old memories. “Madara’s going to destroy this world. Everything. Everyone . But you…” His voice faltered for a brief moment before steadying again. “You’re not dying here.”
Kakashi tried to lift his head, the question on his lips barely audible. “Obito—”
But Obito’s eye had already begun to glow, the familiar, spiraling pattern of his power activating. The air around them rippled, space warping and twisting. Kakashi could feel the pull of the technique, but it felt different this time. It was deeper and more forceful. His heart pounded in his chest.
What is he doing?
“You’re not staying here to die with the rest of us.” Obito’s voice was quieter now, filled with something Kakashi couldn’t place. Regret? Pain? He couldn’t tell. “You’re the last thing left from my past… the only part I didn’t destroy.”
Kakashi’s mind struggled to keep up with what was happening. The ground beneath him began to shift, his body feeling weightless as the pull of Obito’s power intensified. “You… what— wait!”
The spiraling force tore at the space between them, bending reality itself. Obito’s gaze softened, just for a second, and Kakashi saw it—saw the boy who had once stood beside him, smiling with Rin and calling him Bakashi in the way only Obito could. The boy he’d spent a decade mourning.
The world around him ripped open into a swirling void that stretched to swallow him whole. He was falling. No. Plummeting through time and space as he was ripped body and soul from the battlefield and away from the destruction about to unfold.
When Kakashi landed it wasn’t into the cacophonous symphonies of violence and battle, but to silence. His small body dangled amongst the thick branches of an unfamiliar forest, suspended by the rough embrace of the limbs of ancient trees. His eyes remained shut, only one visible beneath his tilted headband. His limbs draped awkwardly among the gnarled limbs of the trees, biting into his bloodstained clothing with rough and toothy bark. Tattered clothing hung loosely on his now smaller frame, pulled unevenly as it caught and pulled. His silver hair tangled in the furrowed bark of the twisted branches surrounding him.
The forest was quiet save for the distant rustle of leaves and the soft, strange calls of unseen creatures. The air here was different. Crisp. Fresher than the battlefield he’d been torn from. Cleaner . His body still weak from the fight lay cradled by the branches. Unable to move.
Above, the sky was shrouded by thick unfamiliar foliage that cast the entire forest in an eerie viridescent glow. Unfamiliar plants twisted and clutched the tree trunks, stretching upwards while their broad waxy leaves blossomed forth like a collection of epiphyte crowns.
It was scene unlike anything Kakashi would have known before.
The wind stirred gently carrying the scent of damp earth and wildflowers. Kakashi remained still. Unconscious and unaware of the new world around him.
The left side of his face twitched slightly, the weight of the Sharingan, Obito’s gift , resting heavily under his forehead protector. His usual mask had slipped down slightly revealing just a glimpse of his sharp fangs. A telltale sign of his Hatake lineage. His small twelve-year-old frame, though young, was marked by the scars of battles far beyond his years.
Where…?
Kakashi’s mind stirred faintly in the depths of unconsciousness. The familiar haze of battle fading as he stirred, something unsettling crepting into his awareness. What happened…?
And yet his body remained still. Too exhausted to move, too drained to even stir from the gentle cradle of the branches.
Time passed slowly in this strange new world. The forest shifted around him. It felt alive with activity. The distant sounds of creatures moving through the underbrush grew louder, accompanied by the occasional low chitter or soft chirping of insects. Every so often the wind breathed lazily through the leaves overhead, but Kakashi still did not awaken.
Unseen beneath the branches, the forest floor stretched far below, covered in a thick blanket of moss and scattered with stones and fallen leaves. Whatever world Kakashi had been cast into, it was far from the destruction Obito had spared him from. Here the dangers were unknown , and he would have to face them eventually. But for now the forest kept its secrets.
Kakashi’s chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. His face remained peaceful in the quiet stillness. Whatever conflict he had left behind, whatever fate awaited his former world would now fade into memory.
Obito had succeeded.
Kakashi lived—though for how long and in what world remained elusive. For now he could only rest, the gentle veil of sleep unpierced by such uncertainties.
The forest was alive with the sounds of dusk—leaves rustling in the wind, birds calling out as they settled in for the night.
Geralt of Rivia scanned the shadows between trees. Navigating their sprawling and entangled roots with a cat-like ease that came from years of practice. Inaudible beneath the soundscape he threaded himself through. He was on contract, and the scent of blood was already thick in the air. He’d taken the villagers' coin. In exchange he was to find the nest of nekkers that were terrorizing their roads and livestock. Reports of dead travelers weighed heavily on the minds of the village residents and word of mouth spread quickly through panicked whispers. Stories of merchants being dragged off from the side of the road, their carts and supplies were left destroyed or otherwise unusable. The stories mentioned monsters that left behind only messes of half-eaten corpses in their wake. Simple enough work for a Witcher, but work nonetheless.
Geralt crouched down to examine traces left behind by his quarry. The tracks weren’t necessarily deep but they were clear. Small, clawed feet with a particular step pattern. The number of prints indicating five, or maybe six, of the creatures. A pack or hunting party most likely. These monsters were small and narrow in size but their prints easily differentiated from classic, less harmful forest dwellers. He touched the earth, feeling the dampness where the blood had soaked into the soil. The near perfect impressions of their long talon-like claws were preserved in the blood-soaked earth during the attack that formed these tracks. A very recent attack, he thought, no more than a day. Garalt brushed his dirt smeared hand on his pants as he reached out with his senses. His mind followed the distinct metallic smell of the blood trail as it painted a detailed picture in his mind’s eye. Tracing the creature’s movements much as a predator tracks wounded prey.
His nostrils flared as he caught the faintest whiff of something unfamiliar. Human? No... Not human, but not quite monster either.
He stood gripping the hilt of his sword as he followed the scent deeper into the forest. His medallion was still. No magic nearby but something was off. There was blood… fresh blood… but it didn't smell like an ordinary traveler's. The closer he got the more the scent twisted into something familiar . Geralt frowned. His senses sharpening as he moved forward. He knew that smell. It was long gone, but unmistakable. Like the boys they used to make in Kaer Morhen. Before the world decided they were better off without Witcher children. The nekkers could wait. This was more pressing.
It didn't take long to find the source.
There . Caught in the branches above was the small bloodied form of a child. Silver hair, tangled by rough bark, matted and stained red with blood. His clothes were torn. His limp body draped like a ragdoll between branches just below the canopy.
Geralt approached slowly, scanning the area for threats. There was no sign of the nekkers nearby. His gaze returned to the child. Furrowing his brow as he took in the sight. The kid was young. Couldn't be more than twelve. His clothes strangely foreign. Unlike anything Geralt had seen before. But it wasn't just the odd clothing or the injuries that caught his attention.
It was the smell.
Geralt's hand tightened around the hilt of his sword. The kid's blood reeked of mutations. Not quite like a Witcher's, but close enough to send alarm bells ringing in his head. He stepped closer, carefully maneuvering to get a better look. The boy's face was pale and streaked with blood. His shallow breathing was nearly imperceptible. Beneath the mess of his hair Geralt noticed the boy wore a cloth over one eye. A headband tied like a makeshift eyepatch. The other eye was shut tight.
"Fuck." Geralt muttered under his breath.
There hadn't been new Witchers since the sacking of Kear Morhen decades ago. The trials were lost. The knowledge died with the few who had known it. Yet this child, this bloodied half-dead boy reeked of something too close to a Witcher to ignore. Geralt scanned the area briefly before turning back to the unconscious child. Too close to leave here he thought.
Geralt moved quickly but gently, cutting the boy free from the branches. He was light. Too light for someone his size. As he lowered him to the ground, Geralt took note of the odd fangs peeking out from the boy's lips. Not human , not fully. What in the hells are you? The boy's face twitched slightly in his unconscious state as if sensing something, but he remained out cold. Geralt's sharp gaze swept over the visible injuries. Bruises, cuts, none of them fresh but some looked deep. The kid had been in a serious fight. Judging by the blood on his clothes and open wounds he hadn't come out of it unscathed.
He knelt beside the boy checking his pulse. It was there. Faint but steady. Whatever the boy was, he would likely survive. Geralt considered leaving and letting the villagers handle him. But the smell. That unmistakable mutated scent-kept gnawing at him. He couldn't leave the kid here, not like this.
Too much like one of us.
With a sigh Geralt shifted the boy into his arms, standing to his full height. He cast one last glance toward the deeper part of the forest. The nekkers would have to wait a little longer.
The kid needed help first.
Geralt adjusted the kid in his arms, being careful not to jostle him too much as he turned back toward the direction of the village. He hadn’t gone more than a few steps when his medallion began to vibrate, the familiar sharp tingles running up his neck. He froze, eyes narrowing as he scanned the surrounding trees. The kid’s blood had traveled farther than he realized.
The telltale sound of clawed feet scraping against damp earth reached his ears. Low guttural growls following close behind. They’d caught the scent.
“Shit.” He muttered, setting the boy down as gently as possible against the base of a tree. The scurrying through the underbrush grew louder, a chaotic rhythm of claws and limbs. Their movements erratic and quick. They were fast, he’d give them that, but they were also stupid. No coordination without a chieftain, just feral instinct .
A shadow flitted between the trees— too quick to get a clear look. Geralt didn’t need to see it. He knew what was coming. He could feel the low hum of the creatures’ intent vibrating through the air.
With a fluid motion he unsheathed his silver sword, the blade catching a faint glimmer of the dying sunlight filtering through the dense canopy. He positioned himself between the unconscious kid and the approaching threats, ready to intercept.
The first nekker lunged from the shadows, mouth wide, jagged teeth dripping, and claws outstretched. Geralt sidestepped with ease, swinging his sword in a clean, lethal arc. The blade sliced through its throat, dark blood spraying across the ground. The nekker twitched violently as it collapsed, clawed hands curling uselessly against the soaked graund before going still.
He barely had a moment to breathe before two more burst from the trees, shrieking, claws scraping as they barreled toward him. Geralt kept his stance steady, eyes calculating the distance with cold precision.
He spun, silver flashing through the air as he brought the sword down in a swift, deadly sweep. The first nekker’s head hit the ground with a wet thud, its body crumpling beside it. The second barely had time to register what happened before Geralt’s boot connected with its chest, sending it flying back into the underbrush with a bone-crunching impact.
For a moment, the creatures hesitated, growling from the shadows but keeping their distance. Geralt could feel their hunger, a gnawing, desperate need for flesh. They’d been drawn from their nest by the scent of blood, but none of them had expected to face a Witcher.
He glanced at the boy for a split second. Still unconscious, breathing shallowly, oblivious to the carnage and out of harm’s way. His medallion pulsed again, a faint but constant hum alerting him to movement from the left. Without hesitation Geralt shifted his stance, sword raised to anticipate the next assault.
A pack of three rushed him this time. Their claws and fangs glinting in the dim light. Geralt let out a quick, focused breath, muttering under his breath as he cast Igni with his free hand. A burst of flame shot forth, crackling as it ignited the creatures and sent them sprawling. Their shrieks filled the air as they staggered back, flailing against the searing pain, crashing into the trees with ferocious yelps.
He was on them before they could recover, plunging his sword into the chest of the nearest nekker. It let out a strangled screech, writhing as its life drained away. The others scrambled to regain their footing, but Geralt moved with brutal efficiency. His blade flashed once, twice, cleaning through flesh and bone. Black blood sprayed across his armor, its iron tang mixing with the damp earthy scent of the forest.
The last nekker made a stumbling attempt to flee, but Geralt was faster, closing the distance in a heartbeat. With a quick leap, he drove his sword down hard, splitting the creature’s spine in a single stroke. It fell forward with a rattling screech. The creature’s last rattling breath escaped its twitching body as it splayed across the forest floor. Life left it quickly.
The forest fell silent again. Save for the soft crackle of dying embers where his Igni had singed the underbrush. Geralt stood still for a moment. Listening. Waiting. His medallion was still again. The threat passed, the sense of danger dissipating with the last fading pulses of his combat instincts.
He wiped the blood from his sword on the back of a dead nekker, its fallen form still under the pressure. Sheathing the sword, he returned to the boy, crouching to check his breathing. The kid hadn’t moved. His chest rose and fell, steady and untroubled, unaware of the blood-soaked struggle that had just unforced around him.
Still alive.
Geralt exhaled through his nose, the brief tension in his muscles easing. “You better be worth the trouble,” he muttered, more to himself than the unconscious boy. With the nekkers taken care of, he hefted the kid back into his arms and stood.
There was still a long way back to the village, and Geralt had more questions than answers about the strange child who smelled and looked like a Witcher but just off from any he’d known.
For now, though, he had a job to finish.
The village came into view as the forest began to thin, the small collection of huts and wooden structures huddled together beneath the darkening sky. Smoke drifted from chimneys, and the distant sound of livestock and villagers going about their evening routine filled the air. Geralt adjusted the boy in his arms, feeling the weight of the walk settle into his legs. It had been a long journey back, especially with the added burden, but the kid had stayed unconscious the entire time, not so much as stirring as Geralt carried him.
He approached the village gate, where a pair of guards stood watch. They glanced up as he neared, eyes widening as they took in the sight of the Witcher covered in blood, a child draped limply in his arms.
“Monster hunter! Is… is he dead?” one of the guards stammered, stepping forward hesitantly.
“No,” Geralt replied curtly, his voice gruff. “But he needs a healer. Where’s the alderman?”
The guards exchanged nervous glances before one of them pointed toward the largest building near the center of the village. “In the hall. Should still be there.”
Geralt nodded and walked past them without another word, heading toward the building with purpose. The villagers gave him a wide berth as he passed, their eyes darting between him and the bloodied child. It wasn’t the first time Geralt had carried a wounded kid into a village, and it likely wouldn’t be the last, but this one had drawn more attention than usual. Something about the boy’s silver hair and strange clothing made him stand out.
The alderman’s hall was dimly lit, a fire crackling in the hearth as Geralt stepped inside. The alderman—a grizzled man with a weathered face and a bushy beard—looked up from a table cluttered with papers and maps. His eyes widened at the sight of the child, but he quickly composed himself.
“Witcher,” the alderman greeted, his voice steady despite his obvious surprise. “You’ve dealt with the nekkers then?”
Geralt nodded, shifting the boy slightly in his arms. “They won’t be bothering your people anymore.”
The alderman stood, looking the kid over with concern. “And the boy?”
“Found him in the forest, tangled in the trees,” Geralt said, keeping his explanation simple. “Injured, but he’ll live. Needs a healer.”
The alderman frowned, but nodded. “We’ve got one who can help, though she’s not used to dealing with… well, kids like him.”
“Just make sure she sees to him.” Geralt said, his voice low.
“I’ll send for her immediately,” the alderman assured him before gesturing toward one of the villagers standing nearby. “Take them to the healer’s place, and let her know she’s got work to do.”
Geralt followed the villager out of the hall, the boy still limp in his arms. As they walked through the narrow, cobbled streets, he felt the boy shift slightly for the first time. His head lolled to the side, one eye cracking open—dark, alert, but unfocused. Geralt glanced down, meeting the kid’s gaze.
“You’re awake.”
The boy didn’t respond, his expression unreadable. His single visible eye—the normal one, not the one covered by the strange headband—blinked slowly as he took in his surroundings. Geralt could feel the tension in the kid’s body, subtle but unmistakable. He wasn’t panicking, wasn’t thrashing or asking questions. Instead, he was quiet— too quiet, considering the state he was in.
“Don’t try anything,” Geralt muttered, his voice low but firm. “You need a healer.”
The boy’s eye slid shut again, his face blank. Geralt frowned slightly. Something about the kid’s silence rubbed him the wrong way. It wasn’t the silence of a confused child, or one too weak to speak. It was the silence of someone choosing not to speak. Deliberate. Calculating.
They arrived at the healer’s home shortly after. A small, humble structure on the edge of the village, smoke curling from the chimney. The villager knocked on the door, and a moment later, it creaked open to reveal an older woman, her hair streaked with gray, her eyes sharp with experience.
“Healer,” Geralt greeted her with a nod. “Got an injured boy for you.”
The healer’s gaze flicked to the kid in his arms, her brow furrowing. “Bring him inside.”
Geralt stepped through the door, laying the boy gently on the small cot near the hearth. The healer knelt beside him, inspecting his wounds with practiced hands. She didn’t ask many questions, simply getting to work, cleaning the blood and checking for signs of deeper injury. As she worked, the boy’s eyes fluttered open again, but this time he didn’t look at Geralt or the healer. He stared straight ahead, his face impassive.
“You’re a quiet one,” the healer remarked softly as she wiped the blood from his face. “Usually kids your age are full of questions.”
The boy’s lips pressed together, but he said nothing.
Geralt crossed his arms, watching from the corner of the room. He could see it now—how the kid was controlling his breathing, keeping his movements to a minimum, observing everything around him without giving anything away. Definitely not normal.
“You’ll be fine here,” the healer assured him, her voice kind but firm. “You’ve had a rough time of it, but rest, and you’ll recover.”
The boy remained silent, his eyes closing again as if willing the world to leave him alone.
Geralt didn’t push. He wasn’t going to get answers tonight. But the questions gnawed at him all the same—who was this kid? What was he doing in the middle of a nekker-infested forest? And why in all the hells did he smell so much like a Witcher? It couldn't be a coincidence.
He’d get answers eventually. He always did. But for now, the kid needed time, and Geralt had learned long ago not to rush someone who wasn’t ready to talk.
Geralt leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his sharp gaze fixed on the boy as the healer continued her work. It wasn’t just the smell of the kid’s blood that had caught his attention, though that alone was enough to stir old memories. It was everything—the quietness, the deliberate control over his body, even in pain. Witcher children were trained to endure, to stay silent when most would scream. The boy reeked of it.
Witcher training. No mistake about it. But where the hell did he come from?
Geralt’s thoughts churned as he watched the kid. There hadn’t been any new Witcher recruits in decades, not since the secrets of the mutagens were lost. Every school—the Wolf, the Cat, the Griffin—had stopped making Witchers. The process had been brutal and dangerous, wiping out more boys than it ever turned into killers. And yet here was this kid, a child who looked no older than twelve, smelling faintly of alchemy and something more, something old.
Which school made you? Geralt’s mind ran through the possibilities. The boy didn’t have any obvious markings, no medallion hanging around his neck to indicate a school of origin. His clothes weren’t typical Witcher garb either. Foreign . Strange.
The kid shifted slightly on the cot, his closed eye twitching under the pressure of what Geralt assumed was a headache or deeper pain. The healer murmured to herself as she stitched a shallow cut on his arm, but the boy didn’t so much as wince.
He’s too damn controlled for a normal child. Has to be one of ours . But that doesn’t make sense. The pieces didn’t fit. A new Witcher, alone in a forest, without the signs or the stories that would come with him. Even if he had been created recently—a thought that made Geralt uneasy—he should have had some traceable connection, some sign of who had trained him.
The boy opened his good eye for a brief moment, his dark gaze flicking to Geralt. It was quick, just a glance, but enough for Geralt to see the sharpness in it. There was more going on behind those eyes than the kid was letting on. More experience. More… life.
“You’re not just any Witcher kid, are you?” Geralt muttered under his breath, low enough that the healer wouldn’t catch it. The boy, as expected, didn’t answer. He barely moved, keeping his breathing slow, his posture relaxed—too relaxed.
Doesn’t trust me yet. The thought was bitter but not surprising. Witcher children, those few who survived, were usually like that—wary, guarded, especially around strangers, even other Witchers. But this boy, he had the presence of someone who’d learned to keep secrets far too young.
The healer finished her work, wiping her hands clean on a rag. “He’s stable now,” she said quietly, standing up and moving to put her supplies away. “No broken bones, just cuts and bruises. He’s lucky, considering where you found him.”
Geralt nodded but didn’t respond. His eyes were still locked on the kid. Luck had nothing to do with it.
The boy slowly sat up, keeping his movements measured, calculated. He glanced down at his bandaged arms, taking in the work the healer had done. There was no sign of gratitude, no relief—just calm assessment, like he was taking inventory of himself. Geralt couldn’t help but be reminded of his own training, the endless lessons in endurance, how they’d been forced to continue fighting even after being half-dead, bleeding into the mud.
“Can you talk?” Geralt asked, his voice neutral but probing. “Or are you just going to keep sitting there, pretending you don’t understand?”
The boy’s eye met his again, this time holding his gaze. Silence stretched between them, thick and tense, before the boy blinked once, slow and deliberate. He didn’t answer, just looked away again.
Keeping quiet, huh? Smart. Won’t give anything away.
Geralt let out a quiet sigh, leaning his weight back against the wall. He wasn’t about to push the kid. Not yet. But the questions continued to gnaw at him. If this boy was from one of the Witcher schools, which one? The Wolves were the most likely, given Geralt’s own background, but he hadn’t heard a damn thing about any new recruits, let alone someone this young. It was possible he’d come from the Cats, but they weren’t making new Witchers anymore either.
The kid reached up slowly, as if testing the strength in his arms, and carefully adjusted the headband covering his left eye. The movement was subtle, almost subconscious, but Geralt caught it. He’d seen head injuries before, seen the way people protected their wounds without thinking. The way he favored that side of his face…
Geralt pushed off the wall and stepped closer, kneeling down to get a better look at the kid’s face. “What’s under that?” he asked, his voice low. “That thing covering your eye.”
The boy tensed ever so slightly but still didn’t respond. His fingers touched the edge of the strange headband, then dropped back to his side.
Protective of it. There’s something there.
Geralt straightened, crossing his arms again as he studied the kid in silence. Whatever this boy was hiding, it was important. Maybe it was the key to understanding who made him and why he was here. But Geralt wouldn’t get any answers tonight—not if the kid kept his mouth shut like this.
“You’ll rest here tonight,” Geralt said finally, his tone firm. “We’ll talk more tomorrow. Maybe by then, you’ll feel like sharing where you came from.”
The boy’s eye flicked up to meet his again, the silence between them thickening. But still, no answer.
Fine. You’ll talk when you’re ready.
Geralt turned to the healer. “Keep an eye on him,” he instructed. “If he tries to bolt, let me know.”
The healer nodded. “I doubt he’ll be going anywhere soon. He’s likely exhausted.”
Geralt grunted in acknowledgment before moving toward the door. As he reached for the handle, he cast one last glance over his shoulder at the kid, who was now lying back down on the cot, staring at the ceiling with that same eerie calm.
Whoever made you… I’ll find out. And I’ll find out what you are.
For now, though, the boy was safe. And as long as he wasn’t a danger to the people around him, Geralt would leave him be. But that smell, that familiarity—it lingered, gnawing at the back of his mind.
Too much like a Witcher to ignore.
As Geralt made his way back from the healer’s house, the sound of footsteps behind him alerted him to the boy’s presence. The kid was quiet, surefooted, but Geralt’s ears were attuned to movement like that—especially when he was being followed.
He didn’t turn around, just kept walking toward the inn. If the boy wanted to follow, fine. He wasn’t about to drag the kid around by force. But he wasn’t exactly surprised when he caught sight of the boy slipping through the crowd behind him, a gray cloak pulled tight around his thin frame.
The inn wasn’t far, and the evening air still held a chill. Geralt pushed open the door to the warm, dimly lit room and stepped inside, the scent of stew and bread immediately filling his nose. The innkeeper glanced up from behind the counter, giving a respectful nod as Geralt passed.
Geralt made his way to a table near the hearth, gesturing for the kid to sit. The kid followed, moving with the same silent efficiency, but Geralt could feel the tension in him—like a coiled spring, ready to snap at any moment.
“You should eat,” Geralt said, sitting across from him. “You’ll need your strength.”
The boy didn’t respond, just nodded slightly, his dark eye flicking toward the kitchen. A few moments later, the innkeeper brought out two plates—simple fare: bread, cheese, and a bowl of hot stew. Geralt dug in without hesitation, the hunger from the long walk and the fight with the nekkers finally catching up to him.
But the kid… he hesitated.
Geralt watched him, curious but trying not to be obvious about it. The boy eyed the food in front of him with an odd intensity, as if it wasn’t quite trustworthy. After a moment, the boy leaned forward slightly and—strangely—sniffed the bowl of stew. His movements were subtle, but Geralt caught the way the boy’s nostrils flared, taking in the scent of the broth.
Keen sense of smell. That was the first thought that crossed Geralt’s mind, but there was more to it than that. The kid didn’t just sniff the air like a wolf or a Witcher might when on guard. It was deliberate, like he was testing the food for something hidden.
Poison? Toxins?
Geralt’s brow furrowed slightly. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen someone check their food like that, but it was rare—especially for a kid. And even rarer outside the Witcher schools, where suspicion of one’s surroundings was second nature.
The kid’s nose wrinkled slightly, as if he’d reached some sort of conclusion, and then—only then—did he start to eat. He picked at the bread, then dipped it into the stew, moving with deliberate slowness, but never quite letting his guard down. Every bite seemed measured, as though he were still half-expecting something to go wrong.
Geralt took another mouthful of his own food, mulling over the odd behavior. He’d seen something like this before in Witcher initiates—children undergoing the Trial of the Grasses. The early stages of the Trials sometimes involved teas laced with mild toxins to test their resilience, a habit that could easily transfer into hyper-vigilance around food.
That’s what this looks like. The way the kid sniffed his food was more than caution—it was a survival mechanism.
Geralt leaned back slightly in his chair, studying the boy across the table. Whoever made you, they trained you well. He wasn’t about to push the kid into revealing more, but it was clear now more than ever that the kid wasn’t just some random stray. He’d been through something… something very Witcher-like, whether or not he realized it.
“You always do that?” Geralt asked after a few moments, keeping his tone casual.
He looked up from his meal, his eye narrowing slightly, but he didn’t answer.
“Sniffing your food before eating,” Geralt clarified. “You get that habit from someone?”
For a moment, the kid seemed to weigh whether to respond. Then, after a pause, he gave a slight shrug, the barest movement of his shoulders. Not quite a confirmation, but not a denial either.
Smart. Geralt wasn’t going to get much out of him with direct questions. The boy was too careful—too well-trained to slip up like that. But it didn’t matter. He was learning more just from watching how the kid reacted to the world around him.
They finished the meal mostly in silence, save for the occasional clink of metal on wood. When the kid finally set his spoon down, Geralt leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table.
“You’ve been through a lot, haven’t you?”
The kid’s gaze shifted slightly, but again, no answer came. His body language remained closed off, protective. Whatever he’d been through, it was locked away tight behind those eyes.
“Like I said before,” Geralt continued, “I’m not asking you to share anything you don’t want to. But… if you need help, I’ll offer it.”
The kid stared at him for a long moment, his expression as unreadable as ever. But there was something in his eyes—a flicker of recognition, maybe even understanding. It passed quickly, and the guarded mask returned, but Geralt saw it. He knew that look.
The kid was still fighting something—internally, if not externally. Whatever it was, he wasn’t ready to talk about it yet. But Geralt could wait.
Standing up, Geralt dropped a few coins on the table and gestured for the kid to follow him. “Come on. Let’s get moving.”
The boy stood without a word, following Geralt out of the inn and into the crisp morning air. As they stepped into the street, Geralt cast a sidelong glance at his quiet companion, mind still turning over the mystery of this strange child with Witcher-like instincts.
I’ll figure you out eventually.
Geralt walked ahead, his pace steady and sure, with the kid trailing behind in his usual quiet manner. The kid was still an enigma, wrapped in silence and guarded body language, but Geralt couldn’t shake the lingering thought that there was something undeniably Witcher-like about him.
He glanced back, watching as the kid kept pace with ease. The kid was light on his feet, hardly making a sound, and his movements were calculated—precise. It reminded Geralt too much of the way his brothers in the School of the Wolf moved. He’d seen enough of his fellow Witchers go through their formative years, the brutal training, the constant honing of instincts, to recognize the signs.
But Witcher kids don’t exist anymore.
That fact gnawed at the back of Geralt’s mind. There hadn’t been a new Witcher in decades, not since the trials were lost, and finding a kid like this could mean one of two things: either some unknown group had rediscovered the secrets of creating Witchers—a thought that sent a chill through him—or this kid had gone through something that was too similar to those trials without any clear explanation.
Either way, Geralt couldn’t let the kid out of his sight. Not until he had some answers. He wasn’t about to let the boy wander off without knowing for sure if he was tied to the schools or something darker. Even if it meant dragging him along for months.
As they made their way out of the village and back onto the road, Geralt’s mind wandered to the practicalities. He couldn’t just drop the kid off somewhere. Not until winter came, and he could discuss this with the other Witchers back at Kaer Morhen. Vesemir and the others would need to hear about this—especially if this kid was actually a witcher.
If he’s a Witcher, or was made like one, that’s something we need to know.
But for now, Geralt was stuck with him. Keeping the kid close, watching for more signs, making sure he didn’t vanish into the wilderness. That meant traveling together, fighting together, eating together—until the kid either confirmed his suspicions or revealed something else entirely.
It wasn’t long before they found themselves walking the familiar dirt paths through the forest again, the air cool but not yet biting. Geralt glanced at the lad every now and then, trying to read him, but the kid was as unreadable as ever. He kept his head down, one eye visible beneath his silver hair, but never gave anything away.
Hours passed, and the silence between them stretched. Geralt was content with that—for now. He wasn’t the type to pry information out of someone unless necessary, and the kid was clearly in no mood to talk.
It was when they stopped for a rest, sitting by a stream with the sun hanging low in the sky, that the kid finally spoke. It wasn’t much—barely more than a whisper—but it was something.
“Where are we going?”
The question was simple, direct, but it caught Geralt slightly off guard. He hadn’t expected the boy to ask anything so soon. He’d figured the kid would keep up his silent act for a few more days at least.
“South,” Geralt replied, keeping his voice casual. “There’s work down that way. Monsters to hunt. Contracts to fill.”
The kid nodded, his expression neutral, but Geralt could see him processing the information. He didn’t ask anything else, just stared at the water as it trickled by, lost in thought.
He’s testing the waters. Geralt recognized that much. The kid was feeling out how much he could ask without giving away too much in return. Typical behavior for someone trained to keep secrets.
They continued on, and the further they traveled, the more Geralt started noticing small shifts in the boy’s behavior. It wasn’t much—he still kept to himself, still moved with that quiet efficiency—but every now and then, he’d ask another question.
“Why do you hunt monsters?”
Geralt glanced over at him. It was another simple question, but there was something in the kid’s tone that suggested he wasn’t just asking out of idle curiosity. He wanted to know what drove him to do this kind of work. What made someone like Geralt pick up a sword and face the dangers out in the wilds.
“Someone has to,” Geralt said, giving the most straightforward answer he could. “People don’t survive long out here without help. And monsters… they don’t care who they kill.”
The kid didn’t respond immediately, just seemed to think on that. His single visible eye—still that dark, impenetrable gaze—shifted toward the horizon as they walked. Geralt could almost hear the gears turning in the boy’s head, but whatever conclusions he was coming to, he wasn’t sharing.
And that was fine, for now.
Over the next few days, the kid’s questions came sporadically. Sometimes in the evening, while they ate by the fire, or during a momentary break from the road. He never asked about Geralt’s past or pried into personal matters—just the practical things.
“How do you fight monsters?”
“What’s the strongest one you’ve killed?”
Geralt answered as much as he could without probing back. He knew the kid was holding back—his silence on anything related to his origins or background was more than just reticence. It seemed almost necessary to the boy.
By the third day, Geralt had come to accept that this was going to be a slow process. The kid would reveal what he wanted, when he wanted. Pushing too hard would just make him clam up again, and Geralt didn’t need that.
But every time the kid spoke, it was a reminder that this boy wasn’t like anyone else he’d encountered. He was skilled, cautious, and too much like a Witcher to be coincidental. If you’re one of ours, I’ll find out eventually.
And if not? Well, Geralt would just have to keep watching. He could cross that bridge when he came to it.
At least until winter came, and the others could weigh in on this strange kid with a Witcher’s scent and instincts.
They approached the village as dusk fell, the sky streaked with the fiery reds and oranges of a setting sun. It was a small, modest settlement, a scattering of wooden houses with thatched rooves, nestled between the hills and the edge of a thick forest. Smoke curled from chimneys, and the smell of cooked meat and damp earth lingered in the cool evening air.
As they passed the first few homes, villagers began to notice them. Geralt didn’t need to hear the whispers to know what was being said. It was always the same—murmurs, suspicion, disdain. The unmistakable muttering of people who feared what they didn’t understand.
He could feel their eyes on him as they walked through the village square. Mothers ushered their children inside, merchants stared with thinly veiled disgust, and a few of the braver men stood by, watching with folded arms, as if daring him to cause trouble.
Geralt had long since grown accustomed to it. He was a Witcher, and this was the life he’d become accustomed to. The scorn of peasants didn’t bother him. What concerned him now was the boy trailing behind him.
The kid moved silently, his single visible eye scanning the village. Geralt could see the way the boy kept his posture neutral, yet ready—every step deliberate, shoulders slightly tensed. He wasn’t new to hostile environments, that much was clear.
But he wasn’t prepared for this kind of hostility.
Geralt glanced around, taking stock of the situation. The people weren’t just looking at him now; their attention had shifted to the kid as well. The kid was with him, after all, and that made him just as much of a target for their mistrust. Great .
“Stay close.” Geralt murmured under his breath. It wasn’t a command, exactly, but he needed the kid to understand that things could go south fast if they weren’t careful.
He gave a small nod, acknowledging the unspoken warning, but his eye remained sharp, darting to catch every glance, every furrowed brow aimed their way. He was absorbing the atmosphere as much as Geralt was, but Geralt wasn’t sure how much the kid understood.
They reached the inn, a weathered building at the far end of the village. The sign creaked above the door, barely legible in the dim light. As they approached, a few villagers who had gathered outside quickly dispersed, shooting them glances full of malice before disappearing into the alleyways.
Geralt opened the door and led the way inside, the kid just behind him. The inn was modest but well-kept, with a warm hearth and a handful of rough-looking patrons seated at tables. The innkeeper, a broad-shouldered man with thinning hair, looked up as they entered. His expression darkened the moment his eyes landed on Geralt.
“A Witcher,” he muttered, his voice dripping with disdain. “What do you want?”
Geralt stepped forward, unphased by the hostility. “A room for the night. Food. Drink. We’ll be out of your hair by morning.”
The innkeeper sneered. “Don’t want your kind here. You bring trouble.” His eyes flicked to the child, narrowing in suspicion. “And what’s this? Got yourself an apprentice now? You teaching that boy your filthy ways?”
The insult landed, and Geralt felt the weight of it like a familiar burden. He glanced back at the boy, who remained impassive, though his eye had sharpened slightly, watching the exchange.
“Just give us a room,” Geralt said, keeping his voice calm but firm. “We pay the same as anyone else.”
The innkeeper hesitated, his lip curling in disgust, but Geralt could see the gears turning in the man’s head. He wasn’t about to refuse money outright—not in a village like this, where every coin counted. After a long, tense moment, the innkeeper grunted and gestured toward the stairs.
“Up there. Second door on the left. But don’t think you’re welcome. Eat and be gone by sunrise.”
Geralt nodded, tossing a few coins onto the counter, then turned to head up the stairs. He followed without a word, though Geralt could feel the boy’s awareness heightening with every step. The tension in the room hadn’t gone unnoticed.
They reached the small, cramped room, and Geralt shut the door behind them, leaning his swords against the wall. He looked at the kid, who stood in the center of the room, his posture still alert.
“That,” Geralt said, his tone dry, “is what you get used to as a Witcher.”
He didn’t respond at first, just stared at the floor as if weighing his next move carefully. His eye flicked up, meeting Geralt’s gaze. So this is how it is, that look seemed to say.
Geralt didn’t offer further explanation. There wasn’t much to say, after all. He’d been dealing with this kind of treatment for as long as he could remember. The stares, the insults, the accusations of being a monster among men. He’d learned to let it roll off his back.
But the kid? He was new to this.
The kid walked over to the window, peering out at the village below. The streets were empty now, the villagers having retreated to their homes, no doubt muttering about the Witcher and the strange boy who had come to their village. The kid turned away from the window, his face unreadable.
“They hate you,” The kid said quietly.
Geralt raised an eyebrow. “They fear what they don’t understand. Hate’s easier than trying to learn the truth.”
The kid didn’t say anything else, but Geralt could see the wheels turning in his head. The kid was processing what had happened—what it meant to be lumped in with someone like Geralt, to be treated as a pariah by people who knew nothing about him.
Geralt wasn’t sure if the kid would accept it as part of their travels or push back against it. Either way, the boy was stuck with him for now, and Geralt wasn’t about to let the villagers’ ignorance drive a wedge between them.
“We’ll head out early,” Geralt said, moving toward the door. “Get some food and rest up. We’ll keep moving south.”
He gave a small nod, following Geralt downstairs to the inn’s dining area. As they took their seats, the room grew quiet, patrons eyeing them warily but saying nothing.
Geralt ordered food for both of them, the innkeeper slamming their plates down on the table with more force than necessary. Geralt ignored him, picking up his spoon and starting on the stew. The kid, on the other hand, paused.
Geralt watched as the boy leaned forward slightly, sniffing the food before he even touched it. It was a subtle gesture, but one that didn’t go unnoticed by Geralt. The kid was cautious—maybe even a bit paranoid about what he was eating.
Not just paranoid, Geralt thought. Trained.
The kid ate slowly, methodically, his eye darting around the room every few minutes, scanning for threats. It was a level of vigilance that reminded Geralt of himself when he was younger—back when every meal could have been his last if he wasn’t careful enough.
As they ate in silence, Geralt kept an eye on the villagers, waiting for any sign of trouble. But the patrons kept their distance, too wary to start anything with a Witcher in their midst.
They wouldn’t stay long. That much was certain.
But as they left the dining area later that night and headed back to their room, Geralt couldn’t help but wonder just how deep the kid’s training went—and what it had cost him.
Geralt leaned back in the creaky chair, eyeing the kid as they settled in for the night. The small room felt even smaller with the low ceiling and narrow beds. Outside, the distant murmur of the village was fading, the sounds of the evening dwindling into a quiet hum. The village may have been hostile, but the night was calm. That didn’t seem to matter to the kid, though.
The kid stood by the window, scanning the street outside as if expecting someone—or something—to jump out at them. It reminded Geralt of how he used to be, back when every creak of the floor or distant sound sent his instincts into overdrive. But for the boy, it seemed different. Not fear, not paranoia—just a practiced vigilance, something drilled into him over time.
Geralt sighed, rubbing his temple. He knew the kid wouldn’t relax easily. The way he carried himself, the way he watched everything—it was the mark of someone used to staying on guard, perhaps even in sleep. And yet, there was something else. A quiet tension Geralt couldn’t quite place.
“Get some rest,” Geralt said, his voice low but firm.
He didn’t respond. Instead, he lingered by the door, his eye flitting from the entrance to the window, then back again. It wasn’t defiance—it was a quiet refusal to trust the safety of the room. Geralt had seen it before in young Witchers, those just learning to live with constant threat.
Geralt’s medallion hung heavy around his neck, the dull weight of it a familiar comfort. He watched the lad finally pull away from the window, moving toward the door instead. The boy’s movements were smooth, precise, like a predator sizing up its territory. But as the kid bit down on his thumb, drawing a bead of blood, Geralt’s eyes narrowed in curiosity.
The kid knelt down, pressing his bleeding thumb against the wooden floor, tracing a strange, flowing set of symbols on the doorframe. They looked almost like runes, but different—more intricate, more detailed. Geralt’s medallion stirred faintly, vibrating with a low hum as the kid worked, the air around them shifting in a way that Geralt couldn’t quite place.
Magic? Geralt frowned, watching the boy closely.
The kid wiped his thumb clean and straightened up, his gaze lingering on the markings as if ensuring they were set just right. Then, with a deep, controlled breath, he moved toward the bed, finally allowing himself to sit down.
Geralt remained silent, observing the entire process. He could feel the barrier the kid had set—an energy, faint but present, humming softly at the edges of the room. It wasn’t strong enough to be a direct threat, but it was enough to keep something out. The runes weren’t like anything Geralt had seen before, but the intent behind them was clear.
It was protection. For both of them.
The kid’s eye had softened, the hard edge of his vigilance fading just enough as he lay back on the thin mattress. He was still wary, still watching the room, but the markings had given him just enough peace to attempt rest.
Geralt’s thoughts drifted as he leaned back in his chair. He couldn’t help but think of the trials, of the rituals that had created him and the others like him. The way they’d been taught to harness magic, to bend it to their will through signs. But this… this wasn’t Witcher magic. It was something else, something distinctly different—something the boy seemed far too comfortable using.
The way he handled the blood, the symbols, the barrier—it was precise, practiced, like he’d been doing it his whole life. Geralt’s brow furrowed. If the kid had been made by someone, it wasn’t any school of Witchers Geralt knew.
Where did this kid come from?
He glanced at his medallion again, feeling the residual hum still vibrating faintly against his chest. The markings hadn’t been made with chaos energy, nor did they resemble the alchemy of Witchers. Whatever the kid was using, it was entirely foreign to Geralt—and that was saying something.
The kid wasn’t just an impossible Witcher child. There was more to him than Geralt had first realized. Every unintentional action the kid took proved that. And the more the kid did to hide it, the more curious Geralt became. He wasn’t one to pry, and the boy’s silence wasn’t going to make it any easier. Whatever situation this kid came from, he wasn’t ready to talk about it yet.
Geralt exhaled through his nose, settling in for what would no doubt be a restless night. He’d have to keep an eye on the kid for now, until he could figure out where he belonged—or who had made him.
The kid had secrets. Secrets that could either be a blessing or a curse. And Geralt wasn’t going to let him out of sight until he knew which one it was.