Chapter 59: THE STORM BREAKS
The wards screamed at midnight.
I was out of bed before the sound fully registered—weeks of training, years of instinct. Yennefer was already casting, magic illuminating her face in electric blue.
"The outer perimeter. They've breached it."
"How?"
"I don't know. That shouldn't be possible." Fear flickered in her voice—rare, terrifying. "Get Ciri. Now."
I ran.
The fortress was chaos in motion. Witchers grabbing weapons, taking positions, years of drill overcoming sleep-fog. Lambert nearly collided with me at a junction.
"Where's the girl?"
"Getting her."
"Move faster."
Ciri's door was open. She stood inside, half-dressed, sword in hand, eyes wide but steady.
"I heard the wards."
"We need to get you to the inner chambers. Deep in the fortress. They can't—"
Explosions rocked the outer wall.
Through a window, I saw fire—magical fire, burning patterns that shouldn't exist against ancient stone. Mages. Multiple mages, attacking simultaneously.
Vilgefortz's doing, I thought. He's not here himself, but this is his plan.
"Father." Ciri's voice was calm. Too calm for a twelve-year-old facing attack. "What do we do?"
"We survive. That's what we do."
The battle for Kaer Morhen was unlike anything I'd experienced.
I'd seen fights—bandits on the road, the striga, the chaos at Cintra. But this was warfare. Calculated, coordinated destruction designed to break a fortress that had stood for centuries.
Nilfgaardian assassins scaled walls while mages bombarded positions. No army—armies were for open conquest. This was surgical. Kill or capture the Elder Blood child. Eliminate resistance. Leave nothing useful behind.
Geralt and the Witchers formed the steel wall at the main gate. I watched Eskel cut through two attackers before a mage's blast sent him staggering. Lambert took the mage down with a thrown knife while Vesemir held the center, ancient and implacable.
Yennefer rained fire from the towers. Her power was terrifying to witness—lightning and flame and force that ripped through attackers like paper. But there were nullification fields, specialized magic designed to counter her, and she was fighting at half-strength against enemies prepared for sorcery.
I planted myself at the inner gate—the last barrier between the battle and the deeper chambers where Ciri was supposed to be hidden.
I started singing.
The Battle Hymn poured from me, pushing enhancement into every ally within range. Geralt moved faster. Eskel hit harder. Even Vesemir seemed to find reserves he shouldn't have had. The tide shifted slightly—not winning, but holding.
Then I switched to the Terror Ballad, directing it at the enemy flanks.
Soldiers broke. Some fled outright, dropping weapons and scrambling for the walls they'd climbed. Others froze, paralyzed by primal fear, easy targets for Witcher blades.
This is what I'm for, I realized. Not the fighting—the supporting. The enhancement. The psychological warfare.
An assassin got through.
I saw him too late—black-clad, blade gleaming, coming at my position with the speed of someone trained for exactly this kind of penetration. Evasion Instinct screamed, and I twisted aside.
Not fast enough.
The blade caught my arm—shallow cut, painful, bleeding. I stumbled, lost the song.
The assassin raised his weapon for a killing blow.
Light erupted behind him.
Not Yennefer's chaos magic. Something else—golden, blinding, wrong. Power I recognized from Ciri's training, from her nightmares, from the destiny that lived in her blood.
Ciri stood at the chamber entrance, hands outstretched, face twisted with fear and fury. "Leave him alone!"
The assassin disintegrated.
No explosion, no fire. He simply... stopped existing. One moment a threat, the next a memory scattered on the wind.
Two more attackers met the same fate before Ciri's power burned itself out. She collapsed, gasping, as I caught her.
"I told you to stay hidden."
"You were in danger."
"I was—" I stopped. Looked at the space where the assassin had been. "—in danger. Yes."
The remaining Nilfgaardians fled. Their mission was a failure, their losses catastrophic, their target far more dangerous than anticipated. By the time full dawn arrived, the battle was over.
I hugged Ciri so tight she complained she couldn't breathe.
"Too tight. Father, I can't—"
"Good." I didn't let go. "That means I haven't lost you."
She stopped struggling. Hugged me back.
Around us, the survivors assessed damage. Wounded tended, dead honored, defenses evaluated. The fortress had held, but barely. And now the enemy knew exactly where they were.
"We can't stay," Vesemir said, as the family gathered in the damaged great hall. "They'll come back. Stronger. More prepared."
"Where do we go?" Lambert's voice was raw—he'd taken a hit that would have killed a human.
"Scatter." Geralt's face was grim. "Split up. Make tracking impossible. Regroup somewhere they don't know about."
"Oxenfurt," I suggested. "I know the city. I have contacts. We can disappear into the crowds, find resources, plan our next move."
"Agreed." Yennefer's hand found mine. "Geralt leads the Witchers one direction—visible, trackable, a decoy. We take Ciri another way—hidden, protected."
"You're suggesting we separate." Geralt's golden eyes fixed on Yennefer. "After everything."
"I'm suggesting we survive." She met his gaze without flinching. "The family lives, even if it splits temporarily."
The vote was unanimous. They'd leave tonight, under cover of darkness.
Kaer Morhen, sanctuary for centuries, would be abandoned.
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