The ale in front of me tasted like fermented ditch water with a hint of sour barley, but after a day of tracking runaways, getting clawed by vampire, and dealing with magical backlashes, I wasn't in the mood to be picky. I took another slow drag from the wooden mug, letting the sharp burn clear the lingering metallic taste from the back of my throat.
Across the worn oak table, Callum had already polished off half a roast fowl and was working his way through his second pint with customary enthusiasm. Calla sat beside him, swirling a glass of dark red wine that looked considerably more drinkable than our tavern swill, though she hadn't touched more than a sip or two.
"The drowners along the southern creek weren't the real problem," Callum said between mouthfuls, setting a stripped bone onto his plate. "They were stupid, slow, easy to bait into the reeds. Cut down four of them before noon. But the fishermen weren't just complaining about the beasts. They said the fish have stopped running the river entirely over the last month. Like something deeper in the water is driving them out."
He paused, his green cat eyes narrowing slightly as he leaned in closer over the table.
"And that sword commission, the merchant's ancestral blade at the bottom of the lake bed. I drank a Killer Whale potion, dove down into the silt, and found the scabbard wedged between two rotting timbers. But while I was down there, Cain... the water went ice-cold. Colder than mountain runoff. I felt eyes on me. Heavy, predatory eyes staring right up from the deep trench where the light couldn't reach. My medallion buzzed so hard and then it suddenly stopped."
I set my mug down with a soft thud against the tabletop, turning his words over in my mind. "It's not an isolated incident."
Calla raised an eyebrow over the rim of her glass. "What did your contracts turn up?"
"The missing farm boy wasn't taken by force," I said, leaning back against the wooden bench. "He was shacked up in a cave behind a waterfall with a succubus who seemed remarkably fond of his youthful stamina. No real harm done, other than him exhausting half his life force through sheer teenage stubbornness. I sent him packing back to his parents."
Callum snorted into his drink. "Lucky bastard."
"The hunter's wife was a different story," I continued, ignoring him. "Found her in an abandoned shed near the edge of the woods, mid-embrace with a higher vampire. A Bruxa named Lucia. Turns out the wife didn't vanish, she fell in love with a bloodsucker, decided her husband was a bore, and was in the middle of being turned so they could catch the next trade boat across the sea."
Calla set her wine down, her brow furrowing with genuine concern. "A Bruxa nesting within walking distance of the outer walls? And a succubus dwelling in the valley pastures? Hillstead really has lost its touch." She sighed, brushing a lock of ginger hair behind a ear. "When Callum and I were children, the village guard was disciplined. They weren't trained mutant monster slayers like you two, but they were well-led, well-drilled, and kept the perimeter locked tight. Beasts and rogue non-humans rarely slipped past the palisades without being run off or put down."
"It's not just incompetence," I said quietly, keeping my voice low enough that the nearby patrons wouldn't overhear. "The moment I stepped past the town gates yesterday, something felt wrong. The air carries an unnatural weight, like a storm gathering behind a mountain ridge that refuses to break. And I'm not the only one who noticed. Both the succubus and the Bruxa told me the exact same thing independently. They could sense a foulness spreading through the soil and the water. Both of them were actively packing their bags to leave."
Silence settled over the table for a moment. The tavern around us bustled with its usual evening noise, drunken laughter, dice rattling against cups, the smell of grease and stale pipe smoke, but our corner felt abruptly cold.
Calla looked between the two of us, her gaze settling on her brother. "Does Cain usually have these instinctual feelings when something is amiss? Things that slip right past everyone else?"
Callum swallowed his mouthful and nodded without hesitation. "Not often. But Cain isn't like normal Witcher's, Calla. He's someone who prepares for three steps ahead while standing completely firm in the present. You should see what he's done back at Kaer Morhen. The fortress was practically a crumbling ruin when we arrived, but thanks to Cain's planning. The Wolf School has structural order that puts half the petty lords' keeps in this province to shame. If Cain says something stinks in this town, I'd bet all my earnings on it."
Calla looked at Callum with an amused, slightly unimpressed smirk. "My, brother. I have never heard you sing so many praises about another man in my entire life. Are you quite sure your feelings for him are purely brotherly?"
Callum and I both froze mid-drink, our mugs hovering inches from our mouths.
I lowered my mug and gave her a flat, thoroughly disgusted look. "First of all, I'm not into tall, broad-shouldered pretty boys. Second of all, he doesn't have nearly enough hair on his head for my taste."
Callum's jaw dropped in exaggerated offense. "A pretty boy? Your calling me a pretty boy?" He pointed an accusatory finger at me. "Listen here, you snow-haired icicle. If you managed to wipe that perpetual, deadpan scowl off your face for five consecutive minutes, someone might actually mistake you for fuckable."
I held his gaze for a second before a faint smirk broke through my expression. Callum burst out laughing, slamming his palm against the table, the tension evaporating in an instant.
Calla watched us, a genuine, fond smile softening her sharp features. "I swear, the two of you truly are brothers. Though, setting aside Cain's tragic preference for long-haired redheads, a category I happen to occupy, mind you...." she shot me a playful, sidelong wink, "what do we do about this feeling of yours? Are we going to investigate the source, or pack our bags and move on?"
I stared down into the cloudy depths of my ale. "Normally, I don't work for free. Witcher code or not, putting my neck on the line without coin attached is bad business. I'm not hurting for money, but risk requires return. That said..." I glanced up, meeting both of their gazes. "This is your home. Your mother opened her door to me, gave me a clean bed, fed me like family, and treated me with respect. So I'll make an exception. You two are my people. I'm not leaving until we figure out what's rotting beneath this village."
Calla blinked, her expression softening into something remarkably sweet, though she immediately shook her head with a teasing chuckle. "Look at you, Cain. Saying something so heartfelt while keeping that cold, unmoving scowl plastered across your face. It's almost impossible to tell when you're being genuine."
I let out a quiet sigh. "Blame the mutations. They hit my nervous system harder than Callum's."
Internally, I cursed my Cold Blooded trait. It was an absolute godsend on the battlefield, keeping my heart rate steady, dampening agony, and allowing me to analyze life-or-death situations with surgical precision, but when it came to expressing basic human warmth, it made me look like an unfeeling marble statue.
Before Calla could tease me further, a sudden shift in the ambient noise caught my attention.
I straightened imperceptibly on the bench, my gaze cutting toward the heavy timber doors of the tavern. Beside me, Callum's easy laughter cut off instantly. His shoulders set, his jaw tightening as his hand drifted subtly beneath the table toward the hilt of his hunting knife.
"You picking that up?" I murmured.
"Yeah," Callum replied, his voice barely a breath against the tavern roar. "Five sets of boots. Walking in synchronized cadence. Oiled leather, forged iron, tempered steel. Smells like guard kit. And something else..."
"Dried blood on the hem of their weapons," I added, parsing the scent profiles entering through the door's seams. "Old, but distinct. Along with the dry, chemical scent of fresh parchment and wax seal. It's an official detail. Not looking for a brawl, but definitely bearing an order."
Calla let out a small, resigned hum, leaning back against the wall. "Relax, boys. It's the Lord's castle guard. I have a feeling I know exactly what this is about."
The heavy oak doors swung open, the cold evening draft cutting through the humid warmth of the tavern. Five men stepped across the threshold, their heavy iron-shod boots striking the floorboards in deliberate unison. The tavern's chatter died down to a cautious murmur, patrons quietly shifting their chairs to clear a wide berth.
The man leading the squad was tall and lean, appearing to be in his mid-to-late thirties. He had long, dark brown hair threaded with streaks of silver, tied loosely at the nape of his neck, and a clean-shaven, weathered face etched with the sharp lines of a career soldier.
His steel breastplate was polished, bearing the crest of a perched raven over a winding hill. His gray eyes scanned the crowded room with practiced efficiency until they locked directly onto our booth.
He marched forward, his four men flanking him in rigid formation. His eyes lingered heavily on Callum, then shifted to Calla, before darting toward me with a sharp, assessing flick.
He reached into his leather belt, drew out a rolled scroll bound with a crimson wax seal, and cleared his throat in a booming, authoritative voice.
"By royal decree of the Baron, Lord Hector Hillstead. The Witcher Callum and the Sorceress Calla are hereby commanded to present themselves at the Hillstead Castle manor forthwith to attend an official matter of state and security."
For a second, the air hung rigid.
Then the captain casually turned toward the nearest wall sconce, held the sealed parchment over the flame, and watched with a grin as the expensive parchment caught fire, curling into black ash that he dropped onto an empty plate.
"There," the man said, his stern facade shattering into a broad, warm smile. "The Lord's formal bullshit can wait a few minutes. Look at you two fire-haired terrors."
He stepped closer, placing a heavy hand on the table as his gaze softened entirely on Calla. "Look at you, little Calla. You've grown into a proper, stunning woman. Last time I saw you, you were setting my spare boots on fire by accident."
Calla smiled warmly, her formal posture relaxing. "Gregor. You always did know how to make an entrance."
"First impressions are everything, my dear. I taught you that myself," Gregor chuckled. He then turned his full attention to Callum, looking the young Witcher up and down with genuine astonishment. "And look at you, Callum. Great Melitele's teeth... you're taller than your uncle Harry already, and you've got broader shoulders than your father ever had. But you still carry Callidea's eyes. Even with those frightening green emerald cat slits."
Callum grinned, leaning back. "Still trying to butter me up after all these years, old man? The answer is still no. I'm not enlisting in the castle guard."
Gregor waved a dismissive, leather-gloved hand. "You're a full-fledged Witcher now, lad. Forget this backwater garrison and aim higher. Any high lord or king worth his crown would pay double a captain's wage for a swordsman of your caliber."
Gregor's eyes then shifted across the table, locking onto me with heavy scrutiny. "And you... you must be Cain."
I rose to my feet, towering just slightly over the guard captain, and extended my hand. My enhanced senses picked up the clean scent of pine oil, seasoned leather, and herbal ointment on his skin. "I am. And you're Gregor. I take it Callidea mentioned me since you know my name and work at the castle?"
Gregor took my hand in a firm, calloused grip, his handshake solid and honest. "She did. First thing this morning while she was up at the manor clinic. Sang your praises, in fact, said her boy brought home a level-headed brother, handsome brother in arms who actually knows how to use a kitchen knife for cooking, and not just gutting beasts." He released my hand and let out a tired sigh. "I'm Captain of the Guard up at the manor. Known these twins since they were swaddled babes, and I've been a friend of their mother's for longer than I care to admit."
Calla whistled softly. "Captain of the Guard? Look at you, Gregor. A proper promotion."
"Aye," Gregor grunted, rubbing the back of his neck with a weary grimace. "Though over the last few years, the title's brought more gray hairs than gold crowns. Come along, the three of you. The Baron wants words, and it's best you know the terrain before you step into the viper's nest."
We gathered our gear, settled the tavern tab, and followed Gregor out into the chilled night air. His four guards fell into formation behind us as we began the steady ascent up the winding cobblestone road leading to the grand hill overlooking the settlement.
"How bad is it up at the manor?" Callum asked, falling into step beside the captain.
Gregor kept his eyes forward, his tone dropping into a guarded, serious register.
"It's a mess, lad. For the past six years, Hillstead has been suffering these bizarre, cyclical spikes. First, it starts with crops wilting without frost. Then the livestock turns barren or goes mad. Then, out of nowhere, a surge of monsters comes crawling out of the swamps and the deep timber, butchering woodcutters and travelers. Your mother works day and night brewing remedies, treating wounds, and patching up my men, but just when we think we're overwhelmed... the attacks stop completely. Everything goes quiet for months, only to return worse the next year."
"Six years?" Callum pressed, glancing at me. "Has it stayed on that predictable pattern?"
"Until a few months ago," Gregor said grimly. "Around the end of winter, the spike didn't just return, it exploded. Monsters we haven't seen in decades started showing up near the outer fences. More and more villagers go missing, not to be found. The Baron is desperate. And when word reached the keep that two Witchers had arrived in town alongside Lady Calla... well, Hector saw his solution."
Beside Gregor, my mind worked rapidly through the timeline.
Six years ago... and a severe escalation a few months back.
Six years ago was roughly when I underwent the Trial of Dreams. My Elder Blood powers spiked somewhat, but a few months ago, that lined up almost to the exact week when Callum and I had undertaken the Trial of the Mountain, encountered that void rift on Blue Mountain, and awakened my Elder Blood traits. And defeated the Shadow Wolf.
Could I have accelerated an existing anomaly here? Or was Hillstead's rot entirely its own? I kept the thought strictly to myself. Outside of Callum, and my wolf school Witcher's, and the druid who had sensed my heritage, no one could know about the Elder Blood. Spreading rumors of such power in a paranoid noble's territory would paint a target on my back faster than a silver blade through a necrophage.
That's not even to account the mages when they find out.
As we crossed the outer perimeter of the upper estate, a sharp, cold vibration buzzed against my chest.
I reached up, pressing a thumb against my Wolf medallion. It was trembling with an erratic, high-frequency hum. Beside me, Callum instinctively touched his own medallion, his cat-like eyes wide as he met my gaze.
Magic, I thought. And not the clean, natural sort. It feels greasy, and wrong.The eerie, oppressive weight I had felt in the valley magnified tenfold as we approached the castle gates.
The Hillstead estate wasn't merely a stone fort; it was an expansive manor integrated into a fortified castle. The high granite walls were well-mortared and clearly maintained, with stout guard towers overlooking the valley below.
But the grandeur was hollowed by decay. To the eastern flank of the main keep lay what must have once been a magnificent terraced wine vineyard.
Now, the wooden trellises stood bare and splintered, draped in shriveled, blackened vines. The soil beneath them was cracked, gray, and completely barren, looking as though someone had poured salt and lye over every square foot of earth.
Surrounding the keep were clusters of sturdy, well-built stone cottages, the servant and retainer quarters.
Calla slowed her pace slightly, her eyes lingering on the dark stone buildings. "That's where Callum and I spent our early childhood," she murmured softly to me. "Until the Baroness decided our presence within spitting distance of her front door was an intolerable insult to her dignity."
I glanced at her. "What was that like? Growing up knowing the lord of the land was your father, but being treated as a bastard contingency plan in case his trueborn heirs fell ill?"
Calla gave a small, indifferent shrug, though the stiffness in her posture betrayed the lingering sting. "You learn early not to beg for affection from a man who views you as a political complication, Cain. It just ate Lady Elane alive that the bastard children her husband sired with an elven woman turned out to be far more gifted, intelligent, and striking than her own pampered brood."
I raised an eyebrow. "Is she that bitter about non-humans?"
"She detests elves," Calla said with a wry, mocking smile. "Which makes it all the more delicious considering the Baron himself is roughly one-quarter elven by blood. But don't bring that up in her presence unless you fancy watching a noblewoman choke on her own bile."
"Understood," I said dryly. "I'll try to keep my pointed ears from offending her delicate sensibilities."
"Don't bother, but Good luck," Calla whispered. "You're about to be the only person with visible elven features inside that hall. A trait my brother and I are lucky we look closer to our father considering we are technically half-elven like you."
Gregor led us through the arched wrought-iron portcullis and into the main keep.
The interior architecture was undeniably lavish, high vaulted ceilings, polished limestone flagstones, and arched windows of colored glass. Yet the halls felt strangely hollow. There was a glaring lack of tapestries, statues, or ornamental suits of armor.
Vast expanses of bare stone stretched between oil lamps, as if half the manor's wealth had been quietly pawned off or stripped away over years of declining revenue.
Gregor halted before a set of massive, iron-banded double doors. He signaled to the two guards stationed outside, who hauled them open with a low, reverberating groan.
"Announcing," Gregor's voice echoed through the vast chamber, "Lady Calla of the Brotherhood, Witcher Callum of the Wolf School, and their companion, Witcher Cain of the Wolf School."
We stepped into the audience hall.
The room was vast, heated by twin roaring hearths at either wall, but the fire did little to dispel the chill hanging in the air. At the far end, elevated on a dais of polished gray marble, sat Baron Hector Hillstead in a high-backed chair of carved walnut.
The Lord of Hillstead was a striking man. He had broad shoulders, a commanding posture, and a thick, meticulously groomed beard of vibrant red hair that matched the twins' coloring perfectly. He wore tailored noble robes of forest green and pure white silk, trimmed with black velvet and silver embroidery. His eyes, fixed intently on us as we entered, were a piercing, luminous amber.
Seated to his right was Lady Elane. She was undeniably attractive for a noblewoman in her late thirties, possessing a slender, petite figure, delicate porcelain skin, and dark brown hair pinned into elaborate braids. Her gown was cut low at the neckline, showing ample cleavage, though my enhanced vision immediately caught the subtle cracks in her aristocratic perfection. Thin lines of stress creased the corners of her mouth, and the roots of her dark hair showed faint streaks of silver that had been hastily concealed with dark, uneven herbal dye.
Standing to the right of the dais were two teenagers, a boy of about fourteen and a girl around sixteen. Both carried their mother's dark brown hair and soft facial structure, paired with their father's amber eyes. They stood rigidly, watching us with a mixture of fear and haughty disdain.
To the left of the dais stood a grown man. He was tall, easily six-foot-two, nearly matching Callum's imposing frame of six-foot-four, with raven-black hair slicked back tightly from a sharp, angular face. His amber eyes were cold, arrogant, and radiated open hostility the moment our boots touched the carpet. This must be Lord Harry, Hector's older half-brother.
And standing just beside Harry, slightly withdrawn into the shadow of a stone pillar, was Callidea.
Her emerald-green eyes met mine the second I walked in, filled with calm intelligence. Her pointed elven ears twitched subtly as she took in our presence, her posture dignified despite wearing a simple healer's gown that accentuated her full, generous figure. Looking at her, and then looking back at Lord Hector, I had a brief, irreverent Witcher thought:
The Baron might be an absolute disaster of a father, but the man undeniably possesses elite taste in women. Mainly the well endowed ones.
Calla stepped forward and gave a polite, measured curtsy, formal, correct, but lacking any real warmth. Callum and I remained standing dead-center, our arms resting loosely at our sides, our silver and steel blades gleaming across our backs.
From the dais, Lady Elane scoffed, turning her head with an expression of profound disgust. "Non-human trash dragged into my audience chamber like stray dogs."
The insult didn't register so much as a twitch in my pulse. I had been called worse by dock thugs and city guards before breakfast. Callum didn't even blink.
Lord Hector raised a single, ringed hand, his voice deep and authoritative. "That is enough, Elane."
The Baron rose from his seat, descending the marble steps with measured, powerful strides. He stopped directly in front of Callum, his amber eyes scanning his bastard son with a mixture of pride, curiosity, and guarded distance.
"Callum," Hector said, his tone low. "You've grown well, boy. By the gods... you're taller than your uncle Harry, and you carry more bulk than I did at your age. You took your grandfather's frame, it seems."
From the shadows, Harry muttered in a voice thick with venom, "Must be."
Hector ignored his brother and kept his focus on Callum. "I knew you were strong, but to survive the trials and return as a full Witcher... tell me, how long have you been walking the Path?"
"A few weeks, my Lord," Callum replied evenly, giving away nothing.
"A few weeks," Hector repeated, nodding slowly. "Training for years in the mountains, and now you return to make a name for yourself. Tell me, lad, do you carry a surname on your travels?"
"No, my Lord," Callum said coldly. "I am a bastard. Bastards have no names."
A flicker of irritation tightened the corners of Hector's eyes. "Nonsense. What of the name Hill? Many of our local gentry and recognized blood carry it. It shows pride in the land of your birth."
Callum's expression hardened into granite. "No, my Lord. I am a Wolf School Witcher. If I manage to survive a year or two on the Path without ending up in a monster's belly, I might grant myself a name. 'Callum Wolf' has a fine ring to it."
A heavy silence descended upon the chamber. The guards shifted uneasily. Hector held his son's gaze for several seconds before letting out a slow, conceding breath.
"So be it," the Baron said. He turned his attention to Calla, his stern features softening slightly. "And Calla. You have grown into a breathtaking woman, perfectly befitting your bloodline. How fare your studies in the arcane?"
Calla met his gaze with absolute composure, her voice silky, sharp, and flawlessly polite. "My Lord, I thank you for your hollow praise, though I credit my mother for whatever beauty I possess. As for my studies, I shall not bore your noble mind with the intricate theories of Chaos and planar manipulation, subjects far beyond provincial comprehension. Suffice it to say, my standing within the Brotherhood is secure, and my magic serves those worthy of it."
"I see," Hector murmured, a tight smile touching his lips. "I would expect nothing less from a woman of your intellect."
Beside the throne, Lady Elane's knuckles turned white against her silk dress, her children watching their half-siblings with bitter envy.
Finally, Lord Hector turned to me.
He stood at his full height, matching my eye level, his amber gaze drilling into mine. "And you... word reached my scouts of an unusual Witcher traveling with the caravan and setting up in no name village. A half-elf mutant with snow-white hair, golden predator eyes, and bronze skin unlike any seen north of the Yaruga. They say you fancy yourself both a slayer of beasts and an enterprising merchant, Witcher."
I let out a slow, quiet breath. "Cain."
Hector's eyebrow twitched upward. "Pardon?"
"Lord Hillstead," I said, my tone flat, blunt, and entirely devoid of deference. "My name is Cain. If you wish to address me, use it. Or is noble etiquette only practiced when speaking to people with inherited land?"
"Watch your filthy tongue, you mutant mongrel!" Lady Elane snapped, half-rising from her seat. "You stand in the presence of...."
Before she could finish, I let a fraction of my Intimidation skill leak into my gaze, locking my golden eyes onto hers. The sheer, predatory weight of the aura hit her like a physical blow; her breath caught in her throat, her voice dying instantly as she sank back into her chair, clutching her chest.
Hector raised a hand toward his wife without looking back. "Quiet, Elane."
A slow, dangerous smirk appeared on the Baron's face as he stepped half an inch closer to me. "You have a bold tongue, boy. Do you know I could have your head struck from your shoulders for speaking to a Baron in such a manner?"
"You could certainly try," I replied without a trace of emotion. "Of course, you'd lose half your household guard, this audience hall would burn to ash, and you would be dead on that marble floor long before your men came within five paces of my neck."
Gregor coughed softly into his fist behind us. The guards along the perimeter gripped their halberds, the tension in the room ratcheting to a suffocating peak.
Hector stared at me, his eyes searching my face for any hint of hesitation or fear. Finding none, the tension suddenly broke as the Baron threw his head back and let out a booming, genuine laugh.
"Ha! By the gods, finally, a man with a backbone." He extended a broad, calloused right hand toward me. "I am Hector Hillstead, Baron of this territory. It is my pleasure to make your acquaintance, Witcher Cain."
I reached out, grasping his forearm in a firm, measured grip. "Just Cain, my Lord."
"Fair enough," Hector said, releasing my arm and gesturing toward the grand hall. "Now, to the matter at hand. As monster hunters, your arrival is timely. Hillstead is dying, Cain. For years we have suffered, but recently, the decay has turned catastrophic. You saw the eastern vineyards as you climbed the hill?"
"I did," I said. "Dead vines. Barren earth. Looks like cursed ground."
"It is," Hector said grimly, glancing toward Callidea. "Callidea examined the roots years ago and believes an ancient malediction has settled over our soil. The blight destroyed our primary trade wine, throwing dozens of families into poverty. And worse, the monster incursions have become unmanageable. My guards can handle common drowners, but these beasts... they attack with coordination. With malice."
Callum and Calla turned sharply toward their mother. "Mother," Callum asked, his brow furrowing. "Why didn't you write to us? Why keep this quiet?"
Callidea stepped forward from the shadows, her voice calm, melodic, and entirely composed. "Because this manor has never been a welcoming place for you, my son. I would not drag you back into petty court squabbles."
"You live here, Mother," Callum countered firmly. "And so do the people who raised us. It's our home. We're not walking away from it."
Hector smiled broadly, clapping his hands together. "Excellent! Then we are agreed, you shall...."
"We haven't agreed to anything yet," I interrupted, cutting the Baron off mid-sentence. "First, we discuss terms of the contract and payment."
Hector blinked, caught off-guard, before offering an appreciative nod. "A true professional. Very well. One thousand orens for each of you upon the lifting of the curse and the elimination of the beast threat. Furthermore, while the investigation is underway, you are granted full lodging and board in the stone guest cottages on the estate grounds."
Three thousand orens total. An extraordinary sum for a provincial contract.
Before I could voice my reply, the ambient light in my vision flickered, and a radiant blue interface snapped into existence directly before my eyes.
System Notification: New Quest Received
Epic Rank Quest: Mysteries of Hillstead
Objective: Find and solve the supernatural occurrences plaguing Hillstead.
Time Limit: 3 Days
Rewards: +3.5 Attribute Points. 1 Epic Equipment Chest. Reputation in Hillstead: Vastly Increased
[Accept / Decline]
My eyes narrowed slightly as I read the prompt.
An Epic-ranked quest with a strict three-day timer. Every Epic quest I've had completed yielded high-tier rewards that fundamentally altered my combat capabilities. Three and a half raw attribute points alone was a massive power spike, not to mention an Epic Equipment Chest. Combined with three thousand orens, and the chance to secure a permanent base of influence in the region, declining was out of the question.
I selected [Accept] with a single mental command.
The blue window dissolved silently into the air.
"We accept your contract, Baron Hillstead," I said, meeting his amber eyes. "And we accept your hospitality."
Hector nodded, satisfied. "Just 'Lord Hillstead' will suffice, Cain. Now, tell me, where do you intend to begin?"
I glanced toward Callum and Calla. "You two ready for this?"
The twins spoke in absolute unison, their voices perfectly matched. "Do you even need to ask?"
A faint smirk touched my lips. "Fair enough." I turned back to the Baron. "To find the root of a curse, we start at ground zero. I need full, unrestricted access to the dead vineyards, the surrounding perimeter, and every single chamber, cellar, and wing inside this castle."
Lady Elane gasped, rising to her feet in open outrage. "Unrestricted access to the family quarters? Are you out of your mind, mutant? We are highborn nobility, not hedge mages! You have no right to rummage through our private chambers!"
"You don't need to be a trained sorcerer to place a curse, Lady Hillstead," I replied coldly, fixing her with an unblinking stare. "Curses don't operate on complex academic theorems. All they require is raw malice, the correct sequence of profane words, a few specific biological or elemental reagents, and a vessel. The Chaos does the rest on its own."
Lord Hector's expression darkened. "You believe someone inside my household performed a ritual against my family?"
"It's standard Witcher reality," I said bluntly. "Curses that specifically target a bloodline's lands and wealth almost never originate from strangers miles away. Ninety percent of the time, the person who invited the rot into the home sleeps under the very same roof."
The entire audience chamber went dead silent. You could hear the crackle of the hearth fire popping against the stone.
Suddenly, Lord Harry stepped forward, his sharp features twisting into a sneer of pure vitriol as he pointed a trembling finger toward the shadows.
"If there is any dark magic polluting this hall," Harry hissed, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling, "it comes from my brother's elven whore!"
The temperature in the room plummeted.
The atmospheric pressure shifted so violently that the flames in the nearest sconces flickered and died. Beside me, the easy-going, cheerful demeanor Callum had carried his entire life vanished completely. His emerald green cat eyes constricted into razor-thin vertical slits, radiating an aura of pure, murderous bloodlust that made the surrounding guards instinctively draw back, their hands trembling against their weapons.
I activated my Intimidation skill simultaneously, letting the suffocating weight of my Beyonder-mutated aura flood the dais.
Callum took a single, heavy step forward, his voice terrifyingly quiet. "Lord Harry... mind your tongue when speaking of my mother. Or I swear by the steel on my back, I will rip it out through your throat."
Harry blanched, stumbling backward half a step as the combined killing intent of two predatory mutants pressed down on his chest like an iron anvil. His arrogance dissolved into raw, unadulterated terror.
"You should listen to him," I added, my voice low and devoid of warmth. "A standard Witcher is dangerous enough. Callum standing right here is worth two of them. And you really don't want to test the patience of a man who is normally cheerful, especially when killing monsters is his lifelong trade."
"Silence! Both of you!" Lord Hector's voice boomed across the chamber like thunder.
The Baron turned on his older half-brother, his face flushed with genuine fury. "Mind your words, Harry! You speak of the woman who pulled you back from the brink of swamp fever, who healed my children when the winter sickness took their lungs, and who has served this house with honor for decades! She is no whore—she is an esteemed member of my household, and you will apologize to her this instant!"
Harry's chest heaved, his face burning with humiliation as he looked between the furious Baron and the two armed Witchers staring him down.
"As you wish, Lord Hillstead," Harry ground out through clenched teeth. He turned toward Callidea, offering a shallow, stiff nod of his head. "Please accept my apologies for speaking out of turn, my Lady."
Callidea didn't move. Her emerald eyes rested on him with icy calm.
"Lower," she said softly.
Harry froze, his eyes widening in disbelief. "What?"
"You must bow lower, Harry," Callidea continued, her tone polite, measured, and devastatingly firm. "I know for a fact I taught you proper courtly posture when you were a boy. Show our guests that the lesson took."
Harry looked as though he wanted to draw a dagger and slit his own wrists from the sheer indignity of it, but under Hector's blazing glare, he slowly bent at the waist, lowering his torso into a deep, formal bow of absolute submission.
"I apologize, Lady Callidea," he whispered, shaking with suppressed rage.
"Accepted," she replied smoothly.
Lord Hector turned back to me, running a hand over his face with a tired sigh. "Witcher Cain... I find it difficult to believe anyone of my direct blood could bring such ruin upon our own lands. I ask that you keep your investigation thorough. Look to rival baronies, dismissed retainers, or bitter merchants who may harbor grudges against House Hillstead."
"Every lead will be investigated with equal scrutiny, Lord Hillstead," I said neutrally. "We follow the evidence wherever it leads."
"Good," Hector nodded. "Gregor will show you to the servant quarters. May the gods grant you swift success."
We turned on our heels and exited the grand hall, the heavy iron doors groaning shut behind us.
Gregor walked in silence ahead of us, leading our group down the stone corridors and out through a side sally port toward the quiet cluster of stone cottages near the rear orchard. The night air was crisp, carrying the sharp scent of damp earth and rotting leaves from the blighted vineyard nearby.
Calla fell into step beside me, glancing back toward the imposing silhouette of the keep.
"Do you really think one of them cast it, Cain?" she asked quietly. "Someone in that room?"
"After watching Lady Elane and Harry's reactions?" I murmured, adjusting the harness of my silver sword over my shoulder. "I'm more certain of it now than when we walked in. Innocent people get confused when accused of dark magic. Guilty people get defensive and look for someone else to burn."
I paused, looking toward the dark, twisted treeline bordering the estate grounds.
"The only question left is what kind of foul curse did the caster summon to rot this land... and whether we have enough time to stop it before it finishes what it started."