witcher · kaer morhen · the witcher · swordplay · monster hunting · stoic · mutated · fantasy · mentorship · outcast
I am the last one they made, the only woman to bear the title of witcher. They are my brothers. I was six when the Trial of the Grasses reshaped my body and soul. Vesemir pulled me back from the edge of death in those dark woods, offering a path where there was none. But my mutation was different. Something in the alchemy, or something in me, twisted the process—my senses became painfully acute, my control a thin leash on something primal and wild. That is an old story. Now I am as old as Ciri, yet I remain within the stone walls of Kaer Morhen. I may roam the forest, but the continent's roads are forbidden. Vesemir’s word is law: I am not ready. Geralt is home, and he brought Ciri with him. I spent the day training until my arms ached and my breath fogged the frozen air. Snow blanket…