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TWL Chapter 466: Betrayal by Wine and Fire
🕑 Added 2025-06-25 02:22:21 +0000 UTCFaint yet irresistible waves of magic pulsed through the banquet hall, flickering like distant thunder. Several sorcerers immediately clutch
Faint yet irresistible waves of magic pulsed through the banquet hall, flickering like distant thunder. Several sorcerers immediately clutched their heads and stomachs in agony, their legs buckling beneath them.
Others wore expressions of confusion and panic. They looked around blankly at first—then, realization dawned. Their eyes turned toward Philippa.
Philippa’s allies extended far beyond just Lann and his circle. This coup wasn’t merely a bid for control over Redania—she sought dominion over the Brotherhood of Sorcerers itself. She had, long before tonight, quietly drawn many of its members into her fold.
Triss Merigold and Yennefer of Vengerberg, for example.
Keira Metz of Temeria and Sabrina Glevissig of Kaedwen were among them as well—though they hadn't reacted in time to support Philippa's opening move. They simply hadn’t expected her to be so audacious—to strike openly, here, during the banquet.
“Philippa! What is going on?!” Tissaia’s voice cut sharply across the hall as she turned, having instantly pinpointed the source of the chaotic magical disturbance.
The senior sorcerers immediately spread out, clearing space and leaving Philippa alone in the center. Yet far from feeling threatened, Philippa only seemed to savor the attention.
“It was the herbs,” she said with a faint smirk. “I added them to their wine.”
The next moment, she raised her hand. A violent surge of magic erupted from her palm, pouring forth like a crashing tide—slamming straight into Vilgefortz.
Already staggering from the effects of the drugged wine, Vilgefortz was knocked back like a sack of grain, sent flying across the room.
Before he could regain his footing, two servers leapt from the shadows. With a sharp snap, they clamped a pair of shackles around his wrists. A wave of dizziness, weakness, and nausea crashed over him all at once.
Dimeritium shackles!
“Lydia!” Vilgefortz rasped, calling desperately for his assistant—only to suddenly remember that the sorceress who rarely left his side hadn’t attended tonight. She had said something about tutoring an apprentice—was his name Ace?
“Tissaia!” he switched, shouting another name now.
More disguised attendants threw off their cloaks, rushing forward with dimeritium restraints, trying to subdue the sorcerers now crippled by the drugged wine. But before they could reach them, searing white light crackled across the hall, arcing through the crowd like a living storm.
In the blink of an eye, lightning struck down every one of those who dared raise their hands against the sorcerers.
“Phi! Lip! Pa!” Tissaia’s voice roared like thunder. An overwhelming pressure surged from her, far eclipsing Philippa’s. Her very presence twisted the air around her into a vortex, and the chaos magic of the entire Thanedd Island seemed to surge toward her in a single current.
Philippa swallowed hard.
Only Tissaia—she alone had no chance of winning a direct confrontation.
But her strength had never lain in brute force alone.
Redania’s intelligence agency had uncovered substantial evidence of northern mages secretly colluding with the South. Tonight, Philippa had used subtle, varied means to dose them in advance.
As for Lannister and Geralt, Philippa simply didn’t want them drawing too much attention at this critical juncture. She needed all the glory for exposing the southern spies to fall solely on her. It would also serve as a warning shot to Cintra—they needed to understand who held the reins in their upcoming partnership.
Though time had not allowed Philippa to identify every traitor, she had done enough. With the northern mages already in her camp, and a bit of incitement to win over the neutral ones, she would soon have total control over the situation.
“Tissaia,” Philippa said softly, “I admit, you’re powerful. The strongest among us. Perhaps even the only one who can resist dimeritium.”
“Maybe I couldn’t take you on—not even two of me could. But you must know—strength alone isn’t what determines everything.”
She walked past Tissaia without so much as acknowledging the maelstrom of magic now surging around her, lifting the jewel-laced hem of her gown as she turned to face the representatives of the Northern Kingdoms.
Her voice rang out, radiant with confidence: “Honored delegates of the North! I am Philippa Eilhart, royal advisor to Redania!”
“Today, I must regretfully announce a grave truth—Vilgefortz, the man who led our sisters of the Brotherhood to victory at the Battle of Sodden Hill, is a traitor!”
The delegates, untouched by the drugs, were clearly not part of Philippa’s scheme—nor had she been reckless enough to involve them. Gasps echoed through the hall, their shock unfeigned. No one had expected such an elaborate display to be for this.
Even Tissaia hesitated for a moment.
Keira and Sabrina exchanged glances before stepping toward Vilgefortz, positioning themselves to block any attempt he might make to resist.
But it was Triss Merigold and Yennefer of Vengerberg who reached him first—drawing looks of surprise from the others. They could only assume that Cintra’s sorceresses bore an especially deep hatred for Nilfgaard.
Philippa’s voice continued, steady and damning: “Vilgefortz conspired with Emhyr of Nilfgaard and lured others into his betrayal! He defied our laws, and turned against us—against our kings—”
...
“How are you feeling?” Lann asked, glancing toward Geralt just as the effects of the drugged wine began to manifest across the banquet. He checked his own body for signs—nothing. Clear.
“Thankfully, the second mutation paid off,” Geralt replied with a shake of his head. “Should we move now?”
Lann gazed out the window, thoughtful. At some point, the night wind had grown bitterly cold, and snowflakes had begun to fall.
“No,” he said at last. “Not yet. Wait a little longer.”
And soon enough, Lann saw the moment he’d been waiting for.
...
“Emhyr made contact with Vilgefortz of Roggeveen, luring him in with promises of power and glory. To become ruler of all territories subjugated by the North, the so-called Hero of Sodden Hill betrayed us! He was promised dominion over the provinces—that is, the annexed Northern Kingdoms...”
Philippa was still speaking, her voice sharp with fervor—when a scream outside the window abruptly cut her off.
The sound was all too familiar. A sudden realization struck her, and her face went pale. Striding quickly to the window, she was met with a sight that would be forever seared into her memory.
A flash of lightning illuminated the pitch-black skies over Thanedd Island, lighting up the sea surrounding the cliffs. A pale ribbon of white shimmered in the sky above—twisting like a serpent, undulating and alive.
It was a path of wind and snow, so dense it had nearly solidified into a tangible trail, with frost coalescing midair.
Along that shimmering track, shadowy riders began to take shape—vague, terrifying silhouettes that grew clearer with each passing second.
A violent gust tore through the curtains, lightning split the heavens—and then came the howling. Louder and louder. No... not wind. Singing. Eerie, spectral singing.
The screams outside surged in volume. One by one, ghostly figures emerged fully into view—Redania’s elite guards, now visible as they faced a horrific, merciless enemy. These men should have already joined up with Dijkstra—but instead, they had encountered something else. Something monstrous.
“Was this part of your plan too?” Tissaia appeared at Philippa’s side, her voice numb.
The dreadful cavalry veered sharply, charging straight toward the Aretuza Palace. The hooves of their skeletal steeds thundered across invisible steps in midair, each strike casting the storm into deeper chaos.
Through the faint magical glow around them, the observers caught just enough detail: the riders were not skeletons—but warriors clad in armor shaped like bone. Their hollow visors burned with bluish-gray fire.
No... not corpses. A fully armored elite unit.
A magical cavalry.
“The Wild Hunt!” cried one of the more well-read sorcerers, the memory leaping straight from the pages of legend. Philippa and Tissaia screamed the name in unison.
Their eyes shot skyward. On the highest spire of Aretuza stood a woman with hair like burnished gold, her entire body radiating like the shimmer of the aurora. A signal—bright, cold, and unmistakable.
She was the only elf in the entire Brotherhood of Sorcerers.
A beacon for the army of death descending from the skies.
“Francesca!”
...
Philippa’s faction had launched their rebellion. Tissaia’s sorcerers had now grasped the situation. The elven herald of the Wild Hunt had made her entrance.
Only one piece remained. Since they were all here—might as well end it together.
As everyone’s attention was drawn to the storm and the phantom riders beyond the window, Lann quietly reached into his inventory. He tossed a piece of gear to Geralt, then retrieved a silver dinner knife, holding it with both hands as he strode toward Vilgefortz.
The man had been dragged into a dark corner.
Except for Triss and Yennefer, who had come prepared, no one else seemed to be paying any attention to the real instigator now.
“Lannister... you—”
Lann gave him a cold glance and weighed the knife in his hand. To keep the noise down, this would have to do.
He raised both arms, blade lifted high to his forehead. Power surged through his body.
[Rend]!
The soft silver blade sliced clean through the dimeritium shackles with a muted clang. The sealed sorcerer regained his power in an instant!
“Lannister, why would you—”
Lann didn’t bother answering. Not a single extra word for this man. He quickly stepped back toward his allies and shouted at the top of his lungs: “Vilgefortz has escaped!!”
