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TWL Chapter 464: Lines Drawn, Daggers Hidden
🕑 Added 2025-06-22 04:27:09 +0000 UTC“These past few days, Jerome and I have talked a lot,” Geralt said with quiet admiration. “Lann, you’ve got yourself a damn good teacher.” L
“These past few days, Jerome and I have talked a lot,” Geralt said with quiet admiration. “Lann, you’ve got yourself a damn good teacher.”
Lann gave a faint smile. “Careful saying that around Vesemir—he might not let you off easy.”
Geralt’s awakened potential had been an unexpected windfall. And now, with Coën and Letho also having completed their second mutations, along with the rest of the witchers prepared and in position, Lann felt more confident than ever about achieving his goals in the chaos to come.
Just then, not far off, the squabbling among the sorceresses vying to approach Lann finally came to an end—one of them had emerged victorious. A black-haired sorceress began making her way toward the two men.
She wore a black sheer silk blouse paired with a deep crimson skirt, cinched at the waist with a silver belt that featured a massive rose-shaped buckle. The blouse plunged all the way to her navel, while the skirt had a high slit that reached the curve of her hip—a style unmistakably characteristic of a sorceress, and quite a sight to behold.
“Sabrina Glevissig,” Geralt recognized her at once. “Royal advisor to Henselt—known as the true daughter of the Kaedwen Wastes.”
“Kaedwen,” Lann repeated the name slowly, rolling the syllables on his tongue. He was, of course, well-versed in the political powers of each kingdom—royal advisors were no strangers to him.
“But why are you so familiar with her?”
“Yennefer introduced them to me in advance,” Geralt shrugged. “And Ciri… also told me to, uh, keep an eye on you. So—sorry in advance.”
As the radiant sorceress made her way toward them with graceful steps, Geralt stepped slightly ahead of Lann—just enough to put himself between the Lion of Cintra and the impending sorceress assault, as if preparing to shield his destiny-bound friend from the coming barrage.
But it turned out the White Wolf’s caution was unnecessary.
All the sorcerers, including Sabrina Glevissig, suddenly paused whatever they were doing and stepped aside, bowing as several dignitaries entered the hall. At first, the foreign delegates were confused—but they quickly realized what was happening.
Members of the two ruling bodies of the Brotherhood of Sorcerers had arrived: the Chapter of the Gift and the Art and the Supreme Council of Sorcerers.
At the forefront stood a man well into middle age, yet full of energy, dressed plainly in woolen garments. Beside him walked a tall woman with sharply defined features, her jet-black hair neatly styled.
Following closely behind them was a familiar figure—Vilgefortz. Tall and powerfully built, he wore a short, knight-style tunic and exuded confidence and charm. No one present could tell he was no longer the same man they had once known.
“That man in front is Gerhart of Aelle, also known as Hen Gedymdeith—he’s the oldest living sorcerer,” a voice suddenly spoke behind Lann and Geralt. “The woman beside him is Tissaia de Vries, current headmistress of Aretuza. She’s not much younger than Hen, but she never hesitates to use elixirs to hide her age.”
“And the one behind them—you’d better watch him closely. That’s Vilgefortz.”
Lann and Geralt turned to see who had spoken.
It was a tall, bald man, dressed in a tight-fitting ceremonial outfit nearly as suffocating as Geralt’s. He looked somewhat bloated—but those who knew him well understood that the bulk concealed a deceptively powerful physique.
“Long time no see, Duke Lannister.”
“Count Dijkstra,” Lann raised his glass in greeting toward the infamous spymaster of Redania.
“Please don’t call me that. I’m just a farmer’s son. King Vizimir granted me the title so I wouldn’t offend people like you when we speak.”
Sigismund Dijkstra gave a slight bow to Lann and nodded politely to Geralt as well.
“You still refer to Vizimir as ‘Your Majesty’?” Lann asked with a faint smile. “You're certainly cautious.”
But what came next caught Lann entirely off guard.
The spymaster’s fleshy face suddenly turned solemn. Without flinching, he replied, “Duke Lannister, you’re not who you used to be. You’re now a central figure in Philippa’s chosen plan for cooperation. But that doesn’t give you the right to speak with contempt about my king in front of one of his subjects.”
…What?
Lann’s expression remained composed, but a flurry of thoughts flashed through his mind like lightning.
There was no question—Dijkstra was a patriot, and his words reflected a deep reverence for his king.
But… did he really not know that Philippa had already arranged for an assassin to kill that very king, and that the strike was mere moments away?
Wait—did he truly not know?
…Things just got interesting.
Lann responded calmly, “Then allow me to offer my sincere apology—to both you, and to His Majesty Vizimir, who is not present with us tonight.”
Those words eased the tension in Dijkstra’s expression. He extended his hand. Only then did Lann and Geralt notice that he’d brought two glasses of wine with him.
Watching them take the drinks with a polite smile, Dijkstra offered his heartfelt toast: “May our endeavors ahead proceed smoothly… Would either of you like me to continue introducing the members of the Chapter and the Supreme Council?”
...
Redania, Tretogor.
As the capital of Redania, Tretogor was built atop the ruins of an elven settlement. It had no particularly eye-catching landmarks.
Most of the time, King Vizimir II preferred to spend his leisure days in Oxenfurt.
Today was no different. As the assassin’s footsteps echoed in the distance, the king was walking with the prince toward the carriage bound for Oxenfurt.
“You’ll need to strengthen your ties with Oxenfurt in the future—and with Novigrad, too,” the king advised his son earnestly. “The former can provide us with exceptional minds, and the latter, a bountiful tax base to fund our military.”
Radovid’s expression was full of indignation. “But they both show no respect for our crowned white eagle banner! The scholars in Oxenfurt seem to take pride in turning down noble patronage—it’s like a badge of honor to them. They even show a lack of proper deference to you, Father.”
“And Novigrad—Novigrad is practically becoming Chappelle’s city. The soldiers there sing praises to the Eternal Fire more devoutly than they ever speak my grandfather’s name!”
Vizimir II shook his head. He had come to realize that his son harbored a morbid obsession with control. It wasn’t exactly rare—most kings and nobles of the North shared that flaw.
In fact, a king like Vizimir II, who tolerated and accommodated others, was perhaps the one considered 'flawed' in the eyes of many.
“But that,” the king said firmly, “is precisely what allows Redania to surpass the other three great kingdoms. These people are the reason Redania can continue to grow stronger. Radovid, once you’ve set your sights on a goal, you must learn to endure temporary slights.”
His tone turned stern. “There is more than one king in the North. And in the South, there’s still an emperor.”
No matter how cold and ruthless Radovid would become in adulthood, he still didn’t dare raise his voice in front of his father.
Chastised, he was left with no choice but to reflect—and before long, he began to draw connections. “So, Philippa and the others… their operation on Thanedd Isle—is that also part of your ‘goal’?”
“That’s right,” Vizimir replied. “Foltest sits atop an entire Brotherhood of Sorcerers, yet he shackles Thanedd Isle with endless restrictions just to maintain his grip on power. It’s such a waste.” Pleased by his son’s growing insight, the king continued to guide him patiently.
He pointed to the banner of Redania fluttering in the sky—the crowned white eagle.
“We already control the North’s greatest trade city and its most prestigious academy. If we can also seize the largest mage organization in the North, then nothing will stop our banner from soaring across all of it.”
He gently tousled his son’s hair. A son born late in his life, Radovid was his greatest hope.
“I’m getting old. I may not live to see that day come. But you—raised under your mother’s guidance—you will.”
Radovid lowered his head, pondering for a moment, his face full of reluctance. “Money and talent are important… but are mages really worth all this effort?”
“Radovid, Lannister of Cintra has already changed the very nature of warfare—and Nilfgaard seems to be integrating mages into their military structure on a massive scale. Just watch—every military academy will soon revise their teaching methods. Countless people will begin studying that recent battle, and they’ll all reach the same conclusion: magic…”
Vizimir II led Radovid down the marble steps, departing from the royal palace of Tretogor. A carriage was already waiting for the king on the avenue.
