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TWL Chapter 457: The Path to Vizima
🕑 Added 2025-06-15 19:53:58 +0000 UTC“Wait a minute… I think Geralt once told me he spent some time at the Temple of Melitele in his youth—have you ever heard of that name? You
“Wait a minute… I think Geralt once told me he spent some time at the Temple of Melitele in his youth—have you ever heard of that name? You
“Wait a minute… I think Geralt once told me he spent some time at the Temple of Melitele in his youth—have you ever heard of that name? You wouldn’t happen to know him, would you?” Gerd asked.
"Master Geralt hadn’t arrived at the temple yet when I joined,” Jarre said, the reverence in his eyes deepening. “But Mother Nenneke spoke of him often, and I’ve heard many of Master Dandelion’s songs and poems about him…”
Nenneke was the high priestess of the Temple of Melitele. It was said she had mentored Geralt in his youth—and even tended to his wounds more than once. Geralt had spoken of her often while drinking with fellow Witchers, always with the utmost respect.
As for this kid… Hah, looks like it wasn’t just the Lion of the North who had left an impression on him—the White Wolf clearly had a hand in this too.
Gerd shook his head. With one hand, he grabbed Jarre by the collar and hauled him up like a sack of flour. There had recently been a merchant caravan from Temeria—this boy had probably slipped in with them. Time to toss him back out.
This wasn’t how Witchers took on apprentices. If worse came to worst, he’d just let Geralt deal with it once he emerged from the cultivation pod.
Behind Gerd, the crowd hadn’t dispersed after the brief interruption. On the contrary, his brief appearance had made the crowd even more excited.
More boys in their teens—or even younger—surged forward toward the registrar, some dragged along by eager parents.
Among them, many would one day bear twin swords on their backs, fighting to protect humankind.
...
[Shing!]
The lion-headed silver sword slid free of its sheath, and with the momentum of his galloping mount, House cleaved the ghoul in front of him clean in half.
He adjusted his posture, the lion-head insignia at his chest gleaming with each beat of his movement.
With a firm push off the saddle, he launched himself into the air. A powerful downward strike sent him barreling straight into the remaining group of ghouls. Taking several claw slashes head-on thanks to his thick armor, he dodged a few swipes aimed at his eyes and throat. A pivot, a twist of the waist, and a sweeping strike of his elbow and arm—
[Whirl]!
[Swish, swish, swish!]
Three ghouls were cut down like vegetables. Chests, guts, backs—blood sprayed like rain.
One circle. Then two. By the third spin, House finally lost his footing and couldn’t maintain the form. He abandoned the stance altogether and simply let himself fall, rolling on the ground to escape the fray.
[Zzzzt—!]
Two child-sized ghouls let out shrill cries and lunged toward the prone House—only to be intercepted by a hawk-headed longsword from the rear, stabbing them clean through in a rapid series of thrusts.
Judging by the fluid precision, the swordsman’s style was even more suited for killing monsters than House’s own, forged on the battlefield.
House looked up to see Leo—still just a lad—grinning at him. The griffin insignia on his chest gleamed with pride.
Before House could say anything, a barrage of arrows sliced through the gaps around them like threads of embroidery. One arrow after another, relentless and fast as a storm, cutting down the rest of the ghouls in an instant.
“Milva!” House shouted in protest.
The female archer said nothing, only raised an eyebrow smugly, then nudged her horse back a step—revealing Lann behind her, face set in a grim expression.
One look at that face, and House immediately lowered his head, guilt washing over him.
On this expedition into Temeria, Lann hadn’t just rushed forward blindly. As part of training his group, he’d deliberately cleared out several monster nests along the way, gaining the gratitude of the surrounding villagers in the process.
The current hunting party included, besides Lann himself, House, Leo, and Milva—who had only recently completed her mutation.
Both Milva and House had received the lion-head medallion from Lann, becoming part of the newly established School of the Lion.
Leo, however, had retained his affiliation with the School of the Griffin—both to fill the void left by Lann’s departure from it, and because he’d been raised and mentored by Keldar and Jerome. There was sentiment involved.
That said, once Lann announced his journey, the two old Griffins had promptly dumped Leo on him—considering it the young man’s Mountain Trial.
Now, Lann stood over his squire and junior with a stern gaze.
“We’ve cleared enough monsters along this route. Why hasn’t your fighting style changed at all?”
“House, is that how you use a sword dance? Spinning until you fall over? If you can’t kill the enemy, are you hoping to kill yourself instead? You’re a Lion, not a Cat!”
The squire lowered his head.
“And you, Leo,” Lann continued, his tone unforgiving. “House fights with a desperate, battle-hardened style—that’s fine, I don’t care. But you? You’re a traditionally trained Witcher, so why are you fighting like you have no regard for your life? Just because someone’s watching your back, you don’t bother leaving yourself a retreat? And where are your Signs? You’re a Griffin!”
The young man also lowered his head in shame.
“And then there’s you, Milva…”
The archer lifted her head, her eyes sparkling with anticipation.
Lann paused for a moment. “Keep doing what you’re doing. Don’t learn from them.”
“Yes, my Lord Duke!” she answered crisply.
The rest of the guard naturally turned to the ghoul corpses, beginning to skin them, collect mutagens, and gather biological materials. A few worked shoulder to shoulder, expertly exploring the nest nearby.
Lann used the moment to let the squad rest and gave Blackwind a drink. The steed, still disgruntled, nudged its master with its head—it had tried several times earlier to charge into the fray alone, but Lann had firmly restrained it, prioritizing the squad’s training.
“How far are we from Vizima?”
Hearing his lord speak, House quickly raised his head. “We’ve already crossed the Ismena Valley. At this pace, we should arrive by dusk.”
Lann nodded.
Finally, something useful. House sighed in relief, hoping the duke would forget how recklessly he had fought earlier. He knew he’d been overconfident lately—his sudden strength boost had made his tactics dangerously aggressive.
“House.”
“Y-Yes, sir!” The squire straightened up immediately, expecting another scolding.
But instead, he heard the duke’s amused voice: “You’re eighteen this year, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Good.” Lann nodded. “Then it’s time for you to find a wife.”
“…My Lord?”
“As it happens, Uncle Mousesack is planning to confirm the reproductive capacity of the new Witchers.” Lann spoke in a solemn tone, as if issuing an official command. “I want you to take this matter seriously.”
Until recently, the idea that new Witchers might not be reproductively isolated from each other—or from humans—was only speculation. It was thought male and female Witchers might still be able to reproduce.
But once Adda became pregnant with Lann’s child, everything changed.
Mousesack proposed a bold hypothesis: if Witchers mutated in Lann’s likeness could reproduce, they would no longer be distinct from ordinary humans.
And any hypothesis needed testing.
Looking at House’s mortified expression, Lann fought to suppress a laugh.
But inwardly, he was thinking about something deeper. These squires who had followed him through battle after battle had made wielding the sword for his sake the purpose of their lives.
They might treat themselves as mere tools in service to him—but Lann could not accept such loyalty without giving something in return. Even if they didn’t ask for it, he would ensure they received what they deserved: titles, wealth… marriage.
And just as that thought crossed his mind, Lann turned and saw Milva again—eyes shining.
And behind her, Triss, watching in thoughtful silence.
...
Dusk.
Golden sunlight poured over the shores of Lake Vizima.
Vizima, capital of Temeria, was also a bustling port city, located at a vital crossroads of commerce.
Merchant ships docked, crews shouting as they unloaded their cargo.
But their voices suddenly fell quiet.
A procession was slowly passing by—silent, yet far more imposing than all the noise before it.
They held their breath. The heavy cavalry’s armor still bore streaks of blood.
And when they saw the man at the head of the column, their hushed silence turned into uncontrollable murmurs.
“That’s Duke Lannister, isn’t it… The Lion of the North.”
“Yeah, that’s him. Griffin cloak, hair like pale gold sunlight… and that presence—no one else in the North has that.”
“He looks exactly like the illustrations from the poems.”
“Even the painted Gwent card in the new set felt impressive—but in person, he’s even more commanding…”
Lann paid them no mind. After passing through countless cities and towns, he’d long stopped caring about being gawked at.
But House remained on guard, wary of any who might act disrespectfully toward his lord.
