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TWL Chapter 456: The Road to Thanedd Begins
🕑 Added 2025-06-15 00:27:21 +0000 UTCKaer Seren, inside the laboratory. Under Mousesack’s supervision, the three witchers stripped down to nothing but their underpants. “Keep go
Kaer Seren, inside the laboratory.
Under Mousesack’s supervision, the three witchers stripped down to nothing but their underpants.
“Keep going,” Yennefer said with a cold chuckle as she assisted with the process. “Not a single scrap left.”
Geralt gave a nonchalant shrug, Letho returned the smirk and didn’t hesitate in the slightest—only Coën moved with visible reluctance.
Kiyan, staring at the trio of nearly-naked men, leaned over to Gerd and Kolgrim.
“Letho’s really not from the Bear School? Look at those arms, those thighs… and that third leg. How the hell did the Viper School train someone like that? Doesn’t seem very… stealthy.”
Kolgrim shot him a sidelong glance. “You wouldn’t understand.”
Gerd simply shook his head at Kiyan in quiet resignation.
Lann watched as the three stepped into the semi-metallic incubation pods and turned to Mousesack. “How long will the process take?”
Mousesack directed Bill to insert several injection tubes into the witchers’ bodies, then instructed Yennefer to prepare the mutagens. Only afterward did he respond to Lann.
“I’m not sure why you thought this would be quick. Granted, it is easier than the first witcher mutation.”
The druid shook his head. “But for safety and stability, they’ll need to remain in the pods for at least a week. And after the mutation, they’ll still need to undergo several rounds of testing with me, and train under Jerome to familiarize themselves with their new powers.”
“But don’t worry. Everything will be finished before the Thanedd Island summit. By then, we’ll have three fully-mutated elite witchers.”
Lann nodded.
Nearby, Keldar and Jerome had also begun helping with the final preparations.
As the mutagens flooded the rubber tubes, the three figures inside became obscured from view. Yet everyone present could sense it—those metal incubation pods had become something like great cocoons.
And the day they finally emerged… the world would come to understand what the word 'Witcher' truly meant.
“By the way, when do you plan on heading to Thanedd Island?” Mousesack suddenly asked.
“In the next day or two.”
“That soon?”
Lann nodded. “I want to make a stop in Vizima to visit Foltest, so I need to leave early.”
...
“I’m going to Temeria too! I want to go to Thanedd Island!”
Cintra Royal Palace, study chamber.
Ciri had leapt onto Lann’s desk, leaned forward, and slammed both hands down on the documents spread out before him. The movement caused her well-defined waist to dip forward, while her rear lifted dramatically for balance. Her fitted and elegant dress was nearly torn by the sudden shift.
Lann, with his sharp attention to detail, immediately zeroed in. “When did you start wearing dresses like that? Doesn’t it feel awkward?”
Ciri’s silver-gray hair flew as she glared fiercely at him. “I’m going to Temeria! I’m going to Thanedd Island!”
“The Duke and Queen of Cintra can’t both be gone at the same time. One of us has to stay,” Lann said, gesturing toward the towering stacks of paperwork on both of their desks. He held up his hands in resignation.
“Besides, I already told you how dangerous the Thanedd summit is going to be. Once the fighting breaks out, I’ll have to ask my teacher to send you back to Kaer Seren ahead of time—before the Wild Hunt catches wind of your location.”
“I—”
Lann smacked her lightly on the head, cutting her off.
“If you even think about saying something like ‘I’m strong now, I’m not afraid of danger or the Wild Hunt,’ I’ll throw you into Kaer Seren myself right now.”
Ciri’s head was yanked downward under the sudden force, nearly slamming into Lann’s chest and stomach. Her lower body lost balance from the surprise attack, and she collapsed hard onto the desk.
The fitted dress she wore made a dangerously strained sound.
In the next second, Ciri flung both hands outward, sending a chaotic pulse of magical energy through the room. Documents burst into the air, swirling like a storm and completely obscuring Lann’s vision.
By the time Duke Lannister cleared the flurry from his face, all he saw was the doorway still swinging open—and outside, the sound of guards saluting the retreating figure: “Your Majesty.”
Lann shook his head. “Not an ounce of queenly grace.”
As he spoke, he instinctively rubbed his palm and caught a lingering whiff of lily-of-the-valley and white rose.
His mind involuntarily pictured the curve-hugging dress… and the graceful figure beneath it.
Lann let out a short laugh.
“No wonder she suddenly started wearing dresses.”
“She’s growing up…”
…
Out in the corridor, Ciri stormed down the hall, her every stomp threatening to crack the stone tiles beneath her feet.
Then, as if a thought suddenly struck her, she spun around like a gust of wind.
[Knock! Knock!]
Two heavy bangs on the door. At the same time as a voice inside replied, “Come in,” Ciri burst into the room.
Triss looked up in surprise at the whirlwind that was Ciri. A dozen thoughts flicked through her mind in a heartbeat.
“If it were Geralt or Yennefer, you wouldn’t have come to me,” the sorceress said with a knowing smile. “So this is about Lann again, isn’t it?”
Ciri scrunched up her nose, eyes scanning the open suitcase on Triss’s bed—inside were neatly folded clothes, organized potions, and various enchanted stones and crystals.
Triss was set to accompany Lann. She had once served as royal advisor in Temeria, making her an ideal liaison.
“Temeria… you had a colleague there, right? Keira Metz? And the princess is named Adda?”
“That’s right.”
“And Thanedd Island is full of female sorceresses, isn’t it? All of them beautiful… and kind of… provocatively dressed?”
Triss tapped her lip with her index finger. “They prefer to call it ‘expressive fashion'.”
Ciri closed the door without a word, drew a deep breath, and sat on Triss’s bed.
Her expression turned serious.
“Triss… while you’re out there… keep a close eye on Lann.”
...
“Name.”
“…Jarre.”
“Where are you from?”
“I…”
“Think carefully before answering.” Gerd narrowed his eyes slightly as he stared at the hesitant, skinny boy in front of him.
The subsidies Lann had offered to Witchers were simply too generous. As a result, young people from all across Cintra had been flooding into the capital lately—and even many from neighboring countries had come to try their luck.
With some rare free time recently, Gerd had taken a leisurely stroll near the new location of the Order. By chance, he noticed the Witcher recruitment office registering candidates. Driven by curiosity, he decided to check it out.
Jarre dared not meet the gaze of the man in front of him, a figure as large as a bear with piercing amber slit pupils.
It didn’t take long for the crowd nearby to recognize who Gerd was, and murmurs of excitement erupted.
“That’s the captain of the Sea Guerrillas—Master Gerd, the Bear of the Sea!”
“I heard even a heavy crossbow can’t pierce his skin, and when he charges, it’s like a tidal wave crashing into the enemy!”
“Look at those arms, those legs, and those glorious scars! That’s what a true warrior should look like!”
“I wonder where the Forest Guerrillas' captain is—Master Letho, the Anaconda of the Woods? Rumor has it he’s the only one whose size can rival Master Gerd’s!”
“If I become a Witcher, could I end up like Master Gerd?”
The Cintrans’ admiration for Witchers was unmistakable.
Gerd scratched his head. He’d thought the treatment he received in Skellige was already exceptional, but it seemed Cintra had taken it to another level. He still hadn’t quite gotten used to it.
Steadying himself, he looked once more at the youth before him—around fifteen years old, by the looks of it.
“You don’t look like you’re from a poor family,” Gerd observed, eyeing the boy’s clean clothes. “Your hands don’t look like they’ve ever held a sword—more like they’re used to holding a quill. Hands that clean are rare in Cintra these days.”
“Answer honestly, kid. This isn’t a place to play around.”
The youth took a deep breath, still hesitating. The delay caused a ripple of impatience among the others waiting in line, and Gerd had to bark a few sharp commands to settle the crowd.
“My name is Jarre. That part’s true,” Jarre finally said in a low voice. “I’m from Ellander.”
Ellander was a vassal duchy of Temeria. But that wasn’t the issue.
Gerd studied Jarre carefully. “As far as I know, the Temple of Melitele is also located in Ellander. With that frail build of yours, you wouldn’t happen to be an apprentice there, would you?”
Just as Gerd had guessed, Jarre revealed his background: “I’m a trainee scribe at the temple. I can read and write… I’ve studied calligraphy, I know ancient runes, and I’m fluent in Elder Speech…”
“Hah, a promising young lad,” Gerd said, clapping the registrar on the shoulder and signaling him to cross Jarre’s name off the list. “You’re destined to be a priest or a scholar, not a Witcher.”
“Master, please, listen to me!” Jarre pleaded. “When Nilfgaard invaded, I wanted to join the Temerian volunteer forces. But the war ended too quickly… Still, believe me—I’m certain Nilfgaard will return. That’s how the logic of war plays out over time…”
“When enemies set foot on our land—when the homeland is under threat—no one can stand idly by.” The youth’s hesitant tone suddenly turned firm. “And Witchers… I want to become one of those who protect the North, like the masters, like Duke Lannister.”
Another young man inspired by the name of the Lion of the North, it seemed. Gerd rubbed his temples. Lann’s fame in the Northern Kingdoms was clearly growing.
