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TWL Chapter 448: Whispers in the Dark
🕑 Added 2025-06-09 19:47:47 +0000 UTCOrdinarily, anyone who writes a letter like this and has it found is ninety-nine percent already dead. Lann gave the letter a quick once-ove
Ordinarily, anyone who writes a letter like this and has it found is ninety-nine percent already dead.
Lann gave the letter a quick once-over and said to the Wolves, “There’s a potion formula at the bottom, based on his symptoms. Seems to use white myrtle as the main ingredient. And he signed it.”
He softly read the name: “Reinald.”
The moment the name left his lips, Vesemir jolted. His heavy, sudden breath echoed through the cavern for all to hear.
“You knew him?”
Vesemir shook his head. “No. But my mentor mentioned him. Before I was even brought to Kaer Morhen, Reinald was already a pillar of the School of the Wolf. I heard he was a master smith—his craftsmanship was exquisite. He even helped build Kaer Morhen.”
The wolves gasped in unison.
He helped build Kaer Morhen? What kind of ancient monster must he be?
Lambert voiced the question on everyone’s mind: “Is he really still alive?”
All eyes turned to Lann.
“In the vision I saw through Elder Blood, he was ‘nearly’ dead,” Lann shook his head. “But that’s exactly why I came here—to use my power to wrest a sliver of life back for him.”
Silence fell.
Surprisingly, it was Kiyan who patted Vesemir’s shoulder and offered reassurance: “Come on, don’t worry! I was once locked up in an experiment for decades. They skinned me alive, pumped more potions into me than I had blood, and in the end, I got possessed by a demon! And even after all that, Lann brought me back.”
“As long as your senior still has one breath left in him, Lann can snatch him from death’s hands.”
And to be fair, Kiyan’s personal testimony did manage to comfort Vesemir—at least a little.
Geralt stared at the letter for a while, then voiced a different concern.
“This was nailed so crudely to the door… yet after all these years, it hasn’t crumbled to dust. Doesn’t that seem a bit strange?”
The comment drew unanimous agreement.
“It’s either an enemy’s trap,” Vesemir speculated, “or a warning left by that senior himself, using what little strength he had to help outsiders like us.”
“If it’s a warning,” Lambert said boldly, “then all the more reason to save him. And if it’s a trap—what monster could possibly take on this squad?”
Their eyes swept the room: witchers and a sorceress. Everyone smirked coldly and pressed on.
Carefully storing the letter away, Chappelle took the lead and pushed open the dust-covered door.
A sudden gust of musty, decaying air surged out. Cold wind howled from deep within the cavern, bringing with it a pained, muffled voice.
…
“No... help me...”
“Please... help... me...”
The scattered pleas came in broken fragments. Torches on either side of the mine spontaneously burst into flame without a spark, casting faint light into the pitch-dark depths.
But the dim glow didn’t dispel the fear—it only dragged out long, twisted shadows across the stone walls, the kind that would’ve sent any ordinary adventuring party fleeing for home.
Fortunately, not one of them was ordinary.
“That voice… could that be ‘Reinald’?”
Lann and Kiyan grew alert.
The witcher of the Cat School, once possessed by a demon and now gifted with the Medium talent, narrowed his eyes, cold and focused.
“No... I smell something familiar. This is a wraith’s deception.”
Lambert shrugged. “Still, that voice did sound pretty sincere.”
Even without torches, the glow in the witchers’ eyes was enough to illuminate the mine. Before long, they spotted several wolf-head emblems carved into the ground—just as 'Reinald' had described in his letter, markers left to guide a fellow brother.
Chappelle’s expression grew increasingly ashamed. More and more bones and bodies littered the path, and streaks of blood—sprayed in violent bursts—covered the stone walls.
With some medical knowledge of her own, Yennefer offered her analysis.
“This looks like some kind of hemorrhagic fever. Judging by the blood loss... whoever bled like this probably died within seconds.”
Chappelle said nothing, silently following the trail of wolf-head emblems until they reached a rickety wall.
He felt around for a moment—then discovered another letter tucked into the corner.
[O,
I have to rest. The priests still refuse to open the door. My body is weakening, and I have no memory of what happened these past few hours… or has it been days?
Trapped in the dark, with nothing to do, my thoughts keep spiraling. I remember our training. I remember taking contracts together. And then suddenly… I couldn’t remember your name.
Was it Osmar? Or Omons? Or Omund…? Wait—yes, you’re Osmund. It just came back to me!
But just now, for a moment…
I’m starting to think… I may never get out of here.
—Reinald.]
After reading the letter, the witchers looked up. In front of them stood a drafty wall, one that clashed starkly with the architecture around it. It had clearly been thrown together in haste—to keep something inside.
The letter had drifted out through a gap in that wall.
Lambert raised his hand. With a single burst of Aard, the wall—already barely standing—shattered into rubble. A flood of rats poured out like a tide.
Beyond them lay a tunnel, darker and deeper still. The floor was strewn with bones, dried blood, slick remnants of dried fluids, and chaotic scratch marks.
“These marks… they’re made by human fingernails. Dozens of people,” Vesemir muttered, inspecting the walls. “They were desperately trying to claw their way out.”
The group turned back toward the broken wall, and for a fleeting moment, it was as if they saw a glimpse of the past—a memory buried a century deep:
A squad of Eternal Fire guards, faces cold and indifferent, watched from outside as the sick begged from within. Brick by brick, they sealed the last opening, walling in every last hope of survival.
“That wall wouldn’t have stopped any witcher,” someone said, “but Reinald’s body must have already begun to fail. So he could only sit there, hopelessly, writing a letter and slipping it through the cracks, praying someone would see it.”
At that moment, another voice echoed from deeper in the mine.
…
“No… save me… please…”
“Help… me…”
…
Kiyan felt like ants were crawling along the back of his neck. His sword hand was starting to itch.
As they moved deeper, signs of human habitation became more frequent—but not the kind anyone would want to see.
Cells. Pens. Chains and shackles. Makeshift laboratories…
And many, many cruel instruments of torture.
All of it was stained with the putrid stink of dried blood.
“Looks like the Eternal Fire’s priests were trying to conduct plague research down here,” Eskel said darkly. “But the patients didn’t want to be used as test subjects. They fought back… and were crushed.”
Lambert examined one of the torture devices. On its frame were iron nails, thick and stained—clearly not meant for fastening wood.
These were made to pierce flesh.
"And it seems the priests developed more than just a research interest..."
Chappelle fell into deeper silence.
“Wait!” Lann suddenly shouted.
At some point, a more chilling “wuuu—” wind had begun to howl around them.
With his feline senses on edge, Kiyan had already drawn his silver sword with a sharp metallic hiss. His eyes glinted with anticipation as he watched several dark silhouettes emerge slowly from the depths of the shadows.
“Looks like the patients’ attachment to this place runs deep.”
They were half-rotted corpses, limping husks of the dead with exposed muscle and bone, cloaked in a grayish-red aura of decay. Step by step, they began to encircle the witchers.
Only now did the medallions on everyone's chest begin to shudder violently.
…
“Save... me…”
…
“That voice didn’t come from them,” Lambert muttered.
“They’re not monsters,” Vesemir noted, glancing at his apprentice. “Looks like the bodies of the infected... but it doesn’t feel like they’re possessed by wraiths either. Their movements are too coordinated.”
“It’s not like they have their own minds,” Eskel added. “More like… they’re being directed by a single consciousness.”
“Whatever the case, we must be close to our goal,” Lann said, pointing toward the dark path from which the creatures had emerged. “They all came from the same place. Whether something gave birth to them or they’re guarding something… I can feel it—that’s where we’re headed.”
Lann stepped forward, raising a hand to hold back the eager witchers behind him.
“Let’s not waste time. There’s no need to expend effort on these things.”
Saying that, Lann lifted his left palm.
