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TWL Chapter 434: The South’s Pawns
🕑 Added 2025-06-01 22:19:00 +0000 UTCLann pulled his consciousness away from examining the changes in his body.
As soon as he opened his eyes, Lann saw a naked middle-aged man with grey hair standing up from the pool—a mixture of monster blood and healing potions.
His expression was complex.
“Pleased to meet you, Child of Elder Blood,” Regis said with composed elegance. “I apologize for appearing before you in such an undignified manner. I hope it hasn’t left a poor impression.”
“And… thank you for healing me with such a miraculous power…”
Lann shook his head and replied seriously, “I should be the one thanking you, Regis, for protecting Ciri.”
Regis offered a gentle smile. His gaze first held gratitude… then shifted to something a bit more curious.
“Forgive my words—I can’t quite believe I’m about to say this,” he said, hesitating.
“But,” Regis continued carefully, “why do I feel… such familiarity toward you?”
Isn’t that a good thing?
Naturally, Lann couldn’t say something that blunt out loud, so he replied in a more tactful tone and continued the conversation.
Judging from the system panel, Regis’s attributes were clearly a level below those of the Red Dragon Keltullis or the Ice Giant.
But combat strength couldn’t be measured by stats alone—Witchers’ base stats didn’t even reach a tenth, or even a twentieth, of a true dragon’s.
Yet with a unique racial trait like this, Regis wouldn’t be intimidated by any 'stat monster'.
Lann was hoping that through this conversation, he might get Regis to reveal—however subtly—how he actually integrated such a trait into his combat methods.
For the time being, the atmosphere between them was peaceful and amicable.
But the calm was soon broken by an irate shout.
“Lannister!!!”
This was immediately followed by the dungeon guards’ cursing.
Regis smiled faintly. “It seems you have other matters to attend to?”
Lann tilted his head and glanced toward the door. “You may not have been asleep long, but quite a lot has happened lately…”
“My apologies—I’ll have to excuse myself for a bit.”
Regis was understanding. “Please, go ahead.”
This was the deepest part of the dungeon, reserved for the most dangerous criminals—or prisoners of significant strategic value.
One sorceress with short black hair sat crouched in a corner of her cell, while another, with long flaxen hair, clutched the bars and began yelling the moment she saw Lann inspecting the dungeon, immediately drawing his attention.
They were the Imperial sorceresses—Fringilla Vigo and Assire var Anahid.
They had been captured outside the city of Lyria by Jerome and had remained imprisoned here ever since, shackled with dimeritium cuffs to suppress their magic.
Per Lann’s instructions, the dungeon guards hadn’t mistreated them, but neither had they shown any favor. After several days in confinement, the difference in their appearance from before was stark.
They were filthy, disheveled, slumped in despair, and gave off a faint sour stench. None of the refined elegance expected of high-ranking sorceresses remained.
“Lannister!!” Assire shouted again, full of fury.
They were, in fact, the second reason Lann had come down to the dungeon.
Emerging from the chamber at the far end, Lann stepped into the torchlight. His shadow stretched long behind him.
Each clang of his steel greaves striking the stone echoed crisply through the empty dungeon corridor.
Assire, who had just been yelling moments earlier, suddenly went quiet, shrinking back.
The humiliation of capture had been festering all this time, but now that the object of her anger had suddenly appeared—so real, so close, just five paces away—Assire abruptly lost her nerve.
It was only now that she seemed to remember that this man standing before her had the authority to order her execution at any time; even outside the cage, he possessed overwhelming strength.
At that moment, even the cell felt like a form of protection.
“Lannister… Duke,” Assire muttered quietly, while Fringilla Vigo took the opportunity to speak up.
And she used formal address.
Assire immediately shot her a wide-eyed glare.
The two of them were the only sorceresses captured alive on the battlefield—which meant Cintra had some use for them, something to negotiate. Their lives might yet be spared.
For long-lived spellcasters, that was more important than anything.
“What do you plan to do with us?” Fringilla asked cautiously.
Lann looked at her—so careful and guarded—and then at Assire, who remained visibly afraid but still held her chin high in defiance.
He narrowed his eyes slightly.
“Don’t worry. I plan to release you—at least… one of you.”
…
Though Nilfgaard had been temporarily repelled, Lann knew this peace would not last.
The gap in strength between the North and the South was still too wide. Nilfgaard was a highly centralized, militarized empire with professional standing armies that vastly outnumbered the North’s hastily conscripted forces.
Even though this battle had cost Nilfgaard over a hundred thousand soldiers—including their heavy cavalry corps—they still retained plenty of combat-ready troops.
In the original timeline, the North had driven Nilfgaard back during the First Northern War, but only after sacrificing Cintra. Barely five years later, Nilfgaard returned with renewed force—its offensive even fiercer than before.
During the Second Northern War, the Empire easily annexed Lyria, Rivia, Aedirn, and Temeria, only halting when extreme hailstorms slowed their advance.
It was only thanks to Radovid V of Redania that the North held out—he took advantage of the hailstorms to conquer Kaedwen, uniting the remaining Northern kingdoms just enough to form a desperate line of defense against the Black Army.
Nilfgaard had deep reserves and could afford to lose multiple times. The North, however, had no such luxury.
—That was the true difference between the North and the South.
What Cintra needed now was a period of relative stability to rebuild. They had neither the strength nor the time to serve as the North’s 'gateway' once more.
If Lann ever hoped to stand against the South in the future, he would first need to truly unify the North.
And during that process of consolidation—of gathering strength—he needed Nilfgaard to stay quiet. He couldn’t afford any interference from them just yet.
That’s where these two southern sorceresses came into play—women who, in the future, would join the Brotherhood of Northern Sorcerers.
By subduing them now and sending them back to the South, Lann could ensure they remained useful—whether they stirred up trouble within Nilfgaard or served as informants feeding him intelligence. Either way, they would prove valuable.
However, at the moment, Lann only had two ability points remaining—and he needed to reserve one in case of unexpected emergencies during the upcoming witcher trials.
So for now, he could only contract one of the sorceresses as a follower.
And judging by the way the two women were behaving in front of him, it was also more cost-effective to choose just one.
“Fringilla Vigo,” Lann called out the sorceress’s name, causing the figure curled in the corner with her knees drawn to her chest to flinch slightly.
“Perhaps we should talk first.”
As for how to establish the contract?
Miss Vigo, surely you wouldn’t want to…
—No, wait. She was his prisoner now. Even threatening her with words seemed like a waste of effort.
“What are you going to do?!” Fringilla swallowed hard, while Assire cried out in alarm.
The dungeon torchlight flickered. The flames danced, casting Lann’s shadow across the wall—its form twisting and warping with the heat.
...
“The Duke has been waiting for quite a while.”
At the entrance, Enns gave the two visitors a slight bow, fulfilling his duty as their guide.
When dealing with foreign guests, he always referred to Lann using his formal title.
Philippa held her chin high, giving Enns the faintest of nods.
Beside her stood Radovid, Prince of Redania.
The prince didn’t seem particularly pleased to be in the company of his court sorceress. At the narrow doorway, he tried his best to maintain some distance from Philippa.
Suddenly, Radovid seemed to notice something and began shouting loudly.
“What is the meaning of this, Cintra?! Is this how your guards treat Redanians?!”
Everyone turned in the direction of his voice, only to see a guard standing a short distance down the corridor. His hand rested on the lion-headed hilt of his longsword, his eyes locked squarely on the Redanian party.
Even those untrained in the martial arts could sense the overt hostility radiating from the man’s stance.
But Prince Radovid, emboldened by his station, felt only insulted.
He opened his mouth to shout again—but Philippa placed her hand on his shoulder before he could say another word.
Radovid stiffened instantly, frozen in place.
“Your Highness,” Philippa said with a meaningful smile, “Cintra has just emerged from the quagmire of war. Knights of valor are everywhere.”
Although her words were directed at the prince, her gaze shifted toward the guard. “Surely that’s something worthy of praise, don’t you think?”
Radovid lowered his head, the shoulder beneath Philippa’s hand remaining tense.
“Let’s head inside. His Majesty entrusted us with a mission—that should always take priority.”
The large doors opened, then shut again behind them, sealing the Redanian prince and his advisor away from view.
Enns let out a quiet sigh and gave House’s still-tense hand a pat—his fingers were still clutching the hilt of his sword.
“Didn’t I tell you to stay away from the Redanian delegation?”
House took a deep breath. “My apologies, Master Enns. I was only trying to report something to the Duke...”
“I didn’t expect to run into that sorceress…”
