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TWL Chapter 378: To Command, To Unite
🕑 Added 2025-05-11 02:03:37 +0000 UTCSecond among the Followers in granting the most experience to Lann was Kiyan in Novigrad. The system’s power had cured him of the hereditary madness passed down within the Cat School. Coupled with the efforts of a theater troupe running a publicity campaign on his behalf, quite a bit of favorable reputation had started to emerge from Novigrad—the capital of backroom dealings.
Though it was just a drop in the ocean, it nonetheless injected a sliver of positive energy into the Witchers’ otherwise chaotic and tarnished public image.
The next Follower to provide Lann with more experience was the Succubus, Nanomi. She wasn’t fond of fighting and preferred to live in the forest. Surprisingly, her lifestyle meshed well with the dryads. The tasks she received were often strange and cryptic…
Lann didn’t know why she had gone off in search of some Elven cemetery. He gave it some thought but ultimately chose not to worry about it. A woman thousands of years old could take care of herself. And with the system keeping her in check, there was no need to worry about her becoming a threat.
Iris had remained in Brokilon before Lann departed for Mahakam. One reason was to let her spend more time with Ciri; the other was that, as the only spirit within a painting in the entire Continent, she could also provide solid protection for Ciri—now publicly exposed.
As for figures like the ice giant or Keltullis, there was no need to elaborate.
Svanrige, however, was the most unique case. Though Lann had taken him in as a Follower in order to save his life, it wasn’t something that could be publicly disclosed. To the outside world, it was merely believed that Lann had used the miraculous powers of Elder Blood to heal a relative.
Lann tapped his index finger lightly on the desk, then gave a command after some thought: “A group of soldiers from Mahakam will be arriving soon. Make sure they're properly housed and arranged. When the next merchant caravan heads there, send a few of Iris’s paintings as gifts.”
“Yes,” Levin immediately jotted down the instruction.
“No need to look so tense,” Lann said with a chuckle at the sight of his attendant’s serious expression. “Well done, Levin.”
The praise from his liege made the young man’s heart swell with pride. As the grandson of the mayor of a small frontier town in Cintra, he had never imagined his life would turn out like this.
Before Lann could say more, a commotion was heard in the hallway outside.
A moment later, someone’s voice—restrained yet brimming with excitement—could be heard softly exclaiming, “Your Majesty.”
“Lann, may I come in?” came a steady voice from beyond the door.
Upon hearing that familiar voice, a genuine smile bloomed on Lann’s face.
“Of course.”
As soon as the words left his mouth, he was already rising from his seat. The old steward Enns swiftly stepped forward and opened the door, revealing a man in full armor—fresh from battling the sea aboard a ship, by the look of him.
Inside and outside the doorway, every Cintran present instinctively gave a bow and called out:
“Your Majesty.”
For this was the husband of the Queen of Cintra.
The beloved of the Lioness.
The former King of Cintra.
And now once again the crowned ruler of Skellige—Eist Tuirseach.
Feelings toward him among the Cintrans were complicated.
Strictly speaking, by law, Eist had inheritance rights to Cintra as Calanthe’s husband, even if he was a foreigner. Many small nations on the Continent had fallen through similar legal arrangements, becoming vassals after foreign royals 'conveniently' passed away.
History was full of cases where the kings of great nations married off their younger sons or daughters in political unions, only for the spouse to 'die unexpectedly' soon after—leaving behind a new vassal state. It was nothing new.
But Eist was never power-hungry. To prevent internal unrest in Cintra, he had long since relinquished that right.
Now, the seafaring man embraced Lann warmly, then turned to face the room full of Cintrans, his heart filled with emotion.
“It’s been a long time, all of you. Some of you I’ve worked alongside in the past; many others are new faces. I thank you all for continuing the fight. Under the sky where the Three Lions banner still flies, my beloved knows of your loyalty—and will surely send her blessings upon you.”
“But I’m no longer the King of Cintra. I’m not qualified to lead the Lion,” Eist said as he patted Lann on the shoulder. “You may bow to me—that’s etiquette—but your spines must bend only for the blood of my beloved. Only…”
His hand paused briefly on Lann’s shoulder, and then he suddenly laughed: “…only two people are worthy of such an honor. The Lion—and the Lion Cub.”
The solemn air in the room relaxed noticeably under Eist’s lightheartedness.
In truth, he didn’t need to spell it out. While the Cintrans’ reverence for Eist hadn’t diminished, when he and Lann stood side by side, it was clear that their loyalty now flowed more strongly toward Lann.
Still, Eist’s open declaration brought a sense of reassurance to everyone present.
“Uncle, when did you arrive? Is everything going well on the front lines?” Lann greeted Eist with a smile. “Did you come here to—wait.”
A thought struck him, and he smacked his forehead in mild exasperation. “Is everyone already gathered, just waiting on me?”
Eist nodded, chuckling lightly. “That’s right. I just returned via Mousesack’s portal to attend the meeting. Everyone else is already in the council hall.”
“I couldn’t be bothered to sit down and get up again, so I decided to play errand boy and come find you.”
“They’re all waiting on you—Cintra’s Lion.”
There was deep emotion in his voice.
Lann quickly followed Eist out, hurrying through the corridor to the estate’s grand hall.
...
The reception hall of the lord’s estate had long since been converted into a war council chamber by Mousesack and Marshal Vissegerd. A massive stone table dominated the center of the room, upon which stood an exquisitely crafted strategic sand table depicting the current state of the Northern Realms.
Wargame pieces, carved in the shape of national emblems, were scattered across the map, and soft murmurs filled the air around the long table.
But as the doors opened and the figures of Eist and Lann appeared, the atmosphere immediately shifted. Every person present turned around. Regardless of their identity or political stance, at that moment, they were all required to bow to Lann and offer their greetings.
“—Duke Lannister.”
The voices echoed through the hall.
Only one person didn’t join in.
Seated in the seat of honor, with the deference of stars orbiting a moon, Ciri smiled at Lann. She restrained herself from rushing over as she usually would and instead raised her chin slightly: “Lann, come to my side.”
And so, Lann strode forward and stood beside Ciri at the head of the room, under the gaze of everyone who found it completely fitting.
Eist’s gaze turned a little misty. Those two standing there reminded him of himself and Calanthe in their younger days.
No matter what others were feeling in that moment, Lann’s eyes swept around the stone table, taking in the power he had gathered during this time—
His firmest supporters: the Cintrans. Represented by Mousesack, Enns, Marshal Vissegerd, and several deputy generals under the marshal’s command.
The equally steadfast Skelligers: represented by Eist, the warrior Crach who had come with him, the blacksmith Yuna who had come to observe the meeting, and several archdruids from the Oak Ring of the Isles. The other clan chiefs remained fighting on the front lines.
Then there were the Witchers and sorceresses.
Lastly, the volunteer dwarf forces. Represented by Yarpen, Gabor, and Petrit, though all of them respectfully stood behind Colonel Barclay, who had just arrived through the portal to attend the meeting.
Of course, there were also others who were not yet present but could still be counted as part of their strength. Lann calculated quietly in his mind—like the Free Company from Kovir, and the Allied Kingdoms he had just recently parted from.
“Then,” Lann’s amber lion eyes swept across everyone present, each individual meeting his gaze with a mix of emotions.
He drew in a deep breath, and when he spoke again, his voice had unconsciously taken on a calm, commanding weight.
“Let’s begin.”
...
Both of Ardal aep Dahy’s arms had been twisted behind his back at nearly impossible angles.
His last clear memory was of seeing the Lion of Cintra outside the city of Lyria. He hadn’t regained consciousness at any point since then.
The strange magic wielded by the Lion, combined with the concoctions of that amber-eyed Witcher, had kept his mind in a constant haze. Never once had he been able to think clearly.
Now, with no more potions and no spell currently affecting him, the pain returned in full force—an unrelenting agony that clung to him without pause. A brutish pair of armored guards, one male and one female, yanked him forward, nearly dislocating his arms as they dragged him along.
It hurt—but even so, Duke aep Dahy felt a moment of relief. He knew Cintra now had some use for him, and his fate would soon be decided. What happened next would depend on the performance he delivered.
Acting was a domain in which he excelled—a master of intrigue and manipulation.
His long-idle mind began working at high speed. But before he could settle on a proper scheme, the two guards dragged him into a grand hall—and flung him to the ground with a vicious toss.
Groaning, the duke struggled to raise his head, but the guards didn’t permit him the freedom to look around. One of them grabbed him by the neck and forced his gaze forward.
And there, just as he had expected, stood the Lion of Cintra—alongside the one whom all of Nilfgaard was searching for:
The Lion Cub herself—Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon.
