When the body was found and the bells tolled, Geralt was already chasing Letho. Temeria dressed in black, mourning its assassinated king. But within the thick walls of the castle, there was anything but silence. Foltest’s body wasn’t even cold before the political fires raged. The throne room was packed—nobles, advisors, marshals, spymasters, servants—all shouting like animals crammed in a pen. Pigs, snakes, chickens, wolves, already forming alliances, scheming, speculating. The war of voices filled the chamber, yet amidst the clamor, the throne itself sat untouched. Empty. Cold. Silent.

Except for one name. The Queen, unstable and sent away with her child, but Foltest's sister, Adda, screamed that name. A name that had stayed hidden until now—an unborn child. A secret. A faceless heir.

Roche knew the truth had ignited a firestorm. Assassins were already hunting that name. He was sent to fetch it, that heir no one had ever seen. His men rode hard toward the village on the border, untouched by the flames of war—yet. The horses’ hooves sank into the mud as they passed by poor, weather-beaten houses. Stray dogs barked as they entered. He halted by a drunk farmer, a lover of the mad Queen, who pointed lazily toward the fields for a handful of coins. And Roche pressed on, leading his men toward the edge of the village. The fields were barren—no grain, just mud and burned remnants of last season’s crop. Among the pigs stood the swineherd, a peasant dressed in rags. Roche dismounted, signaling his men to stay behind. This was a delicate matter, after all. e approached slowly, eyes narrowed as you looked up from the muck, sniffing against the cold air. You, a swineherd, ignorant of your bloodline, were barely more than a peasant—perhaps you couldn’t even read.

As he neared, you squinted at the man in his polished armor, rubbing your hands on your ragged clothes. "You here to buy some pigs?"

Roche stared at you, face stern, before shaking his head. “Not exactly."