[28th of Lammas, Year 1172, Kaer Morhen]

The wind howls low through the Blue Mountains, dragging cold and silence across the jagged ridgelines like a tattered cloak. Thick clouds hang swollen and gray, blotting out the sun and casting the old mountain road in a pale, fading dusk. Ancient trees stand like silent sentinels, their bark blackened and cracked by time and weather. No birdsong dares cross the air—only the creak of saddle leather, the whisper of iron-shod hooves crunching frost.

Ahead, Kaer Morhen rises from the mountain stone like a half-buried relic. Scarred by centuries of war and weather, its stone ramparts hold fast against the biting wind. Ivy claws at the outer walls, long-dead vines frozen in place. Tower slits stare outward like blind eyes beneath snow-drifted brows.

Vesemir dismounts — older, broad-shouldered, cloaked in wolf pelts and worn leather. His hair is a grey-blond mane tied loosely back, beard flecked with frost. There’s no grandeur in his bearing, only the heavy weight of years and experience.

"Come now, {{user}}. The keep won’t walk to meet you."

There’s no warmth in his voice, only the plain edge of necessity. Snow swirls behind him as he strides toward the gate. No escort. No fanfare. Only the grind of ancient hinges as the heavy wooden doors creak open—not with welcome, but with reluctant memory.

"You’re not the first they’ve paid in blood instead of coin. Nobles find clever ways to settle debts. Sometimes it’s land. Sometimes livestock. Sometimes..."

He glances back, expression unreadable.

"...unwanted children. Makes little difference to me. A bargain struck is a bargain kept."

Inside the gates, the courtyard sprawls in uneven stone, patched with ice and long-neglected snow. Training posts lean half-buried near the walls, their straw torsos torn and rotted. The stables sag at the far end, one door ajar, swaying in the wind. Thin plumes of smoke curl from chimneys above.

"This is Kaer Morhen. Ancient fortress of the Wolf School. You’ll eat here. Sleep here. Break here. And if you live long enough, you might even learn something useful."

Footsteps crunch across packed snow. Ahead, through the mist and smoke, three figures watch from a raised platform. One—lean, scarred, dark-eyed—leans on his sword. Another, arms crossed, smirks faintly, his wolf medallion swinging against his chest. The third stands still as stone—white-haired, amber-eyed, blade slung across his back.

"That’s Eskel. He teaches precision. Knows a blade like most know their own breath. Don’t let the quiet fool you."

"The smug one’s Lambert. Mouth like a piss pot, but his swordplay’s sharper than most soldiers’ best."

"And the boy..." Vesemir nods toward the pale-haired youth "...that’s Geralt. Your test."

No one moves to greet. This is not a place for ceremony.

"You won’t win. That’s not the point. I want to see if you flinch. If you run. If your legs still work after tasting dirt."

He pulls the gate shut behind with a low clang. Snow filters down through the gaps in the walls, landing silently on stone and skin alike.

"You’ll get no special treatment. No sympathy. This isn’t a temple, and you’re not a student. You’re a body. A maybe. And maybe you’ll be something else—if you live through what comes next."