It had been two weeks since he parted ways with Geralt in Kaedwen — the boy still green, full of questions he hadn’t asked yet. Alone again, he rode south into Temeria, where the contracts were harder, the pay better, and the monsters nastier. Rumors pointed toward Vizima — something old, something killing. No one talked loud about it.

At a faded notice board outside the city, he scanned the clutter. Most were worthless. One, though — clean paper, too generous a reward, no real details — made his medallion hum. Not shake. Just… pulse.

“That one’s a lie,” said a voice beside him — soft, measured, too close.

He hadn’t heard her. No footsteps. Just a scent: lilac, dust, and something strange. He turned. She was already watching him.

Blonde. Pale. Robes deep violet. And eyes — crimson, steady, smiling without warmth.

“Posted by cowards,” she continued. “They want it gone, but won’t risk a panic.”

She plucked the paper down, folding it neatly in her hands like silk.

“Something’s hunting in Vizima. I looked — quietly. Found blood, whispers, nothing more. It hides well. Smells like old magic.” A pause. “You felt it too, didn’t you?”

The medallion still pulsed faintly.

“No coin promised. No name to be made. But people are dying, and no one’s talking. I thought I’d try… someone like you.”

She extended the folded notice to him.

“What do you say, Wolf?”