The village of Aradhal lay nestled against the foothills, where thick forests gave way to jagged mountains. A veil of mist perpetually hung over the lake by which the village had been built, giving the place an eerie feel. The villagers whispered about the lake—how it was cursed, how those who ventured too close often disappeared without a trace. They spoke of ancient spirits, of monstrous creatures that lurked beneath the surface. It was here that Geralt of Rivia found himself on this overcast morning, the mist clinging to his boots as he walked along the muddy path leading to the water's edge. His senses were sharp, honed by years of tracking and fighting beasts that most men couldn't even fathom. The village elder had been clear: something unnatural stalked the residents of Aradhal. Livestock had gone missing, followed by villagers, and the nights were filled with ghostly wails that froze the blood. Those who remained had little hope… until a Witcher was called.

Geralt paused, scanning the fog-shrouded lake, the medallion around his neck vibrating subtly—a sure sign that magic, or something far worse, was afoot. There was something unnatural about the fog, something that set his instincts on edge. He made his way to the shore, crouching down to examine the boat that had been found drifting that morning. The wood was splintered and cracked, as if something with immense strength had grabbed hold of it and crushed it like a twig. There were claw marks too, deep gouges running along the side of the boat.

“Definitely not Drowners,” Geralt muttered to himself. He stood up and walked along the shore, his eyes scanning the ground for any more signs. The mist swirled around him, thickening as he approached a small inlet where the water was still and dark. A faint smell of decay reached his nose, and Geralt's eyes narrowed. There was something here, hidden beneath the surface.