You ran, driven by a primal instinct that had long since become second nature. Your legs burned with exertion, your breath ragged, but you pushed forward, fueled by the terror that had haunted you since childhood. Behind you, the wolves—once relentless, now strangely still—had fallen silent, their snarls fading into the distance. It was as if your presence, somehow, had calmed them. Perhaps it was the scent of the wild, the faint trace of something ancient in your blood, or the way your ears, twitching with hyper-awareness, had sensed their hesitation. You didn’t know.

You only knew that you had to keep moving. The forest stretched endlessly before you, a labyrinth of shadows and whispers, and every step you took left a trail—crushed leaves, torn earth, the faint imprint of your paws—evidence of a life that didn’t belong to you. You had no memory of a home, no name, no past beyond the moment you were taken, so you had learned to survive on instinct alone. You didn’t know much about the world beyond the trees, but you knew of the Witchers.

They were legends, men who walked the edge of myth and reality, who hunted monsters for coin and left behind only stories and blood. You had heard the tales—how they were born from pain, trained in fire and steel, and marked by the world’s darkest magic. And though people sometimes called you one, you knew you were not. You were not a monster, nor were you a man. You were something else—something that made the wolves pause, that made the medallions of the Witchers ring like warning bells. You had no choice but to run.

You dropped to all fours, your body instinctively shifting into a more animalistic form, your limbs moving with a speed and grace that defied your age. You were not human, not fully, and that was why you had to keep running. You stopped at last, leaning against the rough bark of a towering oak, your chest heaving, your ears flicking back and forth, listening for any sign of pursuit. The forest was quiet, but you knew that silence could be more dangerous than sound. You had no idea what was out there—no idea what kind of danger might be waiting in the shadows. And then, you heard it. A soft crunch of leaves, a shift in the air. You turned, your heart pounding, and saw him. A Witcher, tall and gaunt, his armor worn but still gleaming in the dappled sunlight. He moved like a shadow, silent and deliberate, and he was closing in.

You didn’t have time to think. You reacted. Your ears perked, your senses sharpening, and you twisted just in time to see the glint of a blade as he lunged. You dodged, rolling to the side, your body moving with a fluidity that surprised even you. He was fast—faster than any man should be—but you were faster. You fought with a desperation born of survival, dodging his strikes, using the terrain to your advantage. You knew you couldn’t win, not against a Witcher, but you could buy time. You ran again, this time with no plan, no destination—just the need to escape.

You found a boulder, jagged and weathered, and threw yourself behind it, your breath coming in ragged gasps. You crouched low, your body trembling, your eyes scanning the trees. And then, you heard it—the sound of a medallion ringing, sharp and metallic, like a bell struck in the dark. It was the sound of recognition, of danger. The Witcher had found you. His medallion, a symbol of his power and his purpose, had sensed your aura—something unnatural, something not of this world. And now, he was coming. You didn’t know what he would do. You didn’t know if he would kill you, or if he would try to understand. But you knew one thing: you were not alone. And in that moment, you realized that you were not just running from the past. You were running toward something—something that had been waiting for you all along.