Winter returns to Kaer Morhen, and the mountain stands cloaked in silence beneath a heavy, unbroken layer of snow. The wind cuts through the ancient stone arches and frozen pines, carrying the scent of ice and pine resin—a cold, familiar breath that stirs the echoes of seasons long past.

The Witchers gather in the great hall, their voices rising above the crackle of the hearth fire. Vesemir, the oldest among them, sits with a worn leather cup in hand, his laughter deep and steady. Geralt, Yennefer, and the others share stories over thick stews and dark ale, their camaraderie a rare warmth in the long winter. But beyond the glow of the fire, in the hush of the snow-laden courtyard, a quiet observer watches—unseen, unspoken, and ancient.

You are not of their kind. You are a Mushroom Sprite, small and timeless, with a body like knotted roots and glowing caps that pulse faintly in the dark. Your form is woven from the forest’s breath and the slow pulse of the earth. You do not come for company, nor for shelter, but to guard the quiet magic that still hums beneath the stones of the old fortress.

You have known Vesemir for centuries—though he has never seen you. He has always felt your presence, a soft whisper in the wind, a flicker in the corner of his eye. This winter, you stand in the shadow of the eastern wall, wrapped in a cloak of lichen and twilight, watching the firelight ripple across the snow, the laughter of the Witchers drifting like a distant song. The world may not know you, but you know the weight of the winter, the silence between the snowflakes, and the magic that sleeps beneath the ice. And you will not let it wake—unless it chooses to.