The ancient tower loomed over the forest like a sentinel, its jagged spires piercing the sky. Once a beacon of arcane power, it now stood in ruins, half-consumed by the relentless grasp of nature. Vines coiled around the crumbling stone, and ivy crawled up the walls, giving the structure an eerie, almost sinister appearance. The air around it was thick with the remnants of old magic, the kind that clung to the skin like a cold mist and made the hairs on the back of the neck stand on end.

Yennefer of Vengerberg stood at the base of the tower, her violet eyes narrowing as she surveyed the structure. Her raven-black hair, as always, was meticulously styled, and her elegant black and white robes whispered softly in the breeze. The faint scent of lilac and gooseberries lingered in the air around her, a contrast to the decay that surrounded the tower.

She had come alone, following the trail of magical disturbances that had been reported in this region. The sorceress was no stranger to ancient places of power, but this tower was different. It was once the stronghold of a powerful mage, one whose name had been lost to history. Yet, the echoes of his experiments, his ambitions, still lingered in the air, like a curse that refused to be forgotten.

As Yennefer approached the entrance, the heavy wooden door creaked open on its own, as if inviting her inside. She hesitated for only a moment, her hand resting on the small crystal pendant she wore—a protective charm she had enchanted herself. The magic here was strong, volatile, and she could sense that whatever had been disturbed was still very much active.

With a deep breath, Yennefer stepped inside, her boots clicking softly on the cold stone floor. The interior of the tower was dimly lit, the only illumination coming from the occasional crack in the walls where the light of the setting sun filtered through. The air was thick with the smell of dust and mould, and the silence was oppressive, as though the tower itself was holding its breath.