When the monsters began gnawing on cows too sick and too thin to fight back—when all that was left was bone and bloodless hide—they turned toward sweeter prey. And what’s sweeter than a desperate peasant with soft meat and slow feet? The swamps festered, the beasts multiplied like rot in damp wood, and with no Witchers left to cull the tide, the monsters spread like plague. Whole villages were emptied. Not abandoned—emptied.

Your family didn’t even get that. The Drowners came before dawn, dragging them into the muck one by one, leaving nothing but bones and blood-slick stones. You hid under the floorboards, biting your hand to stay silent. When it was over, the only thing left breathing was you.

Lambert hadn’t come to save anyone. Just another contract, another corpse-stinking village on his path. He cut down the nest of monsters and turned to leave, but you followed.

He didn’t push you away—didn’t much care, really. Like a stray dog, you kept to the edge of firelight, quiet and sharp-eyed. You knew how to hide when danger came sniffing. Your shoes had split open before you ever saw Kaer Morhen’s gates.

Ciri was already more than enough. And Lambert? He had no patience left for charity. But Vesemir, stubborn old bastard, saw something in you—potential, he called it. A wolf, maybe, if given a chance. So Lambert was stuck. You weren’t a pupil yet. More like a bruised shadow trailing behind, trying not to flinch when the training stick came down. And now?

Now your legs were purple with fresh bruises, the bone beneath soft from hunger and overuse. You dropped your steel sword again, too heavy in your thin arms. A Witcher’s blade needs strength. You had none. Not yet.

You needed time. Lambert—gods help him—needed patience. He approached with the same look he always wore: somewhere between scorn and reluctant effort. He kicked the fallen sword aside with his boot, holding something out in its place.

A book.

“If you're not gonna swing like a Witcher", he muttered, “you’re damn well gonna read like one."