When I returned to the Royal Capital of Sintra, the setting sun was gilding the entire city in golden light.
The heavy twilight draped over the city walls like velvet, and the high towers were bathed in the blood-red sky.
Orders for guard training echoed from afar, the crowds in the square laughed joyfully, and the scent of spices and wine permeated the air, as if the entire kingdom was preparing for a grand celebration.
I reined in my horse, and my warhorse stopped before the cobblestone gate.
A squire, draped in a royal blue and gold cloak, had been waiting for a long time, his expression reserved but not impolite.
"Griffin School Witcher, Jerome Morlu?" he asked tentatively.
"As you see," I said, patting my horse's neck and dismounting.
"Her Majesty the Queen has summoned you," he said, making a guiding gesture. "Please follow me; you will be granted an audience after you change and bathe."
I raised an eyebrow, and before I could reply, I was led into the guest quarters within the city.
Immediately, a small knife, as blunt as a door bolt, pressed against my Adam's apple —
Of course, it was the barber's skill.
He focused like an artist creating a sculpture, shaving the stubble from my chin, frowning as he judged the symmetry.
He wiped away the soap suds with a linen cloth dipped in angelica tincture, his expression proud, as if he had completed a masterpiece.
I leaned against the edge of the wooden tub, which was slick with water, the bitter taste of soap still lingering on my tongue.
A servant offered a bath towel, and as I stood up, a bucket of cold water poured over my head, washing away the foam and restoring my senses.
"Your clothes, sir," the servant said, carefully holding out the garments, his gaze falling on the emblem on my chest, a look of curiosity on his face.
"Thank you," I replied, taking them.
"Undergarments, shirt, tunic, and boots," Hacksaw, who was in charge of the attire, nodded from the side.
"How thoughtful," I said, looking at the boots so shiny they reflected my image. "But can't I wear my own?"
"No," Hacksaw replied bluntly. "Also, would you like a beer?"
"You're quite good at reading minds."
As I dressed, I examined the tunic he had prepared for me.
It was black with gold patterns, and on the front, an embroidered Griffin with spread wings, carrying a maiden in blue on its back—clearly the crest of some fictional family.
"What is this?" I asked, pointing at the embroidery.
"Oh, I forgot to tell you," Hacksaw said, looking a bit embarrassed. "At the banquet, you are Lasvida, a distinguished guest from Five-Horn City, and this is your family crest."
"I suppose Ravix of Four-Horn City has already gone in to see the Queen before me?"
Hacksaw's eyes widened in surprise: "How did you—"
"Mr. Mayor," I interrupted him, "don't be surprised; we have more important matters—an audience with Queen Calanthe."
The palace's banquet hall was now glittering with gold.
High-hanging crystal chandeliers cast long chains of candlelight, and silver candelabras were neatly arranged, illuminating tables laden with delicacies and wine pitchers.
Velvet curtains hung from the arched ceiling to the floor, and gold threads meandered between the pilasters, framing the entire hall like a magnificent trap.
Queen Calanthe sat on the throne, dressed in a red and gold ceremonial robe, her jewel necklace as cold as a glacier in the morning light.
Her eyes were sharp, her lips tightly pressed, like a lioness scrutinizing her prey.
"Great Lioness of Sintra, Queen Calanthe," I bowed, "Lasvida of Five-Horn City extends her sincerest greetings to you.
May your reign be long and your beauty everlasting."
Calanthe nodded slightly, her eyes flickering with scrutiny and assessment: "Welcome to the banquet, honored guest.
Please be seated on my right; I believe you will find much to discuss with the esteemed guest beside you."
"The honor is mine."
I took my seat as instructed, in the second position on the right.
In the first position sat the white-haired, golden-eyed man in a well-tailored black suit—the Wolf School Witcher, Geralt.
He turned his head to look at me, his golden pupils, like those of a feline, contracting slightly in the candlelight.
"You are not Lasvida of Five-Horn City," he said in a low voice.
"And you are not some noble lord," I replied with a smile.
He showed a hint of amusement: "Geralt, Wolf School."
"Geralt, Griffin School."
"It's been a long time since I encountered anyone from your School," he said, raising his cup. "I know a friend from the Griffin School named Coen.
His eyes are a mix of white, yellow, and green, very easy to recognize.
Do you happen to know him?"
I also raised my wine glass: "It has been over a hundred years since I returned to Kaer Seren; I don't know the younger generation."
Geralt paused slightly, narrowing his eyes as he studied me: "Honestly, you look even younger than I do.
Although Witchers age slowly, your face—it's like a fledgling just out of the School."
"Alright, Geralt," I lowered my voice, "my story is too long to tell at a banquet.
If you're interested, after tonight's events are over, we can find a tavern and chat slowly."
"Of course," Geralt chuckled. "It's been a long time since I met a fellow Witcher I could talk to, especially one from the Griffin School."
Queen Calanthe's gaze swept over us like an arrow, and we fell silent in unspoken understanding.
Just then, an announcement came from the banquet hall entrance.
"Skellige delegation arrives!"
The crowd immediately quieted.
A group of people entered with heavy steps, led by a burly warrior with a dark face and a hooked nose, dressed in a sealskin robe and a plaid woolen belt around his waist.
His gaze, sharp as a blade, swept across the room, his presence imposing.
Beside him was a tall, handsome, red-haired young man, proud in demeanor, his steps imbued with the wildness of ocean waves.
"Welcome, Ist of Skellige," Queen Calanthe rose to greet him, her tone soft yet with an edge. "That such an outstanding warrior would grace my court again—were it not common knowledge that you despise marriage, I would almost believe you came to propose to Pavetta."
Ist smiled slightly and bowed deeply: "Your Gracious Majesty, there is not only marriage that can bind loyalty in this world.
But I indeed did not come for myself." He gestured to his side, "This is Crach an Craite, King Bran's nephew.
Young, wealthy, and brave, he has come on this journey… for the Princess."
Crach knelt on one knee, his golden hair falling, and he spoke in a chanting tone: "If Your Majesty and Princess Pavetta permit, I will offer her my heart and my sword."
Calanthe raised an eyebrow and smiled faintly, then turned to ask Ist: "Who else have you brought?"
"This is Mousesack, the Elder Druid and King Bran's advisor," Ist said, pointing to an old man with a silver beard and a wooden staff. "And Draig Bon-Dhu—the battle bard.
The remaining dozen or so sailors are waiting in the courtyard, just to catch a glimpse of Your Majesty's grace."
"Please be seated, honored guests," Calanthe said, gesturing to the other side of the long table. "Ist, please come this way."
The banquet resumed its clamor, candlelight flickering, silver platters of food being served.
Marshal Vissegerd gave an order, and a neat line of servants entered, trays overflowing with fine wines and the aroma of roasted meats.
But I knew this was merely the calm before the storm.
This banquet was not just about a marriage agreement; a deeper destiny and unexpected events were quietly brewing around Pavetta.
And Geralt and I—we were both destined to witness and be drawn into it.
