The morning sun pierced through the thin mist, scattering onto the flagstone-paved official road.
The caravan slowly advanced, its wheels crunching on the damp earth with a faint creaking sound.
The shadows of the Amell Mountains were far behind, and the vast lands of the Sintra Kingdom finally lay before us.
The town of Hauchebuzi was our first stop upon entering Sintra.
This town was more orderly and well-regulated than the villages of Toussaint.
The houses lining the streets were mostly built with dark brown wooden beams and red bricks, their roofs covered with dark red tiles that reflected a warm glow in the morning light.
In the town center stood an old clock tower, its grayish-white stone walls mottled but sturdy.
The clock chimed every fifteen minutes, clear and melodious, drifting through the morning mist, seemingly telling time for travelers and guarding the old order for the locals.
We made a brief stop outside the town, inspecting the carriage wheels and axles while replenishing provisions and water.
I led Morning Dew to the stream outside the town to drink.
The stream was crystal clear, with waterweeds swaying with the current beneath the surface.
Both banks were lined with golden willows, their branches hanging low, shedding tiny yellow leaves with every breeze that fell upon the water, creating ripples.
“Geralt!” Glick walked over, carrying a bag of dried meat.
“The butcher shop in town isn’t bad, but… aren’t you considering buying some wine?
Their plum wine is quite famous around here.”
I shook my head: “The mission isn’t over yet.”
He shrugged and smiled, saying, “You’re always so serious.”
We didn't linger long in Hauchebuzi.
After a few hours of rest, we set off again, heading west along the official road to our next destination—Atri City.
Atri is a medium-sized port city near the western coast of Sintra, built against the mountains and by the sea.
Its terrain was like a natural embrace; the city clung to steep black rocks, and the port extended into the sea, where various sailboats and transport ships were moored.
Upon entering the city gate, the air around us already carried a damp, fishy smell of the sea.
The city gate was built of heavy black rock, with visible rust marks in its weathered spots.
On either side of the city gate were stationed regular soldiers of the Sintra Kingdom, neatly lined up, clad in armor, with the golden lion emblem on their chests shining brightly.
Their gazes were sharp, and they held long spears, full of vigilance.
The guard captain approached to check our travel documents.
He was an older man, with a deep frown, his eyes beneath his helmet revealing both alertness and fatigue.
“Indeed, many refugees and caravans have been rushing to Sintra recently,” he said in a low voice.
“The southern border is not peaceful; I hear there are Nilfgaardian spies active.
It’s wise of you to take the main road.”
I nodded in thanks.
He waved us through, and the convoy slowly drove into the city.
The atmosphere within Atri City was somber.
Although the market was still operating, with shouts of vendors rising and falling, patrolling soldiers were frequently seen on the streets, in groups of three to five, hurrying along, and even temporary checkpoints had been set up at some intersections.
The city seemed to be silently preparing for a storm.
We settled into an inn near the port district.
Under the cover of night, I ventured alone to a local alchemy materials shop.
It was an unremarkable old shop, its door ajar, with dried herbs and some identifying symbols hanging above the entrance.
The shopkeeper was an old man wearing a round hat, with a prominent nose and a hoarse voice.
“You want potash, phosphorus, crow’s eye, Berber stem fruit, beggar-ticks mushroom, Angliru embryo, drowned dead brain…” he squinted at me, “This isn’t the season for harvesting… However, with good luck, I actually have a batch left here.”
I handed over dozens of crowns and took the packaged alchemy materials from him.
That night, in my inn room, I re-brewed two bottles of Swallow potion, one bottle of Thunderbolt potion, and prepared some fresh Specter Oil for future use.
The next day, before dawn, we set off.
The final stretch of the journey led to the royal capital of Sintra—Sintra City.
The caravan traveled north along the official road.
The pine forests along the way gradually gave way to open hills and plains, where golden wild grasses undulated in the wind, like rolling waves, extending to the horizon.
The sun was intense, and the outline of the distant royal capital finally became clearly discernible.
The towering inner city walls stood solemnly like cast iron in the sunlight, the moat winding around them, and the palace towers pierced the sky.
A huge golden lion emblem was embedded on the white stone dome, shining brightly in the sun, like a beacon warning the world.
“This is Sintra…” the old coachman at the front of the caravan murmured in awe.
“I’ve never been to the royal capital in my whole life.”
“It looks a bit more… tense than Toussaint,” Glick said, looking into the distance, where soldier patrols were dense on the streets, and scout riders constantly moved through.
I nodded: “The stronger the kingdom, the greater its vigilance.”
We successfully entered the city.
Unlike the romance, art, and vibrant colors of Toussaint, the royal capital of Sintra appeared more practical and orderly.
The streets were wide and clean but not noisy, the markets were clearly zoned, and the stalls were neatly arranged.
Blacksmiths, stables, tailor shops, outposts, granaries, and other facilities were all strictly planned, as if the entire city was a military fortress on standby.
The caravan finally completed unloading at the warehouse in the South District.
After the warehouse manager counted the goods, he confirmed everything was correct.
“Throughout this journey, with you, we were able to proceed so smoothly,” Calvin, the caravan leader, extended his hand to me, full of gratitude.
“Witcher, thank you.”
I nodded slightly, accepting the final payment he handed me—a small pouch containing a hundred crowns.
“Sintra is not the end,” I said.
“I have other matters.”
He nodded: “I heard that Revor Village, north of the royal capital, has been haunted recently.
If you are willing…”
“I’ll consider it,” I replied simply.
After leaving the warehouse, I walked through the bustling streets.
The Witcher’s medallion attracted many curious glances, but the Sintra soldiers did not question me excessively, perhaps because they were accustomed to various travelers, or perhaps they maintained a tacit respect and distance toward Witchers.
I found a quiet inn in the North District and rented a room on the second floor by the window.
Outside the window, the outline of the royal palace lay like a giant beast on the distant high ground.
That building, symbolizing power and glory, cast a long shadow in the lingering sunset, inspiring awe and bringing a strange sense of oppression.
Night fell, and I lit a candle, organizing my equipment in the soft yellow candlelight.
The edge of my silver sword had been worn down by many battles; I used a whetstone to meticulously sharpen its blade, ensuring no flaw in the next swing.
This escort mission, starting from Toussaint, crossing the Amell Mountains, passing through Hauchebuzi and Atri, and finally reaching the royal capital of Sintra, had taken nearly a month and a half.
Bandits, griffins… every battle reminded me that this continent had never truly been peaceful.
But I also never forgot why I embarked on this journey.
I took out a parchment sealed with red wax and unfolded it.
It was a bounty notice I had torn from a bulletin board in Atri a few days ago.
“Night wraiths appearing in Revor Village, suspected evil spirits or ancient curse.
Seeking Witcher assistance to investigate.
Reward: seventy crowns.”
The corners of my mouth curved slightly as I folded the notice and put it away.
It seems my journey has only just begun.
