Witcher Warrior Scholar Spy

“And so we have the Warrior,

Whose sword breaks through mountains.”

It felt as if the world was never ending, and Kuala found herself at peace with the thought that there was ever more to explore. That the end of one adventure simply meant the beginning of another. Around her was an endless expanse. She could see the low-hanging sun on the horizon, casting its light across the mountains of Kierre. As the golden rays dusted the peaks of mountains, Kuala was faced with the reality that she needed to descend. Not just the mountain she had climbed but the tree she found herself perched within.

She had settled atop the uppermost branch that was still capable of holding her weight. Kuala had spent the afternoon watching the snow fall around her, erasing the path she’d made to get to the grove atop the peak of Prok. And despite knowing she should leave, Kuala couldn’t help but appreciate the scenery before her. The serenity of it all had helped to calm her battle hunger, helped to stop her hand that had begun reaching for her sword, helped to cool the blood thrumming in her veins. The silence had been what she needed.

The silence had saved her from going mad.

Her father had taught her young, long before her Inheritance was confirmed, that her sanity would be a fragile thing. Were she to be the Scholar or Spy, it would be simpler. Easier. But Warriors spent their lives plunging headfirst into violence. Kuala had regularly accompanied her father on his violent pilgrimages as a young teenager. Nearly two decades had passed since her first kill—a Godling verging on claiming a title. The beast had threatened the livelihood of several villages on the Southern Hook, and it was her father who had done the bulk of the work. With his guidance, Kuala had angled her sword into the Godling’s chest. Sometimes, she still thought of its screams. Of the way its wings had flared and its feathers had burned. Of the sharp sting of its blood hitting her skin.

Kuala stood slowly, balancing on the arches of her feet to keep from falling. Flexing her calves, she flinched at the stiffness in her muscles, her dark, heavy braids forcing her to shift her weight. The branch had been thick enough to support her, but Kuala hadn’t found much comfort in the roughness of the bark. She had spent too long in the ancient Nyre tree, with its stark white wood and lush red leaves, and now she had to maneuver her way down despite her discomfort.

Gingerly, Kuala shuffled back toward the trunk, lacking the confidence that her balance would be enough to stop her from falling should a gust of wind blow through at an inopportune moment. The branch creaked as she shifted her weight, but that wasn’t the sound that caught Kuala’s attention. Tilting her head and freezing her body, Kuala listened. Opening her Well, she funneled her power to her ears. The Well of her homeland, while difficult for outsiders to cultivate, was a powerful source of magic. Though its focus was on time, the definition of time was a broad, sweeping thing, and its applications were only limited by the creativity of one’s mind. Thus, she focused on the cycle of nature. On the distance between one breath and the next. Kuala focused on the overlap of the two moments, on how a sound cannot traverse space without impacting time.

That was when she heard the padding of paws and the crunching of snow. Something was headed toward her. Looking down and out into the grove, Kuala saw the source of the noise. A Monarch Tigress was quickly approaching, its silver-green fur a beacon in the surrounding white. Around its head were shards of metal, ready to plunge into the Monarch’s prey or protect it from other predators.

Kuala leaned her back against the trunk of the Nyre tree and closed her eyes.

One. Her body relaxed, her tight muscles going limp around her.

Two. Her hand wrapped around the hilt of her sword.

Three. She popped her eyes open, pushing off the bark, and launched herself down.

As she descended, her hair whipped back and the sword she was gripping released itself from its sheath, the leather all but dispersing into nothingness to set the blade free. As she flew toward the ground, she shifted her magic into a familiar pattern.

Her Well flooded her veins as thoughts of the future flitted through her mind. Her landing roughly, on an ankle and without give, her leg shattering under the pressure. A slide, where her heels hit the ground first and slipped out from under her. Her head slamming into the dirt. Her skull shattering. Kuala imagined the worst of it all, every possibility of death and dismemberment. Then she pictured success, her knees ducking to accept her weight. The balls of her feet rolling back and forth to keep her balanced and upright. Her sword swinging and scraping the ground to support her side.

That was the future she picked. She willed it to be so. Her magic rushed to her ankles, her knees, the balls of her feet. It rebuilt her muscles and guided her movements. It aligned reality with her imagination. Kuala was inches from the ground when the working solidified.

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She was inches from the ground when she felt something inside her snap and break.

She was inches from the ground when her magic began escaping her body.

She was inches from the ground when she screamed. In pain and in fear and in a mix of the two.

Her feet hit the ground, her knees bent just right, but her sword slipped from her grip and she tumbled forward. Her arm swung out, colliding with the ground before her body.

As her chest clenched and her arm snapped, Kuala forgot about the Monarch Tigress. She forgot about the mountain and the snow atop it. She forgot about the Nyre tree and the silence she found in its grove.

All Kuala knew was pain. It flooded her mind and body both, and with her unbroken arm, she gripped at her heart where the worst of it was.

Between one breath and the next, the agony abated. Kuala forced a breath into her lungs, as deep as she could. It provided no relief other than the knowledge that she still lived. She focused on that, on the truth of it. She still lived. But as she focused on that thought, she felt the edges of her mind begin to unravel.

A darkness wormed its way in. A dread so deep she couldn’t prepare herself for the way her mind simply melted. Every pathway burned to ash as the world around her ceased existing. It destroyed every thought, every pattern she had taught her Well, it ripped from her the very strength she had spent decades cultivating.

All it left behind was anger.

And emptiness.

When Kuala regained her vision, she was face down in dirt and snow. She rolled onto her back and stared at the red leaves decorating the Nyre tree. The sound of panting grew closer, and Kuala distantly acknowledged it was the Monarch Tigress. Yet, she couldn’t bring herself to fear it.

She was supposed to be sharp in the way of a blade but found herself sharp in the way of a shard of glass. Broken. Shattered. Ruined.

Her home was gone. Her magic dried up. All she had left was her Inheritance. The name of Warrior.

Only, she had never expected that she’d have to use it.

Now, it was all that remained.

Kuala grit her teeth, and without using her broken arm, she sat up. Across from where she landed was the Monarch Tigress, its crown separated and the metal shards pointed threateningly at Kuala. Between the two of them was Kuala’s sword, with its shining blade pointing at the beast. Her eyes flicked from the Monarch Tigress to the hilt of her sword, and then she was up and running for it.

She would not die here.

Not at the fangs of a beast.

Not without a fight.

Not alone.

And so, she ignored the burning-ripping-stinging sensation in her right arm, her dominant arm. The beast was running toward her. Kuala pushed her muscles to their max, ignoring the lack of reinforcement in her body, pretending as if the mundane was enough. Because maybe it was.

She reached out with her good arm, tilting her body down, and took hold of her sword.

The Monarch Tigress was upon her, and Kuala felt her instincts take over. For she was the Warrior, meant for blood and battle. She was the Warrior, daughter of the Warrior before, son of the Warrior before that, in a long line of Warriors.

“It’s time for a feast, Wrezgul,” Kuala growled, thrusting Wrezgul, her sword, up, firming her stance and bracing for impact.

As metal met flesh, the beast opened its maw and roared. The grove shook with the power behind the sound, and snow fell from the shaking trees. Kuala tucked her injured arm in as close to her body as she could and began to move.

The Monarch Tigress was nearly as tall as Kuala herself, and its body was all muscle. Every slash met resistance, but it was not strong enough to protect from the blade entirely. For every cut Kuala landed, every stab that broke through the beast’s fur, she had to beware the claws and fangs of the predator.

She did not wound without taking wounds.

She took a slice to her collarbone in order to hit a soft spot on the beast’s chest. Kuala ate a slam to her side in exchange for a deep cut across the Monarch Tigress’s hind leg. She evaded every bite the beast attempted. Kuala had no choice. If its fangs sank into her flesh, the fight would be over. There was no counter to such a devastating wound.

Kuala was not aiming to overwhelm the beast, not with brute force, not without her magic. But she could outlast it. She could whittle its strength down. Death by a thousand cuts. It was a battle of attrition.

Kuala landed another solid blow, her sword sinking into the beast's side. Both she and the Monarch Tigress were breathing hard. Kuala tightened her grip, pulling out her blade with all the strength she could muster, and spun backward. She aimed for the beast’s eye, lunging forward to strike.

With a grunt, she broke through the flesh, and the beast was too far gone to fight back. But Kuala could not rest. She could not take a pause. She could not bask in her victory. Because as the beast fell, its crown of metal shards launched itself into her bad arm. The metal dug through her shirt, already dark with her blood, and sank into her flesh.

Releasing her grip on Wrezgul, Kuala swore and gripped her arm. The metal softened and sank deeper under her skin, becoming one with her bloodstream. It was all Kuala could do to slide up against the nearest tree in the grove and protect herself from collapsing violently to the ground.

She did still collapse but gently.

As Kuala took a labored breath, she pulled back her good hand and felt around for her thigh holster. Her vision was going blurry, but muscle memory had her fingers wrapping around a vial topped with wax.

She brought it to her teeth, ripping off the ribbon and guzzling the potion. As the sharpness in her blood abated, she only had one thought.

Arkim, you better get here before I go into shock.

Then, and only then, she passed out.