Witcher Warrior Scholar Spy

“There once was a Witcher,

Anger simmered under their skin.

Their rage was like lightning

Attracted to the biggest target around.”

There is no time.

Olea couldn’t think of anything else. Couldn’t allow herself even a moment’s rest. Not when every day brought them closer to finding her. Olea knew there was nowhere she could run, nowhere to hide from the Spy’s Inheritance. She knew it like she knew her own father’s workings burning into her flesh.

The Spy was malicious, was insidious, was treacherous by their very nature. And she despised their existence.

Once, she thought conquering Shen, in body and heart and soul, would be enough to lay waste to the notion that one day she would be at his mercy—just as she had been at Babel’s. But no matter how far she went, she just spiraled further out of control.

Every lingering touch threatened to allow Shen into her heart. Every loaded glance threatened her wavering conviction. But Olea chose her path long before she and Shen shared each other’s warmth.

She chose her path before her Inheritance truly manifested itself.

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She chose it even as she broke her finger that night with Kuala. Before Arkim and her had fought as their goodbye.

Olea chose her future long before her instincts drew her to the continent. By the time she had the desire to wander, she was already deep into the continent. Far past Yuhaul, over the Gragian Mountains, and across the Wrenner Plains.

Even then, as she stewed on the past, she found herself in Quoral. Fighting whirlpools over and over and over again.

She dove into the water in her underthings, the scars of her past on display in a way they so rarely were. Her leathers were piled on the beach, nothing protecting them besides the knowledge that she was far from civilization. Hours, if not days, away, in fact. Her hair was thick with salt, and her eyes stung.

For all of her Wells of magic that occupied her soul, she had never sourced a water Domain. It was grating on her now, the oversight.

Olea had always known she would need to head to the grotto. Always knew what it held. And yet, still, she could never forget the way Babel had struck her with that water whip.

Her father was many things, but gentle was not among them. She remembered the way the water would sting her skin then shatter and run down her back. Her tears would simply add to the strength of the whip, the salt water migrating down her face and through the air to her father’s whip.

Olea’s head broke free of the water, and she took a gasp of air.

Inside her burned an anger so deep, a rage perpetually fueled by memory, that Olea was steadfast in her goals. There was no taking it back. No stopping what she’d done.

And Olea, for all that she planned and schemed, had never expected winning to be so easy.

Even then, as she fought the currents of the whirlpools, as she panted and her muscles ached, Olea had a calm heart. She knew what she wanted.

She knew what must be done.

And she had done it.

She had brought the Doom.

Now, she had to make sure that it stuck.