Witcher Warrior Scholar Spy

“The Witcher, with their pains

Etched into their skin,

And their hate

On full display.”

Olea rose from the water, her bare skin on display. Silver markings decorated every inch of her body, from the thin lines across her thighs to the jagged gashes on her hips, from the small burn scars on her arm to the brand across her back. There were a few areas free from the scarring, namely her face and hands, but if one looked hard enough, they could find gaps the size of a golden coin. They once were gnarled and ugly things, Olea knew, but now they rested on her skin no more than ornaments.

She turned and lay down in the grass, letting the wetness drip off her skin. She had an easy smile on her otherwise severe face. The sharpness of her cheekbones lightened by the softness of her expression. For once, Olea felt free.

She felt more than free. She felt like power incarnate. Within her veins was enough power and determination to destroy a country. A nation she had come to know through terror and hate.

As the minutes passed by, Olea grew bored of waiting for her skin to dry. Snapping her fingers, a purple fire manifested at her feet and dusted her body with its warmth. She hadn’t realized how uncomfortable the cold had become until that moment. How the numbness that often took over had faded somewhat, and she desired comfort.

Tugging on her blue leathers, Olea straightened the seams so they were running perfectly down her leg. She tightened the buckles on her shirt with deft fingers. And as she laced her boots, she tied a sailor’s knot—just as her father had taught her, all those years ago. Olea knew such things mattered. Details were important. No stone could be left unturned.

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Not then, and not now.

At the thought of her success, of her freedom, Olea laughed. It was a light thing, and even as she trekked through the rocky coast to get to the trees lining the shore, her small, reserved smile never faded.

That was how she arrived at Plumcliffe, the nearest town. Days away from the coast she’d long since abandoned. With a smile on her face and a lightness in her mauve eyes, her dark hair a mess of curls around her head, and her pale skin bright with the flush of life.

Olea knew that such a thing was odd, but none in Plumcliffe would know it. None would know the brooding woman she had grown to become, all hard edges and sharp words as her past-life friends thought her to be.

That was the Olea of before, she thought. That was the Olea left to fester. Left to succumb to a lifetime of pressure. A lifetime of resentment and hatred. But Olea couldn’t feel it within her anymore. A weight had been lifted from her soul.

She was now simply Olea. Not Olea Dreknot. She was the daughter of no one. Hero of nothing. If her Inheritance vanished from within her, she would not complain. If Krohnic never called to her again, she would laugh in joy.

Such was how Olea spent her days in Plumcliffe, relaxing. Soaking in hot baths and drinking cold ale. Sleeping in soft beds with warm bodies that fell back together, again and again. The pieces of her soul she was sure had shattered were slowly piecing themselves back together.

Olea was soon to be whole.

That was how the bird found her. Happy.

Until, of course, she saw the blue construct flying in through the window.

Until it sent her visions of the three of them together.

Until it flew off to tell its master where she was.

“Those damn fools,” Olea hissed, her expression souring, grabbing her clothes from her latest conquest’s room.

It was, truly, her fault for staying in Plumcliffe so long.

Now, she had to run.