Wars are not held just on fields and they are hardly ever just one battle. Sometimes the pawns of a war are thrown into motion far beyond the perception of any parties involved, because violence does not just happen over night, yet it is planned, it is mastered and it is crafted so that every single advantage in existence is taken, every card of action is played well.

Because at the end of the day, no one care about anyone else but the victors.

Wars are not held just in one place, but at least two: the bloodbath and the evil thought.

Sylvain, first king of Arcapan, stepping into the dark ages of his realm, looked out from his tower, which shadow fell on empty streets. A once glee keep fell quiet and in each home, no light would flicker for the whole of life was praying for the return of the handful of warriors they could muster.

Two hundred men is what Sylvain looked towards the mountains for. Storm clouds gathered on the peaks his eyes would try not even to blink their watch upon because his knuckles has whitened on his chair, on those wheels. Geoffrey knew how much the waiting game was killing him.

Ever since he lost his legs, Sylvain has been too restless, too manageable into finding time to think. He missed the simpler days, the river, the weekly walks. But as there was no way to go back in time and stay a little longer in the forest that day, he could not forsaken the path he started on.

Too long have his people suffered under a coward Lord like his father. His greed-mad mother also paid for her crimes against his forever-home, locked away in the tower to the north, to feel coldest region of Arcapan until sickness takes her away.

Sylvain had not visited her as often as he visited Azaras' grave. And ever since their father was buried too, not even the anchoring presence of a weekly ghost had tamed him. Geoffrey's presence had no chance to stand agaist whatever exhilaration of madness overwhelmed Sylvain's eyes with madness, what sickness had drove him to stand where he was now.

Even with the dire condition of Arcapan, he asked for Geoffrey to be there, a hand always on his sword, wearing his knight armour, as if this single gesture of a vague care could make up for all the cold shoulders, all the glares and punches in the heart. One sword balanced down on Sylvain's knees too, his newest sword, who had never seen a single battle.

Oh, how bitter was the flatness in between his lips, that there was no difference he could make.

Somewhere beyond the mountains, the archers or Arcapan have killed the shepherds and the guard dogs of all the herds grazing in the night after Hołopole's secret of raising the best meat, the best fur, the healthiest animals. The more sheep the Arcapan soldiers saw, the deeper grew their hatred for in such greed, this neighbor has denied them food when they asked for aid.

Their aims became so much better, from high above.

"And they won't raise any alarms," Sylvain spoke out of the blue, in the darkness of the tower. He startled Geoffrey's stillness, unsettled even the sky to thunder. "When they have killed every single watcher the sheep will have scattered off and the drainage system of Hołopole will be accessible."

All two hundred men lit only about five torches, spread across the straight line of hunched individuals, marching through the shit, the piss, and grey water, flowing from the houses and castle of the city asleep. Their sweat dripped into the dirt coming to their ankles and their backs had to bend so low their knees soaked in the stench.

But Arcapan's finest swallowed their pride, they bit back all disgust and Sylvain knew they'll follow through, so he counted the seconds.

"Two hundred men against two thousand," Sylvain's smile was darkly attuned to the obscure shadows of blue. A lightning brazed the sky and in a second, as much as a blink of an eye, he looked paler than the dead, smiling from his very grave at the thoughts. His eyes were stone fixed upon the ridges that made the outline of the mountain before that tower's left window.

"The odds are not against us yet, if we are intelligent," as Sylvain spoke, across the mountain, in the drainage system, his men split in two at the first crossroads of the tunnel. "Hołopole is only as strong as a massive shepherd, only a threat for its allies and liege, rather than personal avant-garde."

"To the left go those who clear the gates," he continued. "Lock the towers at the signal received when on a shorter road, those who went to the right secure the beacons. Hołopole has one tower guarded when in case of siege, gets lit on a fire so tall it reaches Hengfors. No..."

The Arcapan steel drove itself through the throats of the Hołopole guards by the beacon tower. Heads rolled on the ground where blood was spilled to fall over the stone to the valley of an asleep population. Above, the castle was quiet too and no security was held. Hołopole was made out of feared, but respected merchants. No one wished to wage war with them, nor did they ever expect the violence.

"No help will come for Hołopole tonight," Sylvain sighed.

Shock was written over Geoffrey's features. "No prisoners?"

A bird-similar whistle blew from the beacon tower through the drainage system, where it echoed until a faint pitched sound reach the one hundred who turned left. The archers blew the arrows throw the railings, cut the ropes and smashed the doors closed on all positioned entries they have settled in to wait.

Four big entries got closed, one by one, boom by boom. Then the railings kicked open and the confused wall watchers were the subject of a battle without cries, just gashes and slashes and the fulfillment of an element of surprise.

"I don't have use for prisoners," Sylvain answered, carelessly.

A wolf's howl belonged to the mountains and to Azaras' recent dreams. She thought at first the wolf she kept seeing in her sleep, staring at her, stepping into the light was Geralt, but night after night, though the eyes shone yellow, she realized it made no sense to see him darker grey, when his hair was milk white. It was a matter of ponder that had her wishing the moon was not almost full above.

A hint of superstitious manner made Azaras' heart falter in thought of what would come to be on the full moon, perhaps just two days away from them and their long ride, shared now uncomfortably on just one horse. Roach was strong and Azaras enjoyed any sort of warming closeness in the cutting winds of the snow enveloped continent, but there was only so many hours on a saddled made for one that could add up together and not leave bruises.

She took a gentle, loose hold of the reins when the awareness has drained Geralt of strength. While she insisted on a stop, he argued he'd get his rest while they keep going, as they might not find the helper unless they hurry. Forced by circumstances, his forehead fell heavily on Azaras' shoulder.

His arms would guard her if she cought sense of herself to sleep, but in his case, Azaras could only fear on every second that the Witcher would fall over, at any stringer step, at any pace change or wrong breath she took.

"You're not breathing," Geralt grumbled his frustration out to hear Azaras' very heartbeat slow down intentionally, while she held her breath. If he listed carefully, unfocused from the world when his eyes closed, he could hear her struggle to stay straight, only so her shoulder may support him better.

He breathed in and before he could break free of the instinctual behaviors, the faint breeze of lavender drew his nose closer to her black of hair. So much he'd sell to braid that hair for her, comb it through or tie it himself, but he dared not ask such things, far less admit to enjoying the calm she brought to him effortlessly.

Because she smelled of many things beyond that sleeping purple; she had been riding the same horse as him so if Geralt waited long enough, he could distinguish his own smell onto her skin, cramped in with the static stench of stable, of the sweat of being wraped in his fur in the middle of her sleep when she would shiver and not even his arms could cease that shake.

It scared Roach, he thought of motivating the care, if she ever woke up covered so tightly. But she never did. Instead, her slowing heartbeat woke Geralt up from a dreamless sleep.

Azaras let in a thirsty inhale, allowing that cold air cut down her throat. She coughed, no matter how much she tried to hold it back. "Fuck," Azaras grumbled between the little convulsion which had Geralt lift his head from her shoulder.

Another little clear of her throat settled in while Geralt reached his arms around her and took the reins back. She hid her disappointment with herself in a little lift of her chin, "But since you're awake, I was thinking..."

"Oh, no."

Her elbow nudged back into the Witcher's chest. "I was thinking that it would be much better for you to tell me where we are going and who we are seeing before we get there."

Geralt sighed because he wished he could. He wished her wrists were not restricted by chains either, that he could trust whatever happened to her the way he trusted Azaras herself. But he didn't.

"We don't know what sort of orders were lefr behind in your head," he answered bluntly, the same answer he gave her before.

"But, won't it be worse if I accidentally discover while we are there that I could be a danger? If you tell me now, you are more than capable of putting me down yourself, Geralt. You are even holding my weapons, which I very much dislike too. I think it would just simply be better if you are prepared for the worst before I meat this new-"

"Yennefer," Geralt interrupted Azaras with a sigh. He would not voice it in complete admission, but she was right.

"Is that supposed to answer everything?"

"She's a mage advisor from Aretuza," Geralt explained, "a witch."

"Do you suspect her?" Azaras listened carefully, until the little movements she felt behind her betrayed a fact that brought a little ghostly smile on her lips. "You think she knows who could be behind this whole ordeal," she corrected her appreciation. "So, you and Yennefer must be truly close, then."

"Been once."

"Good," Azaras almost immediately added.

"What's that supposed to mean?" The benefit of having her with her back turned, allowed Geralt the cheekiness of an innocent assumption.

"She loves you," Yennefer of Vengerberg saw right through the facades as soon as they stepped foot in her humbled little enchanted home. It was hardly more than just a scrap of a house on the outside, on the verge of crumbling to piles of dust. But magic and faint illusions worked miracles in building columns and details of extravagant finesse on the inside of her newst refuge from all the trouble and the enemies she somehow always managed to make wherever she went.

Considering how much of a bad omen Witcher have been to her so far, Yennefer almost didn't let them in. But then again, there was very little she loved better than the fine company and the taste of news.

Oh, and Azaras was true news.

Geralt let the introductions fall short, the women barely exchanging even a smile before he pointed Azaras to a room. He explained everything to Yennefer, the best he could, and her conclusion annoyed him dearly, though the result would have otherwise brought far more profound questions.

"She's not stupid enough for that," Geralt deicided to sound uninterested and indeed he had earned the mocking laugh of the witch.

"Witchers are not made to be the brightest. Otherwise they wouldn't be simple hunters anymore," Yenner walked two slender fingers on the table she settled her conversation with Geralt at. She understood already that her peace will return the sooner she gives him all the information he needs.

"So she is a Witcher."

"It's quite obvious if you know where to look. I'm sure that sort of mutation was intentionally presented to you as quite improbable to replicate, when on the contrary... someone must have studied enough to realize the perfect warrior hid at the end of blending blood rituals with the carnation of pain, that of becoming a Witcher."

Geralt was well aware he had to endure the long talks of mages by reaching out to Yennefer for help and claiming another debt, but even so, he felt himself reach the ends of patience. "Do you know anyone capable of doing such a thing?"

She shook her head, abyssal waves of hair shuddered, framing her amethyst eyes, "Haven't been too attuned with other mages lately. But what I can tell you for certain is a start. It might even be a worthy lead. There was word, a few years back, of a group of Sorcerers who taught and learnt the older ways. It's vague, I know... but blood sacrifices were something that used to happened in the past a lot. Sorcerers would draw power from the blood spilt over their hands and those who used this method more often could be distinguished by their permanent redder skin."

"This group of Sorcerers..."

"They were eliminated," Yennefer answered promptly. "Some may have escaped though. The only worry I could possibly have is that you came across middling with powers and games with far higher stakes, not ready yet to be discovered."

"What do you mean?" Geralt narrowed his eyes. Drafts could past between him and Yennefer, bring about some of the more personal memories they shared, but the witch left for a reason, which he was ready to respect.

"If these Sorcerers are making controllable Witchers and monsters, it is not for their personal guard...," Yennefer sighed. All of a sudden, her fair features found a dawn of frown to dance with while her head bowed and her heads captured the weight on the sides of her pale neck. "There's a war coming, Geralt. Nilfgaard is on the move."

He gained many things by bravely staring into Yennefer's eyes again, fighting down any disrespectful urges, keeping away what she used to bring out of him. Every second was worth it because now Geralt knew Azaras was a Witcher, she just needed help from some monstrous mages that took advantage of her state.

Everything else was rain drops in a snow storm: red hands, Nilfgaard.

What Yennefer learnt though, brought her peace. The only bride between her and Geralt, even in separation could finally ease itself to collapse, because now, there was no longer a viable fear in her that he'd die of his loneliness, that he'll forever walk alone. Those fears used to tie her down, so she cut them lose and felt the ghosts of guilt at the back of her head, whispering through her greater schemes.

They finally grew quiet when she stepped into the room Azaras was waiting. There, she was tortured into closing her eyes by the presence of a tall mirror. How else, by standing, could she avoid seeing herself?

"You're beautiful," Yennefer greeted the Witcher, having her green eyes open to just how close the witch was behind her. Azaras stiffened. She did not have enough time to remember their host's name, far less to realize just how charming she was, before Geralt made sure to separate her from the talk.

"Did you tell Geralt where we need to go?"

"Impatient to leave?" Yennefer returned with another question too. While Azaras stood, Yennefer walked once around her. "Everyone will tell you being vengeful is not worth it..."

Azaras frowned. She was right in front of the mirror, so instead, trying to look back at Yennefer, who stopped behind her, was an easier act than simply acknowledging herself. "If I cared what people said, I wouldn't have been here. If I can, that monster dies by my hands."

Yennefer pondered for a second, before letting her eyes blink and move to the mirror herself. "Why won't you look at yourself?"

"Mirrors in a witch home," Azaras explained.

"Do you think I need enchanted mirrors?"

Of course not, Azaras thought. Even figitive looks at Yennefer could reveal her beauty's essence and from a life danced in castles, she could spot the finer details, the posture and the stark gentles of the sorceress' features and of her alluring clothes.

Yennefer's left hand tipped under Azaras' chin, nudged a small lift and so the witch watched carefully, in the purple of her eyes, how Azaras finally saw herself.

So many titles heavied Azaras' shoulders. Heir of Azar the Great, a Lady of Arcapan, a sister, a failure, a weakling, a ghost, a Witcher, an emotionless monster. She never knew who she would see in the mirror. Never would she have thought it was just Azaras she'll see.

Unclean, a bit more ragged; her hair hasn't been brushed in days, nor did she retouch the shades of black around her eyes. But even if her lips were bitten, her skin was a little stained with dripped blood and now some bruises formed a necklace to her too, Azaras didn't imagine she would see... just herself.

Yennefer brushed her hand away from Azaras' chin and gently through her hair. Her whisper became a melody. "People who don't know they exist are easier to control." Behind those words, looking into the eyes of the mirror, Azaras thought she heard something else: the wolves are your home.

A wolf's howl carried in a different home a signal. Barely one hundred survivers from the slaughter of Hołopole have raised the banners in the name of Nilfgaard, claimed the city for their own. Only one has been sent across the mountain, where, on the other side, at dusk, from his tower, still wide awake, Sylvain saw the top of a tree flicker then disappear, cut down.

He exhaled a laughter, the sort of laugh that shivered down Geoffrey's bones an unnatural sensation of forcing himself furthered from sleep, in fear. "We won," Sylvain's laughs brought words, "We won!"

chapter dedicated to VRPond who has made me and this book THIS wonderful video edit that sincerely has made me go through all stages of fangirling.. NOT TO MENTION, the way it fabulously fits the story >>>>>>

Pls go show this video and the artist all the love they deserve for this masterpiece: