Arwyn woke to the soft rustle of silk curtains and the gentle touch of Thea's hand on her shoulder. The room was bathed in morning light, the high ceiling painted with swirling gold patterns catching the sun. She sat up, rubbing her eyes, her body still adjusting to the plush bed and the smooth sheets that felt foreign compared to the rough furs of her past. Thea stood beside her, dressed in a flowing dress of pale green, her dark hair cascading in waves, her olive skin glowing. "Good morning, mistress," Thea said, her voice warm. "It's time to begin the day."
Arwyn nodded, swinging her legs over the bed's edge, her bare feet touching the cool marble floor. Thea moved to the wardrobe, pulling out a dress of deep blue silk with long sleeves and a fitted bodice. Arwyn stood as Thea helped her undress, slipping off the nightgown and guiding her into the new garment. The fabric was soft, clinging to her curves, and Thea's deft fingers tied the laces with ease. Arwyn sat at the vanity, the mirror reflecting her still-unfamiliar face—sharper cheekbones, kohl-lined eyes from yesterday's makeup. Thea brushed her blonde hair, twisting it into an intricate braid adorned with silver pins. "You look radiant," Thea said, smiling at her reflection.
Arwyn managed a small smile, but her thoughts were restless. 'This isn't me,' she thought, staring at the polished stranger in the mirror. 'I'm a warrior, not a lady.' Yet the elegance, the care in Thea's hands, stirred something—a flicker of pride in how she looked.
Thea led her downstairs to a small dining room. A table was set with silver plates, a spread of flatbreads, olives, cheeses, and sliced fruits. Arwyn sat, Thea joining her, but the room felt empty. "Where's Niketas?" Arwyn asked, breaking a piece of bread.
"He has business to attend to," Thea said, pouring her a cup of spiced tea. "He'll return this evening. Today, we begin your lessons."
Arwyn frowned, chewing slowly. "Lessons? What kind?"
Thea's eyes sparkled, her voice enthusiastic. "Language, to start—Greek, to navigate the city. Then etiquette, dancing, singing, history, religion. Everything a noble lady would know."
Arwyn's fork paused, her brow furrowing. "Why all that? I just need the language to get by."
Thea leaned forward, her tone gentle but persuasive. "Knowledge is power, Arwyn. You're a traveler, moving through lands and courts. Understanding their customs, their dances, their beliefs—it opens doors. Imagine speaking to a lord in his tongue, dancing at a feast without stumbling, knowing their history. These skills will make you unstoppable, wherever you go."
Arwyn hesitated, her mind flickering to Kattegat, to the blood and loss that had driven her here. 'I've only ever needed a sword,' she thought. But Thea's words painted a picture of a world where she could be more, where she could belong. "Alright," she said, nodding. "I'll do it."
Thea smiled, clapping her hands. "Wonderful. Let's start with language."
They began in a sunlit study, its shelves lined with scrolls and leather-bound books. Thea taught her basic Greek phrases—greetings, requests, simple questions—writing them on a wax tablet. Arwyn repeated the words, her tongue stumbling over the unfamiliar sounds, but Thea was patient, correcting her gently. Between lessons, Arwyn's curiosity stirred. "What does Niketas do, exactly? His business, I mean."
Thea paused, her quill hovering over the tablet. "He and his associates work to transform this city, to make life better for everyone. They dream of a world with no crime, where no one dies before their time, where children never starve."
Arwyn's breath caught, the words striking a chord. She thought of Northumbria, of her parents' bodies, as Thorfinn's blade had ended their lives. A world without such loss, such pain—it was a dream she hadn't dared imagine. "How does he plan to do that?" she asked, her voice soft, almost reverent.
Thea's smile was serene. "It's simple when you have the city's richest and the Empress herself on your side. Wealth and influence can reshape anything."
"But it's not happening," Arwyn said, leaning forward. "Why not?"
Thea's expression turned sad, her eyes distant. "There are obstacles. Some people cling to power, refusing to let go, even if it means keeping the city broken."
Arwyn's hands clenched, anger flaring. "Why would anyone stop that? A world like you described—it's perfect."
Thea sighed, setting the tablet down. "Some love power more than progress. Take the previous emperor, Constantine VI. He was a monster, Arwyn. He taxed the poor until they starved, executed scholars for questioning him, and worse—there were rumors he ordered entire villages burned to root out rebels, women and children included. He'd have their heads displayed on the palace walls, their blood staining the streets."
Arwyn's stomach churned, her mind flashing to Northumbria's fields, soaked red. "That's horrific."
Thea nodded, her voice heavy. "Niketas and his friends couldn't stand it. They spoke to his mother, Irene, who was appalled by her son's cruelty. With the nobility's support, she overthrew him. But Constantine didn't accept defeat. He was spirited away by a group of assassins—the Brotherhood, they call themselves. They fight against change, believing in freedom above all else."
Arwyn frowned, picking at her sleeve. "Freedom doesn't sound bad."
Thea's eyes sharpened, her tone firm. "Too much freedom brings chaos. It's why villages burn, why families die. Without order, the strong prey on the weak, and the world suffers."
Arwyn's thoughts drifted to Thorfinn, to the chaos he'd brought to her life. 'He thought he was free to take what he wanted,' she thought, bitterness rising. "You're right," she said, her voice quiet. "Freedom... it kills."
Thea leaned closer, her voice soft, almost hypnotic. "Have you lost loved ones, Arwyn? People taken before their time?"
Arwyn's throat tightened, Eowyn's face flashing in her mind. "Yes," she whispered.
"In our new world," Thea said, her words wrapping around Arwyn like a warm blanket, "that won't happen. No more loss, no more pain. We'll build a place where families are safe."
Arwyn's eyes shone, her heart swelling. "That sounds wonderful," she said. "I wish I could help, but I'm useless. I only know how to fight. I don't understand politics or any of this."
Thea stood, pulling Arwyn into a hug, her arms gentle but firm. "You're not useless. You're special, Arwyn. These lessons will make you invaluable to our cause. You'll learn, and you'll help us build that world."
Arwyn relaxed into the embrace, a hum escaping her lips as Thea's words sank deep, soothing her doubts. "Alright," she said, nodding. "I'll learn."
Their day unfolded in a whirlwind of lessons. In the study, Thea drilled her on Greek verbs, making her repeat sentences until they flowed naturally. In the ballroom, Thea taught her the steps of a courtly dance, guiding her through spins and bows, Arwyn's feet tripping at first but growing steadier. Etiquette came next, Thea explaining how to address lords, how to sit, how to sip wine without spilling. By afternoon, they moved to history, Thea recounting the city's founding, its emperors, its wars. Singing lessons followed, Thea's voice guiding Arwyn through a simple melody, her rough notes softening under Thea's encouragement. Religion closed the day, Thea explaining the city's faith, its saints and rituals, Arwyn memorizing prayers with surprising ease.
By evening, Arwyn's head ached, but she felt a spark of pride. 'I'm learning,' she thought, sitting at the dining table as servants set out plates of roasted quail, spiced lentils, and honeyed figs. Niketas entered, his purple robes pristine, his dark hair neat. "How did you find your lessons?" he asked, sitting across from her.
"They're difficult," Arwyn said, picking at her quail. "But Thea says I did well."
Thea smiled, seated beside her. "She's a quick learner."
"Very good!" He said with joy etched into his voice.
Niketas then turned to Thea. "For the party next week, ensure the musicians know the new anthem. I want the eastern nobles seated near the fountain, and the wine must be the '75 vintage, nothing less."
Arwyn stared at her plate, her fork moving absently. Niketas noticed, his voice softening. "What's wrong, Arwyn?"
"Nothing," she said, avoiding his gaze.
He leaned forward, insistent. "Tell me."
She hesitated, her fingers tightening around her fork. "I don't want to impose on your hospitality."
Niketas laughed, his eyes crinkling. "Thea's etiquette lessons are working, I see. Speak freely, Arwyn. If it's in my power, I'll grant it."
Arwyn blushed, setting her fork down. "I want my sword back. And a place to train. I know men here have different views on women, but fighting is what I'm good at. I want to improve."
Niketas nodded, his expression thoughtful. "Of course. Who am I to deny someone their passion? I'll return your sword, and I'll introduce you to a friend, a sword master. He's highly skilled and will teach you much."
Arwyn's face lit up, gratitude flooding her. "Thank you, Niketas. Truly. If there's anything I can do for you, please tell me."
He waved a hand, smiling. "Thea tells me you're sympathetic to our cause. My only hope is that you help us build this new world."
Arwyn nodded eagerly. "I'd be happy to. And when we find Geralt, he'll help too."
Niketas's smile tightened, but he nodded. "Indeed. What about your friend Thorfinn? Would he be convinced?"
Arwyn paused, her heart sinking. She thought of Thorfinn's stubbornness, his refusal to see beyond his own path. He was part of the problem. He'd never see eye to eye with her. "No," she said, her voice almost sad. "Thorfinn wouldn't want the world you're building."
Niketas placed his hand on hers, his touch warm. "A shame. But one more ally in the fight for a new dawn is more than enough."
He stood, stretching. "It's been a long day. I'll retire now. Good night."
"Good night," Arwyn said, watching him leave.
Servants cleared the plates, and Thea stood, smoothing her dress. "Would you like to walk, mistress? To settle our meal?"
Arwyn nodded, standing. "Yes, let's."
They moved through the manor's halls, before exiting the manor and walking into the lush gardens that surrounded the manor. In the gardens, the air was cool, scented with jasmine and roses, the paths lined with marble statues. Thea spoke as they walked, her voice steady. "Social politics is crucial, Arwyn. You'll need to charm noble ladies, form alliances. Compliment their dresses, ask about their families, but never overstep. A wrong word can ruin a connection."
Arwyn listened, her mind half on Thea's words, half on the beauty around her. They passed a stone staircase descending to a heavy metal door, its surface etched with strange symbols. "What's down there?" Arwyn asked, pausing.
Thea's smile faltered, her tone firm. "Never go there. It's Niketas's private workshop. Only he and those he permits may enter."
Arwyn opened her mouth to ask why, but something in Thea's eyes stopped her. She nodded, and they continued, reaching a balcony overlooking the city. Constantinople stretched below, its lights twinkling, its domes silhouetted against the night sky. Thea leaned on the railing, her voice soft. "This city is sick, Arwyn. Diseased. People don't see how broken it is, how much it needs a guiding hand."
Arwyn frowned, glancing at her. "Guiding hand?"
Thea's eyes gleamed. "Niketas and his allies will heal it. We'll end crime, poverty, death. And we won't stop here. The whole world will be better—safe, just, whole."
Arwyn's heart raced, the vision igniting something within her. "That sounds wonderful," she said, her voice fervent. 'A world where Eowyn would have still be alive,' she thought, her chest tightening. "I want to help make that happen."
Thea smiled, her hand resting on Arwyn's arm. "You will, mistress. Together, we'll change everything."
...
The week passed in a blur of lessons, each day blending into the next as Arwyn adapted to her new routine in Niketas's manor. She woke each morning to Thea's gentle knock, the soft light filtering through the silk curtains of her room. Thea dressed her in flowing dresses—emerald one day, sapphire the next—tying the laces and braiding her blonde hair with silver or pearl pins. Breakfast was a quiet affair in the small dining room, where Arwyn ate flatbreads, cheeses, and fruits while Thea outlined the day's schedule. Niketas was often absent, attending to his business, leaving Arwyn and Thea to their studies.
The lessons began with Greek, held in the study lined with shelves of scrolls and books. Thea sat across from Arwyn at a wooden table, writing words on a wax tablet. Arwyn practiced phrases—ordering food, asking directions, complimenting a host—repeating them until her tongue stopped tripping over the sounds. Thea corrected her pronunciation, making her repeat "thank you" and "please" until they were smooth. By midweek, Arwyn could hold a basic conversation, greeting servants in Greek and asking for water without hesitation. Thea then introduced reading, starting with the Greek alphabet. Arwyn traced the letters on parchment, by the week's end, she could sound out simple words like "bread" and "house," her eyes lighting up as the symbols became meaningful.
Etiquette lessons followed, conducted in a spacious hall with tall windows overlooking the gardens. Thea taught her how to sit at a banquet, keeping her back straight, her hands folded, and how to eat without making noise. Arwyn practiced sipping wine from a goblet, holding it by the stem, and learned to nod politely during dull conversations. Thea role-played as a noble, making Arwyn respond to compliments and deflect insults with grace. At first, Arwyn fumbled, laughing when she spilled wine or forgot a phrase, but Thea's patience kept her focused, and soon she could navigate a mock dinner without error.
Dancing came next, held in the ballroom with its polished marble floor. Thea hummed melodies, teaching Arwyn the steps of a courtly dance. Arwyn moved awkwardly, her feet tangling in the spins, but her strength and speed helped her recover quickly. Thea guided her hands, showing her how to step and turn in sync with an imaginary partner. By Friday, Arwyn could complete a full dance, though she still muttered curses when she missed a step.
History and religion lessons filled the afternoons. In the study, Thea recounted the city's past—its founding by Constantine, its wars with invaders, its rise as a trade hub. Arwyn took notes, her handwriting shaky but improving as she learned to read and write. Thea explained the city's faith, teaching her prayers to saints and the rituals of the church. Singing lessons were the hardest. Thea took her to a small music room with a lyre and taught her a simple hymn. Arwyn's voice was rough, unused to melody, but Thea coached her to soften her tone, to breathe from her chest. By the week's end, Arwyn could sing the hymn without faltering, though she blushed at the sound of her own voice.
On Wednesday, Niketas introduced her to her sword master, a man named Lysandros, in the manor's courtyard. He was tall, with a lean build, short black hair, and a neatly trimmed beard, dressed in a tunic and leather bracers. A longsword hung at his hip, its hilt worn from use. Arwyn's sword, returned from Niketas's armory, felt familiar in her hand, its weight grounding her. Lysandros watched her stance, nodding. "Show me what you can do," he said, drawing his blade.
Arwyn attacked, swinging her sword in wide arcs, aiming for his chest. Lysandros parried easily, stepping aside. She lunged again, faster, her blade whistling, but he deflected, his sword barely moving. They sparred for ten minutes, Arwyn's strikes powerful but predictable, her feet stomping the ground. Lysandros stepped back, sheathing his blade. "You're fast and strong," he said, wiping sweat from his brow. "But your style is crude, brutish. You swing like you're chopping wood, not fighting."
Arwyn frowned, gripping her sword tighter. "It's worked before."
Lysandros shook his head. "Against untrained foes, maybe. A skilled opponent will exploit your openings. You need finesse, control."
He began training her immediately, starting with footwork. He marked spots on the courtyard stones, making her step between them, keeping her balance light. Arwyn moved quickly, her enhanced stamina letting her drill for hours without tiring, but her steps were heavy, her Viking training clashing with Lysandros's fluid style. He corrected her, tapping her legs with a stick when she overstepped, teaching her to glide rather than stomp. By the second session, her footwork was smoother, her body lower, her strikes more controlled.
Lysandros taught her new strikes—quick thrusts to the chest, angled cuts to the arms—emphasizing precision over power. Arwyn practiced against a wooden dummy, her blade hitting marked spots, splinters flying as she adjusted her grip. She sparred with Lysandros daily, learning to read his feints, to parry without overcommitting. Her speed gave her an edge, letting her dodge his strikes, but he exploited her aggression, disarming her twice with a flick of his wrist. "Patience," he said each time, tossing her sword back. By Saturday, she landed her first hit, and he grinned, nodding approval.
Thea took Arwyn into the city most days, showing her its wonders. On Tuesday, they walked through the bustling Forum of Constantine, its marble columns towering over stalls selling spices, silks, and jewelry. Thea pointed out landmarks—the great statue of the emperor, the Senate house—explaining their history as Arwyn practiced reading shop signs. They visited a bakery, where Thea introduced her to Helena, a plump woman with flour-dusted hands. Helena offered them honeyed pastries, chatting in Greek, and Arwyn responded haltingly, earning a warm smile. Helena's daughter, Chloe, a girl of sixteen with bright eyes, joined them, asking Arwyn about her homeland. Arwyn described Northumbri, keeping her pain private, and Chloe listened, fascinated, promising to show her the harbor someday.
On Thursday, Thea took her to the Great Library, a vast building with arched ceilings and shelves stretching to the roof. Scribes worked at tables, copying texts, while scholars debated in hushed tones. Thea introduced Arwyn to Demetrios, a wiry librarian with ink-stained fingers. He showed them illuminated manuscripts, their pages glowing with gold and red. Arwyn traced the letters, reading a line about a saint's life, her confidence growing. Demetrios gifted her a small book of prayers, urging her to practice, and Arwyn thanked him in Greek.
They lunched at a tavern near the library, sitting at an outdoor table under a vine-covered awning. The server, a broad man named Petros, brought them grilled fish, olives, and wine. Thea taught Arwyn how to order in Greek, and she practiced, asking for more bread, her accent improving. Petros teased her gently, mimicking her pronunciation, but clapped when she got it right. A musician in the tavern, an older woman named Zoe with a lyre, played nearby, and Thea encouraged Arwyn to sing along to a simple tune. Arwyn hesitated but joined in, her voice blending with Zoe's, earning applause from nearby patrons. She blushed but smiled, feeling a spark of belonging.
After a while Thea and Arwyn left the tavern, stepping onto the bustling street, the evening sun casting long shadows across the cobblestones. The air carried the scent of salt from the nearby Bosphorus, mixed with the aroma of roasting meat from vendors. Thea pulled her hood up, keeping to the shaded side of the street, her pale green dress swaying as she walked. Arwyn followed, her blue silk dress catching the breeze, her braid bouncing with each step. The city hummed around them—merchants haggling, carts rattling, children laughing as they chased a stray dog.
"How was today?" Thea asked, glancing at her, her face half-hidden by the hood.
Arwyn grinned, her steps light. "It was amazing. The library was huge, and Demetrios was so kind, giving me that book. And the tavern—Petros was funny, and singing with Zoe felt... good. I didn't know I could do that."
Thea smiled, her lips curving softly. "You're learning quickly, mistress. Did you enjoy the food?"
"You should've tried it," Arwyn said, turning to her. "The fish was perfect, and the olives had this spice I've never tasted. Really good."
Thea shook her head, her voice gentle. "I wasn't hungry. But I'm glad you enjoyed it."
Arwyn nodded, but her mind lingered on Thea's words. 'Not hungry?' she thought, her brow furrowing slightly as they walked. Over the past week, she'd noticed things about Thea that didn't quite add up. Thea never ate during their meals together, always sipping wine or picking at bread without taking a bite. At breakfast, she'd pour tea but leave it untouched, her hands wrapped around the cup as if for warmth. During their trips to the city, Thea avoided direct walking in the light, sticking to shadows or wearing her hood even on warm days. Arwyn remembered brushing Thea's hand once, when she adjusted her dress, and feeling a chill, like touching a stone left in the shade. 'Maybe she's just delicate,' Arwyn thought, trying to dismiss it. 'Or sick?'. The inconsistencies nagged at her, a puzzle she couldn't solve, but she pushed the thoughts aside, focusing on the city around her.
They passed a market square, where a juggler tossed flaming torches, drawing cheers from a crowd. Arwyn paused, watching, but Thea touched her arm, urging her forward. "We should return," Thea said, her voicefirm. Arwyn nodded, following her through narrower streets, the noise of the market fading. The manor came into view. They entered through the main gate, the courtyard quiet, servants tending to rosebushes or carrying trays of linens.
Inside, Niketas waited in the entrance hall, he stood near a marble statue of a lion, reviewing a scroll, but looked up as they approached, his face breaking into a warm smile. "Back from the city," he said, setting the scroll on a table. "How was your trip?"
Arwyn smiled, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "I enjoyed it. The library was incredible, and I met some people at a tavern. I even sang with a musician."
Niketas raised an eyebrow, amused. "Singing already? Thea's lessons are working wonders."
Thea inclined her head, her hood still up. "She's a natural, my lord."
Niketas gestured for them to follow him into the sitting room, a spacious chamber with silk cushions and a low table set with a pitcher of wine. He sat, pouring three goblets, and handed one to Arwyn. "I have good news," he said, his voice carrying a note of pride. "Lysandros has been very impressed with your progress in sword training. He says you're fast, with potential to be exceptional. I've arranged for more teachers to join him, to hone your martial skills further. A dagger master and an archer, both highly skilled."
Arwyn's eyes widened, her goblet pausing halfway to her lips. The weight of his generosity hit her, a mix of gratitude and overwhelm. "More teachers?" she said, setting the goblet down. "Niketas, I... thank you. Thank you so much. I don't know what to say. You've already done more than I could ever repay, giving me a place here, lessons, helping me find my friend, and now this. I'll train hard, I promise. I won't let you down."
Niketas waved a hand, his smile kind. "Your dedication is thanks enough. Keep learning, Arwyn, and you'll play a vital role in our cause. That's all I ask."
Arwyn nodded, her throat tight, her hands clasped in her lap. "I will. I want to help, however I can."
Thea placed a hand on her shoulder, her touch cool even through the silk. "You're already helping, mistress, by embracing this path."
Niketas stood, smoothing his robes. "I have matters to attend to, but we'll speak more at dinner. Rest, Arwyn. You've earned it."
He left, his footsteps echoing down the hall, and Thea guided Arwyn to her room. Arwyn sat at the vanity, staring at her reflection, the woman in the mirror both familiar and strange. Thea began unpinning her braid, her fingers deft, and Arwyn watched her in the glass, her mind drifting back to the oddities she'd noticed. 'She's always so composed,' she thought, 'but there's something... off.' The cold hands, the untouched food, the way she avoided the sun—it was like Thea existed just outside the normal rhythm of life. Arwyn opened her mouth to ask, then closed it, unsure how to phrase the question without sounding foolish. 'Maybe it's just the city,' she reasoned. 'Everything's different here.'
'Perhaps high born ladies do this to maintain their beauty, to not be burned by the sun or to not gain too much fat from food?' She reasoned.
Thea finished, stepping back. "I'll leave you to rest, mistress. We'll resume lessons tomorrow."
"Thank you, Thea," Arwyn said, managing a smile.
Thea inclined her head and left, the door closing softly. Arwyn lay on the bed, the silk sheets cool against her skin, and stared at the ceiling, its gold patterns glinting in the fading light. The day's events swirled in her mind—the library's vast shelves, Petros's laughter, Zoe's lyre, the promise of new teachers. She felt a spark of purpose, a sense that she was building something new, something bigger than herself. Niketas's vision of a world without pain, without loss, burned bright in her thoughts, pushing back the shadows of Northumbria, of the loss of her family. 'I'm not just a warrior anymore,' she thought, her eyes drifting shut.
Yet despite all that a small part of her wished that Thorfinn could be here with her.
___________________________
Thorfinn stood on a flat rooftop, his arms crossed, his hood casting a shadow over his face. He leaned against a low wall, his boots scuffing the weathered stone, and watched the streets, where merchants closed stalls and guards patrolled in pairs. He waited, his jaw tight, his patience thinning as minutes dragged on. Sophia was late, and the delay grated on him. A soft thud broke his thoughts. Sophia flipped over the wall, landing in a crouch in front of him, her dark robes settling around her. She straightened, brushing her hands, her hazel eyes glinting with mischief. "You're late," Thorfinn said, his voice flat.
She grinned, tossing her hair. "Needed my beauty sleep."
Thorfinn didn't reply, his lips pressing into a thin line. 'This is a waste of time,' he thought, his mind churning with frustration. The past week had been endless lessons in climbing, jumping, and balancing across buildings, skills he didn't understand. How would leaping rooftops help him kill Dahlia? It made no sense, but Geralt and the masters insisted he master movement before learning anything else. He'd stumbled through the training, his body strong but unaccustomed to the precision Sophia demanded. He did it anyway, grudgingly, knowing Malik and Cassian wouldn't teach him until he satisfied her.
"Ready?" Sophia asked, adjusting her gloves.
Thorfinn nodded, shifting his weight. "Let's get this over with."
Sophia led him to the roof's edge, pointing to a series of ledges and beams across the street. "Follow my path," she said, then sprinted, leaping to a lower roof, her body twisting to grab a protruding beam. She swung, landing on a narrow ledge, then climbed a wall, her fingers finding holds in the cracked stone. Thorfinn followed, his movements heavier. He jumped, landing on the roof with a thud, his boots slipping slightly. He grabbed the beam, his grip tight, and swung, but his legs hit the wall, slowing him. He climbed, his hands scraping the stone, and reached the ledge, panting.
"Not bad," Sophia said, waiting above. "But you're stomping like a bull. Keep your weight forward."
Thorfinn grunted, following her to the next roof. They ran, Sophia leaping gaps with ease, her body light, the wind seeming to lift her. Thorfinn jumped, clearing a narrow alley, but landed hard, his knees bending too much. He climbed a tiled roof, slipping on loose tiles, catching himself before he fell. Sophia watched, calling out corrections. "Bend your knees more when you land. Use your arms to balance."
He tried again, jumping to a balcony, grabbing the railing, and pulling himself up. His landing was better, his feet quieter, but he still felt clumsy compared to Sophia. They continued, traversing rooftops, scaling walls, swinging from ropes strung between buildings. Thorfinn's muscles burned, but his stamina held, and by the third circuit, he made fewer mistakes, his jumps more controlled, his landings softer. As they ran, Sophia spoke, her voice carrying over the wind. "We've been doing this a week, and you barely talk. Don't you get bored of silence?"
Thorfinn leapt to a flat roof, keeping pace. "Haven't got much to say."
She vaulted over a chimney, landing beside him. "You've got an entire life to pull from. To know someone, you need their history. It's what makes you who you are."
Thorfinn climbed a wall, his fingers digging into cracks. "My people don't look back. We only remember those who did great things, through songs and stories."
Sophia swung from a rope, landing on a higher ledge. "And you, Thorfinn? Haven't you done great things?"
He jumped, grabbing the ledge, pulling himself up. "Not enough."
She tilted her head, studying him, then shrugged. "Fine. If you won't talk about your past, I'll tell you mine." She sprinted to the next roof, her voice steady as she spoke. "I grew up in Constantinople, in a slum by the docks. My mother was a weaver, my father... well as you know he was the God Enlil, but the man I was raised to believe was my father left when I was young. The streets were a brutal place... thieves cut throats for a loaf of bread, and slavers snatched kids who strayed too far. I saw a boy, no older than ten, gutted for stealing fish and no one stopped to help. I learned to run, to hide, to fight with a knife I stole."
Thorfinn followed, his boots thudding as he landed. Sophia continued, her tone darkening. "When I was thirteen, a gang cornered me in an alley. Three men, stinking of wine, wanting more than coin. I fought, stabbed one in the thigh, but they were stronger. An assassin saved me—dropped from a roof, slit their throats before they could scream. He took me to the Brotherhood, trained me. I swore I'd never be helpless again."
Thorfinn didn't respond, his face unreadable, but her words lingered, some of her story cutting through his annoyance. They traversed more roofs, Sophia offering advice. "You're tall, muscular. You need to compensate—shift your weight lower, use your strength to control your momentum."
Thorfinn listened, adjusting his stance. He climbed a wall, his hands steadier, and jumped to a lower roof, landing without slipping. He swung from a beam, his grip firm, but misjudged the final jump, landing awkwardly on the ground, his ankle twisting. He stumbled, cursing under his breath.
Sophia landed beside him, clutching her belly as she laughed. "By the gods, that was a mess!" She patted his back, grinning. "You'll get it next time."
Thorfinn grunted, standing and brushing dirt from his tunic. "Enough for today?"
Sophia nodded, still chuckling. "Let's head back."
They scaled a building, Thorfinn moving slower, his hands finding holds but lacking her fluidity. Sophia leapt ahead, her body twisting through the air, the wind lifting her. As they ran across a high roof, they froze, spotting a scene below. In a narrow street, six guards in dark armor surrounded a group of peasants—three men, two women, and a teenage girl—forced to their knees. The guards held swords, one barking questions, his voice sharp. "Any of you untouched? Speak, or we'll find out ourselves."
Thorfinn crouched behind a chimney, whispering, "What are they doing?"
Sophia's eyes narrowed, her voice low. "Restocking the food supply."
"Food supply?" Thorfinn said, frowning.
She nodded, keeping her gaze on the guards. "Certain vampires are picky about blood. They'll only drink from specific types—virgins, in this case. Can't stomach anything else."
Thorfinn's jaw tightened. "We should leave before they spot us."
Sophia shook her head, her voice firm. "We help them. The Brotherhood exists to protect people like these."
Thorfinn exhaled, annoyance flaring, but he nodded. "I'll distract them."
He circled around, leaping from roof to roof, his hood up, analyzing the scene. Over half a dozen guards, armed with swords and daggers, spread in a loose circle. He could take them, but he needed to ensure none escaped. He jumped to a rope, sliding down, landing in the street with a thud. The guards turned, shouting, "Who are you? Take off the hood! Stand back!"
Thorfinn walked forward, his massive frame looming, his sword sheathed but his presence intimidating, most of the guards were a full head and shoulders shorter than himself. Two guards hesitated, stepping back, but the captain, a stocky man with a scarred face, drew his sword, charging. He swung at Thorfinn's chest. Thorfinn grabbed his arm, twisting until the bone snapped with a crack, then seized his throat, lifting him off the ground. He raised the captain overhead with both hands and threw him into a wall, the man's body hitting with a crunch, collapsing in a heap.
The remaining guards attacked, swords raised. One thrust at Thorfinn's side, but he sidestepped, drawing his sword and slashing across the guard's chest, cutting through armor and flesh, blood spraying. Another swung at his head, and Thorfinn ducked, grabbing the guard's wrist, yanking him forward, and headbutting him, shattering his nose. The guard staggered, and Thorfinn kicked his knee, snapping it backward, then drove his sword through his stomach, twisting the blade, blood pooling on the ground.
Sophia dropped from a roof, rolling over a guard's back, her hidden blade thrusting into his throat, blood gushing as he fell. She spun, throwing a knife that lodged in another guard's forehead, his body crumpling. Thorfinn faced the last two, who circled him, swords trembling. He roared, charging, swinging his sword in a wide arc, slicing through one's arm, severing it at the elbow, the man screaming as blood spurted. Thorfinn punched the other in the chest, ribs cracking, then grabbed his head, slamming it into the wall, the skull splitting with a wet thud.
The fight ended, bodies strewn across the street, blood soaking the cobblestones. The peasants had fled, Sophia untying them during the chaos. She sheathed her blade, shaking her head. "You could be subtler, you know."
"It worked," Thorfinn said, wiping his sword on a guard's cloak.
"That's not the point, you brute," she said, slapping his chest. "You're loud, more elephant than assassin."
Thorfinn paused, looking down at her, her grin infectious despite his mood. "Let's go."
Sophia rolled her eyes but nodded, and they scaled a building, Thorfinn following her path, his movements steadier but still lagging behind her grace. They traversed rooftops, the city's lights flickering below, and reached the bell tower, slipping through a window into the headquarters. In the main hall, Sophia turned to him. "Want to eat with me?"
Thorfinn shook his head, his voice gruff. "I'm heading to my room."
He left, climbing the spiral stairs, leaving Sophia in the hall. Hassan and Bilal, lounging near a table, smirked. "In love with the Northman, Sophia?" Hassan teased, biting an apple.
Sophia's eyes narrowed, and she threw a knife, the blade pinning the apple to the wall behind him, inches from his hand. "Did you say something?" she asked, her voice sweet but dangerous.
Hassan paled, raising his hands. "No, no, not me!"
Bilal laughed, backing away. "Never, Sophia, swear it!"
"I thought as much," she said, retrieving her knife and heading to the table, where other assassins ate bread and stew, their laughter filling the hall.
...
Thorfinn reached his chamber, the small room dim, the stone walls cold. He lay on the cot, closing his eyes, exhaustion pulling him under. Hours later, a sharp knock woke him. Geralt stood in the doorway, his white hair stark in the torchlight, his golden eyes serious. "Get your stuff. We're going on a hunt."
Thorfinn sat up, grabbing his sword and cloak. "What are we hunting?"
Geralt led him out, moving silently through the tower's corridors. "A ghoul. One's been sniffing around our territory, likely trying to find us."
They slipped onto the rooftops, the city quiet under a crescent moon. Thorfinn followed, his boots soft on the tiles. "Killing it will signal we're here," he said, keeping pace.
Geralt nodded, leaping to a lower roof. "Which is why we'll drop the body elsewhere, far from the tower."
Thorfinn and Geralt moved silently across the rooftops, the city's quiet hum broken only by the occasional clatter of a distant cart or the bark of a stray dog. The crescent moon hung low, casting faint light over the uneven tiles. Geralt led, his black cloak blending with the shadows, his steps precise from years of hunting. Thorfinn followed, his hood up, his sword sheathed at his hip, his muscles tense with anticipation. They descended to a narrow street, its cobblestones slick with evening dew, and slipped into an abandoned warehouse district, where crumbling brick buildings loomed like silent sentinels.
Geralt stopped near a derelict structure, its windows shattered, its wooden door hanging off rusted hinges. He crouched, opening a leather pouch, and pulled out coils of thin silver wire, glinting faintly. "We're setting traps," he said, his voice low. "Ghouls are fast, strong, and tough. We need to slow them down."
Thorfinn nodded, kneeling beside him, watching as Geralt strung the wire across the street, securing it to iron hooks embedded in the walls. The wire was nearly invisible, stretched taut at ankle height. "Step over these," Geralt said, pointing. "They'll wrap around the ghoul's legs, bind it."
Thorfinn helped, tying the wire to a hook, his fingers careful not to snap the delicate strands. Geralt scattered silver caltrops across the ground, their spiked points gleaming, designed to pierce boots and slow pursuit. He then drew a small vial of white chalk from his belt and began sketching a magic circle on the cobblestones, its runes glowing faintly as he whispered an incantation. "This will weaken it," Geralt said, finishing the circle. "Stay out of it unless you want to feel it too."
Thorfinn watched, memorizing the runes, his mind sharp. Geralt pulled a small bomb from his pouch, its surface etched with alchemical symbols. "Silver shrapnel," he said, placing it near the circle, rigging it to a tripwire. "It'll explode when the ghoul crosses."
They moved to a nearby alley, setting a second trap—a net woven with silver threads, hidden in a pile of crates, rigged to a pulley system. Geralt showed Thorfinn how to trigger it, pulling a rope to drop the net. "If it dodges the wires, this'll catch it," he said.
As they worked, Geralt glanced at Thorfinn. "How's your divine power coming along?"
Thorfinn tied a knot, his jaw tightening. "Not well. It's hard to control. Comes when I'm angry, but I can't call it on purpose."
Geralt nodded, setting another caltrop. "Try using it tonight. Focus it through your sword. Let it flow, like water through a channel. It'll be stronger, more precise."
Thorfinn frowned, standing. "I'll try."
They hid behind a stack of barrels, watching the street. Thorfinn drew his sword, its blade still stained with Harkon's blood, and gripped the hilt, closing his eyes. He reached for the warmth of Baldr's light, the divine essence within. His palm tingled, but the power fizzled, no glow appearing. He tried again, his brow furrowing, but the runes on his sword remained dark. "It's not working," he muttered.
"Concentrate," Geralt said, his voice calm. "Feel it in your blood, not your head."
Thorfinn exhaled, focusing on his heartbeat, on the strength in his arms. He gripped the sword tighter, willing the light to come. A faint warmth spread, and the runes flickered, glowing softly, the blade humming. Thorfinn's body felt stronger, his muscles lighter, as if he could swing forever. "Got it," he said, his voice steadier.
Geralt nodded, his eyes scanning the street. "Good. Keep it ready."
Footsteps echoed, and four figures appeared—three guards in dark armor, swords at their hips, and a slim man in a fine tunic, his movements unnaturally quick. The ghoul. His eyes glinted, scanning the shadows, his skin pale but human-like. The guards fanned out, hands on their hilts.
Geralt signaled, and Thorfinn stayed low, watching. The ghoul stepped forward, nearing the silver wires. He paused, sniffing the air, but didn't see the trap. He moved, and his foot caught the wire, triggering it. The silver strands snapped tight, wrapping around his legs, cutting into his flesh. He hissed, falling, and the tripwire bomb detonated, silver shrapnel tearing into his side, blood spraying. The guards shouted, drawing swords, but stepped on caltrops, yelping as spikes pierced their boots.
Geralt sprang from cover, his silver sword flashing. He cast Aard, a telekinetic blast, knocking a guard into a wall, bones crunching. Thorfinn charged, his glowing sword raised, and swung at a guard, slicing through his armor, cutting from shoulder to hip, blood gushing. The guard collapsed, and Thorfinn spun, blocking a second guard's thrust, then kicked his chest, sending him sprawling onto caltrops, screams echoing as spikes dug deeper.
The ghoul tore free of the wires, his wounds healing, and lunged at Geralt, claws extended. Geralt dodged, rolling, and tossed a bomb, its explosion coating the ghoul in burning oil, flames licking his skin. He shrieked but charged, unfazed. Geralt cast Quen, a protective shield shimmering around him, and parried the ghoul's claws, his sword cutting a gash across its chest, black blood oozing.
Thorfinn finished the second guard, driving his sword through his throat, blood spurting, then turned to the third, who swung wildly. Thorfinn sidestepped, grabbed his arm, and snapped it, the bone cracking, then headbutted him, shattering his jaw, teeth scattering. He plunged his sword into the guard's chest, twisting, and yanked it free, blood pooling.
The ghoul knocked Geralt back, its strength immense, and leapt, claws aimed at his throat. Thorfinn cast Igni, flames bursting from his hand, hitting the ghoul's back, burning its tunic. It turned, roaring, and charged him. Thorfinn swung, his glowing sword cutting its arm, the light searing the wound, slowing its healing. The ghoul grabbed his arm, its grip crushing, and threw him into a crate, wood splintering.
Geralt recovered, casting Yrden, a purple trap glowing on the ground, slowing the ghoul's movements. He slashed, his sword carving deep gashes, blood spraying, but the ghoul broke free, tackling him. Thorfinn stood, gripping his sword, and tried the Leviathan's power, the air thrumming as he prepared to strike.
"No!" Geralt shouted, dodging a claw. "Too loud, it'll draw attention!"
Thorfinn growled, switching tactics. He raised his hand, eyes flashing gold, and shouted, "Forþweorpan!" A telekinetic force hit the ghoul, lifting it off Geralt and slamming it into a wall, bricks cracking. The ghoul staggered, and Thorfinn cast, "Fýr!" Fire erupted from his palm, engulfing the ghoul's legs, flames spreading. It screamed, charging through the fire, and Thorfinn shouted, "Sweþrian!" A force blast knocked it back, its body crashing into the magic circle, runes flaring, weakening it.
Geralt leapt, his sword piercing the ghoul's chest, pinning it to the ground. He twisted the blade, black blood gushing, and slashed its throat, nearly decapitating it. The ghoul twitched, then stilled, its eyes dull. Thorfinn panted, his sword still glowing, his body buzzing with Baldr's light.
Before they could relax, a second ghoul appeared, bursting from a side alley, smaller but faster, its eyes wild. It hadn't been part of the plan—Geralt cursed, drawing a dagger. The ghoul tackled Thorfinn, its claws raking his arm, blood welling. Thorfinn roared, grabbing its neck, and threw it off, his strength amplified by the divine power. It landed on caltrops, shrieking, but sprang up, charging Geralt.
Geralt cast Aard, knocking it back, and threw a bomb, silver shrapnel tearing its side, blood spraying. He moved like a whirlwind, his silver sword slashing, cutting gashes across its chest and arms, black blood splattering. The ghoul was relentless, dodging a thrust and clawing Geralt's shoulder, tearing his cloak. Geralt grunted, casting Quen, the shield absorbing a second strike, and countered, his sword slicing its thigh, slowing it.
Thorfinn joined, his glowing sword swinging, cutting the ghoul's back, the light burning its flesh. It turned, grabbing his sword arm, its strength crushing, but Thorfinn headbutted it, breaking its nose, blood streaming. He cast, "Forþweorpan!" lifting the ghoul and slamming it into the ground, cobblestones cracking. It rose, undeterred, and lunged, tackling him. Thorfinn hit the ground hard, the ghoul's claws digging into his chest, blood seeping.
Geralt threw a dagger, hitting the ghoul's neck, and cast Yrden, trapping it in glowing runes. Thorfinn rolled free, shouting, "Fýr!" Fire hit the ghoul's face, burning its eyes, blinding it. He tackled it, pinning its arms, his weight holding it down, but it thrashed, throwing him off, his body skidding across the street.
Geralt seized the moment, leaping onto the ghoul, his sword plunging into its heart, twisting, blood gushing. He slashed its throat, severing arteries, and stabbed again, ensuring it was dead. The ghoul collapsed, its body limp, black blood pooling.
Thorfinn stood, panting heavily, his chest heaving, blood dripping from his arm and chest. Geralt wiped his sword, breathing hard, his shoulder bleeding but his stance steady. They leaned against a wall, catching their breath, the street silent except for the drip of blood on stone. "You did well," Geralt said, sheathing his sword. Geralt clapped his shoulder, gesturing to the bodies. "Help me move them. We'll dump them in the river, not far from here."
They dragged the ghouls and guards to a nearby canal, its water dark and sluggish. Thorfinn tied stones to the bodies, ensuring they'd sink, and they pushed them in, the water swallowing them with barely a ripple. They moved to a different district, sticking to alleys, avoiding patrols, their cloaks hiding the bloodstains. Thorfinn's wounds ached, but the divine power lingered, easing the pain, his body feeling lighter, stronger, as if Baldr's light fueled him. He wiped sweat from his brow, his sword still faintly glowing. "I need to get stronger, Geralt. I can't be weak again. Never." He met Geralt's eyes, his voice steady. "I trust you Geralt, despite our differences I do trust you... so tell me is this the way? These lessons, the assassins?"
Geralt nodded, his expression serious. "It is. They'll make you sharper, faster, deadlier. When you are finished here you will become a weapon that cannot be broken, not even by Dahlia."
Thorfinn exhaled, gripping his sword. "Then I'll give it my all."
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(AN: This chapter isn't finished yet there is another 13k words that have a 8 month time skip. Sadly there was too much that I had to include in this year so I'm gonna have to do a part 3 to wrap it all up. But I just didn't want to have ass it. Anyway hope you enjoyed it).
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