The inn's clamor—band music, brawling clatter in the corner—faded instantly for the witcher.
In his golden eyes, only the graceful figure at the table remained, swaying in the lamplight.
"You're here," said the woman in a black hooded cloak, her chuckle light as leaves on water, its meaning elusive.
"A man who should've retired dragging my ugly daughter around. Can't I check in?" she teased.
Geralt strode over, sitting at the table. Dandelion quickly brought him a drink.
"My silver sword's dull. I'm looking for a blacksmith," Geralt said.
Another sorceress in a green cloak shook her head, leaning low as if hiding her face. "So you left Toussaint, wandered half a year, just to find a blacksmith in Novigrad?"
Geralt ignored the sarcasm, downing his mead—too sweet for his taste—and stroking his beard. "Plan was to sail from Novigrad to Skellige. Better smiths there."
"This isn't the place to talk. Upstairs, maybe?" Dandelion suggested, clutching his hat. The brawl was spreading, more people joining the fray.
He urged Geralt and the sorceresses to a private room. The guard would arrive soon.
Witch hunts had stopped, but Novigrad wasn't kind to sorceresses. Avoiding a bloody clash with the guard was wise.
Geralt wouldn't let a brawl wreck his friend's inn. "You go upstairs. I haven't boxed in a while."
The black-cloaked woman grabbed Ciri and left without hesitation, the others following.
Su Ming glanced at Geralt diving into the fight, shrugged, and skipped tangling with drunks. No challenge in ordinary folks.
He followed the group upstairs.
Dandelion had put effort into the inn. The large upstairs room was elegant—lush carpets, exotic Eastern decor, silk draped over bedposts, colorful pillows everywhere, and red flowers Su Ming didn't recognize in corner vases. The city's lights twinkled outside.
Ciri hugged each sorceress, excitedly recounting their journey.
The black-cloaked woman touched Ciri's face, then turned to Su Ming. They weren't just here for Ciri—there was business.
She lowered her hood, wavy black hair spilling over her shoulders, violet eyes reflecting Ciri as she raised a brow, sizing up the stranger.
In a moment, she introduced her group. "I'm Yennefer of Vengerberg. This is Triss of Maribor, Philippa of Tretogor, Fringilla of Toussaint, Margarita of Aretuza, Keira Metz of Carreras, and Ida Emean of the Blue Mountains."
Not the two Su Ming expected. Yennefer had rallied half the Lodge of Sorceresses.
Maybe Yennefer and Triss were predictable, given Ciri, but this? Su Ming wanted to ask Geralt where he downloaded his harem mod.
After the Wild Hunt's last invasion, Yennefer, Triss, and Philippa had rebuilt the Lodge. Many died in Nilfgaard's third invasion or the North's witch hunts.
They needed to train apprentices and share global intel. The Lodge had to exist.
Even if some members clashed, it offered chances to monitor enemies.
Everyone present was either Yennefer's or Triss's friend—and Geralt's acquaintance.
"An honor, ladies. I'm Slade of New York," Su Ming said, removing his helmet, smiling at each. "But just for Ciri's schooling? Worth all of you coming? Especially you, 'Coral,' didn't you retire to the Blue Mountains?"
The elven sorceress lowered her hood, cradling her black cat, settling on a cushion. "You know a lot about us. But we're not just here for Ciri. It's because of you."
Su Ming nodded. He'd figured as much. "Ciri's told you plenty. Sharp as ever. It's about the White Frost, isn't it?"
The sorceresses shed their hoods, revealing stunning faces, sitting in varied poses.
Only Yennefer stood with Ciri.
The raven-haired sorceress nodded. "The Wild Hunt isn't the root. The White Frost is. It devours worlds, like theirs, like ours. The Hunt are just beasts fleeing it."
Blind Philippa sat steadily on a sofa, fingers tracing its texture, but her question was sharp. "Last time, Ciri cut our worlds' link, keeping us safe for now. Do you know the Cult of the Ouroboros?"
"Skellige's secretive underground faith. They believe we're in a vast cosmos of worlds. From its center comes the White Frost," Su Ming said, recalling game lore. His fused soul and body kept his past life's memories crystal clear.
"When the White Frost hits a world, life vanishes in decades. The Ouroboros call it cosmic rebirth, their symbol of cycles," Triss added, fixing her red hair, mussed by her cloak.
Su Ming mused. Earth's ice ages reshaped humanity's place, sidelining dinosaurs. But the White Frost wasn't just cold—it culled civilizations below a technological threshold.
Yennefer sat, pulling Ciri close, half-forcing her head onto her shoulder, smoothing her hair. "Every mystic knows Ithlinne's Prophecy. It foretells the world's end."
"'The time of sword and axe approaches, the time of the Wolf's Blizzard. The time of White Frost and White Light, madness and disgrace. The end comes, the world perishing in frost, reborn in new sunlight. The Elder Blood will rise, from seeds long sown, seeds not sprouting but bursting in flame,'" Su Ming recited.
Ithlinne's Prophecy ran through The Witcher games, reinterpreted in every mystic text.
Charlatan soothsayers mistook well rims for skies, but not these sorceresses—not Yennefer, who'd seen the White Frost.
"Spot on. Your mystic recall outshines a certain witcher," Yennefer said, jabbing at an absent someone.
Some sorceresses smirked knowingly, but Yennefer pressed on. "The prophecy's real. Ciri's the world's last hope. She's not going anywhere, right, little Ciri?"
Ciri squirmed, but Yennefer's commanding gaze pinned her. She stuck out her tongue.
"Not to interrupt your mother-daughter bonding," Su Ming said, clearing his throat, sitting on the carpet, passing out liquor and snacks, "but that's half the prophecy. The rest says, 'All life dies, save elves rise.' So, if you follow it, only Ida survives. Or, Yennefer, you betting on your quarter-elf blood?"
Silence fell. Only Philippa, the eldest and most seasoned, stayed calm, struggling with a bottle.
Su Ming uncorked it, handing her a wooden cup. "Where I'm from, passing the flame means cycle's end. Resistance is the only way."
"Fight the cosmos?" Fringilla's eyes widened, incredulous.
Su Ming poured himself a drink, smiling faintly. "Why not? A cosmic disaster doesn't speak for the universe's will."
Yennefer propped her chin, thinking. Ciri slipped free, hiding behind Triss, exhaling.
Triss absently traced the carpet, lost in thought.
Blind Philippa saw clearest. The offworlder raised this for a reason—he had a plan. She sipped the foreign liquor elegantly, setting it down. "Speak, Slade of New York. What's your plan?"
"Where I'm from, a great man said, 'If dough's short, garlic fills in.' When magic fails, science solves it."
"Huh?" The sorceresses blinked in unison, utterly lost.