Chapter 8: The Woods Meeting
POV: Viktor
Viktor discovered that desperation made for surprisingly effective meditation. He sat cross-legged in the alley behind the inn, back pressed against cold stone, and focused on his breathing with the kind of intensity usually reserved for matters of life and death. Which, technically, this was.
Every breath in: "MP regeneration."
Every breath out: "Five percent per hour."
In and out, in and out, while his mana pool crawled upward at a pace that would have made a snail impatient. After the first hour, he'd gained exactly 5 MP. After the second hour, another 5. By the third hour, Viktor had achieved a kind of meditative trance that was equal parts zen enlightenment and stubborn desperation.
That's when the first coin hit him in the forehead.
Viktor's eyes snapped open to find a middle-aged woman standing over him, her expression somewhere between pity and disapproval. She dropped another copper coin into his lap and shook her head.
"Poor thing. How long have you been out here?"
"I'm not—" Viktor started to protest, then stopped as he took in his appearance from her perspective. Sitting cross-legged in an alley, eyes closed, clothes that looked like they'd been through a war, hair that hadn't seen a comb in two weeks. "Actually, thank you. That's very kind."
The woman walked away, muttering something about the state of the world and what it did to honest people. Viktor stared at the coin in his lap, then burst into laughter that sounded dangerously close to hysteria.
He was being mistaken for a beggar. A meditation beggar. In a world where he was racing against time to prevent a massacre, he'd accidentally discovered a new career path.
More people passed by over the next few hours. A baker's apprentice dropped a stale roll in his lap. An old man contributed three more coppers and a lecture about the importance of honest work. A young woman left a piece of cheese and a concerned look.
By the time Viktor had meditated his way to 30 MP, he'd also accumulated 5 copper coins, half a loaf of bread, and a small wheel of cheese. Not a bad return on investment, all things considered.
[CURRENT MANA: 30/100]
[MEDITATION EFFICIENCY: 5% PER HOUR]
[STATUS: SPIRITUALLY ENLIGHTENED (APPARENTLY)]
Viktor was just starting to appreciate the irony of accidentally becoming Blaviken's newest religious figure when he heard it: the sound of horses moving through the forest at the edge of town. Not the casual pace of travelers, but the purposeful rhythm of people with business to conduct.
Renfri's band. It had to be.
Viktor forced himself to his feet, his legs protesting after six hours of sitting in the same position. He pocketed his unexpected windfall and made his way toward the tree line, following the sound of hoofbeats and trying to stay hidden.
His Premonition Sense was tingling—not with immediate danger, but with the kind of low-level awareness that meant something significant was happening nearby. Viktor crept through the underbrush, moving as quietly as his limited woodcraft skills allowed, until he found a hiding spot with a clear view of a small clearing.
Geralt was already there.
The Witcher sat on a fallen log like he owned the forest, his posture relaxed but alert. The kind of casual readiness that spoke of someone who'd survived a century of conversations that could turn deadly without warning.
Viktor heard them before he saw them—Renfri and her band, moving through the trees with the confidence of predators in their element. They entered the clearing like they were taking a stage, arranging themselves in a loose circle around the Witcher.
"I need four guards. You're all the protection I can afford."
The same line, delivered exactly as Viktor remembered. But hearing it in person, seeing the desperation that Renfri tried to hide behind arrogance, was a different experience entirely. This wasn't a character delivering scripted dialogue. This was a woman making one last desperate gamble with her life.
"I don't work for princes or princesses."
"Good. I'm neither."
Viktor watched the conversation unfold, his heart sinking as every word confirmed that events were proceeding exactly as they had in the show. Geralt's moral flexibility warring with his practical nature. Renfri's tragic nobility hiding beneath calculated manipulation. Two people talking past each other while destiny laughed at them both.
"You're a mutant, and so am I. We could be lovers. We could travel the continent together. We could stay apart from the affairs of men."
Viktor had to give Renfri credit—she was playing every angle, offering Geralt everything from money to companionship to escape from the world that had made them both into monsters. But Viktor could see in the Witcher's posture that none of it was working. Geralt had already made his choice, even if he didn't want to admit it yet.
"The Butcher of Blaviken."
"Geralt of Rivia."
And there it was. The moment when Geralt chose his path, accepting the lesser evil because the alternative seemed worse. Viktor watched Renfri's face as she realized she'd lost, saw the brief flicker of devastation before it was buried beneath resignation and rage.
The meeting broke up with the kind of polite hostility that preceded violence by mere hours. Renfri and her band mounted their horses and rode back toward town, while Geralt remained in the clearing, staring at nothing and probably questioning every choice that had led him to this moment.
This was Viktor's chance. His only chance to reach Renfri without her guards, without the pressure of public confrontation. He waited until the Witcher had left—Geralt departed the clearing like a man carrying the weight of the world—then followed Renfri's trail deeper into the forest.
He found her alone in a smaller clearing, sitting on a rock and staring at something in her hands. As Viktor drew closer, he could see what it was: a silver brooch, ornate and ancient-looking, catching the filtered sunlight like captured tears.
The brooch from his visions. The thing she clutched when he'd mentioned her death.
Viktor stepped into the clearing, making no attempt to hide his approach. Renfri looked up, her hand closing protectively around the brooch, her other hand moving to the sword at her hip.
"You're following me."
"I need to talk to you."
"I don't know you. I don't talk to strangers in the woods."
"My name is Viktor. And I know yours, Princess Renfri of Creyden. I know about Nohorn, Vyr, Tizzy. I know about your plan to take hostages in the marketplace tomorrow. I know you're going to force Stregobor to face you."
Renfri's sword cleared its sheath with a sound like silk tearing. The point hovered inches from Viktor's throat, steady as a rock.
"Who sent you? Aridea? Some cousin looking to claim what's left of Creyden?"
"No one sent me. I'm here because I know how this ends."
"Then enlighten me."
Viktor took a breath, trying to find words that would make her listen. "You're going to die. Tomorrow, in the marketplace. Geralt is going to kill you, and Stregobor is going to call it justice. Your death will accomplish nothing except making the wizard feel vindicated and destroying the one person who might have understood you."
The sword point pressed against his throat, drawing a thin line of blood.
"You're lying."
"Success Rate Analysis: Can I convince Renfri to abandon her plan?"
[MANA DECREASED: 30 → 0]
[SUCCESS RATE: 10% - VENGEANCE OVERRIDES SURVIVAL INSTINCT]
[PRIMARY FACTOR: PSYCHOLOGICAL INVESTMENT IN REVENGE TOO STRONG TO OVERCOME]
[SECONDARY FACTORS: LACK OF ALTERNATIVES, SUNK COST FALLACY, TERMINAL DESPAIR]
[RECOMMENDATION: FOCUS ON TACTICAL WITHDRAWAL RATHER THAN STRATEGIC PERSUASION]
Ten percent. Viktor stared at the floating text, his heart sinking. Even with perfect knowledge, even with the truth on his side, he couldn't overcome forty years of hatred and pain.
But he had to try.
"I'm not lying. I see things, Renfri. Futures, possibilities, the threads that connect all our choices. And I see you dying for nothing. Stregobor will outlive you by decades. Your pain will be forgotten. Your story will become a cautionary tale about the dangers of prophecy, and nothing will change."
Something flickered in Renfri's eyes—not belief, but maybe the beginning of doubt.
"Then what do you suggest? That I run? That I abandon forty years of—"
"Yes. Run. Leave Blaviken. Find somewhere Stregobor can't reach you and build a life that's yours, not his. Don't give him the satisfaction of proving his prophecy right."
"I can't." The words came out as a whisper, barely audible. "I've come too far. Done too much. There's no life for me beyond this."
"There could be. You could—"
"No." Renfri's voice hardened, and the sword pressed deeper. "I've lived my entire life as Stregobor's victim. I won't die as one too. If I'm going to die tomorrow, at least I'll die knowing he dies with me."
"He won't die with you. He'll hide in his tower while Geralt does his killing for him. You'll die, your men will die, innocent people will die, and Stregobor will call it a victory."
"Then I'll die. But Stregobor dies first."
Renfri sheathed her sword in one fluid motion and turned away, walking back toward her horse with the kind of finality that admitted no argument.
"Wait!" Viktor called after her. "Please, just—"
"You've said your piece, stranger. Now stay out of my way."
She mounted her horse and rode away, leaving Viktor alone in the clearing with his empty mana pool and his complete failure to change anything that mattered.
Viktor sank to his knees in the forest floor, staring at the space where Renfri had been. He'd had the truth. He'd had perfect knowledge of what was coming. And it hadn't mattered. Nothing he'd said had penetrated forty years of pain and rage and desperate need for meaning.
"She won't listen," he whispered to the empty forest. "Words aren't enough. Truth isn't enough. Nothing I can say will change her mind."
But even as he spoke, Viktor found his mind working on alternatives. He couldn't stop Renfri. He couldn't convince Geralt. He couldn't expose Stregobor's lies.
But maybe he could save someone. Maybe he could prevent at least part of the tragedy from unfolding as written.
"Marilka," he said aloud. "I have to save Marilka. It's the only way."
If Renfri couldn't take the alderman's daughter hostage, if that crucial piece of her plan fell apart, maybe the whole thing would collapse. Maybe Geralt wouldn't have to choose between two evils because one of the options would be removed from the board.
It wasn't much of a plan. It wasn't even a good plan. But it was the only plan Viktor had left.
He picked himself up from the forest floor and started walking back toward Blaviken, his mind already working on the logistics of kidnapping a ten-year-old girl for her own good.
"This is insane," he told himself. "But it's the only chance I have left."
Behind him, the forest whispered its agreement, and somewhere in the distance, destiny laughed at another mortal who thought he could rewrite the story of the world.
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