The corridors of Shadowmere castle seemed to breathe.
Marcus walked between his mounted escorts—Gareth and two other rough men whose names he hadn't learned—feeling the weight of ages pressing down from the stone walls. The passageways twisted impossibly, sometimes sloping upward when they should have descended, other times opening into chambers that couldn't possibly exist within the castle's external dimensions. Every surface bore carvings that hurt to look at directly: dragons whose eyes seemed to track movement, wolves that appeared to breathe, symbols that shifted and changed when viewed from the corner of his eye.
"Keep your eyes forward," Gareth muttered. "The castle doesn't like being studied. Learns things about you that even you don't know."
They climbed a spiral staircase that seemed to ascend forever, each step worn smooth by countless feet over unknowable years. The higher they went, the colder the air became, until Marcus could see his breath misting before him despite the torches that lined the walls. His heart—which he was increasingly certain wasn't entirely his original heart—beat with a steady rhythm that seemed to synchronize with some distant drum he couldn't quite hear.
At the top of the staircase stood a door of black iron, its surface covered in runes that pulsed with faint red light. Without anyone touching it, the door swung open with a sound like screaming metal, revealing a chamber that defied every expectation Marcus had about medieval castles.
The room was vast, larger than any structure could possibly contain, with a ceiling that disappeared into darkness overhead. Books lined walls that stretched impossibly high, their spines written in languages that made his eyes water. Alchemical equipment bubbled and hissed on tables that seemed to grow from the floor itself. And at the far end, seated behind a desk of petrified bone, was the man they'd come to see.
Fresh snow, worn long and loose, with a beard that reached his chest. But it was his eyes that captured Marcus's attention: they were yellow, not with age or disease, but with the same predatory gleam he'd seen in his own reflection. Here was a man who'd undergone the same transformation he was beginning to experience, but centuries ago.
"Leave us," the old man commanded, his voice carrying the weight of absolute authority. Gareth and the others retreated without a word, the iron door closing behind them with a finality that made Marcus's skin crawl.
For a long moment, the ancient figure simply studied him, those yellow eyes seeming to peel back layers of flesh and memory to examine what lay beneath. Marcus felt naked under that gaze, exposed in ways that went beyond mere physical inspection. This man wasn't just looking at him—he was reading him like a book, absorbing every secret, every fear, every moment of his life on Earth.
The figure moved to a cabinet and removed a vial filled with luminescent green fluid.
"Drink this." said the figure with harch tone, after giving me the veil, i'm stunned at what the fesure said, why would i dring this shiny weard thing from a stanger, his man kidnapped me, drag me here, and now want me to do this, before i said no, the figure that silently looking at me sheathed his sword from his waist and put it in my neck and said " drink it or i will cut of your head from your neck." then he move the blade lightly to my neck that caused me bleed.
And so i drink the fluid.
The green fluid tasted of copper and ozone, of autumn leaves and winter storms, of every choice he'd never made and every path he'd never walked. As it burned down his throat, Marcus felt the transformation begin in earnest—not the gentle awakening of enhanced senses, but the violent reconstruction of everything he was.
The last thing he heard before the pain took him was Aldric's voice, soft and almost compassionate:
"Welcome to the Wolf School, Marcus of the Falling Sky. Try not to die before you learn how to live."
Then the fire took him, and Marcus Chen died for the second time, while something new and terrible and wonderful struggled to be born from the ashes of his former life.
The transformation began in darkness.
Marcus drifted between consciousness and oblivion, aware of pain that seemed to reshape the very fabric of his being. His bones sang with agony as they stretched and reformed. His skin burned as if dipped in liquid fire. Through the haze of suffering, he could hear voices—ancient voices speaking in tongues that predated human memory, chanting rhythms that seemed to rewrite reality itself.
In the darkness between heartbeats, between breaths, between worlds, he dreamed of silver hair and violet eyes, of dragons wheeling in a blood-red sky, of choices that would determine whether the world burned or froze or found some impossible third path. And when he finally opened his eyes again, three days older and centuries younger, he knew that he would never be merely human again.
When awareness finally returned, it came with a clarity that cut through the fog of his former life like a blade through silk.
He lay on a stone slab in what appeared to be a subterranean chamber, lit by phosphorescent fungi that cast everything in an eerie blue-green glow. His body—no, not his body, not anymore—felt different. Lighter, yet stronger. Every sense had been sharpened to a razor's edge. He could hear the scurry of rats in the walls, smell the mineral tang of underground water, feel the subtle vibrations of footsteps approaching from corridors far above.
Marcus sat up slowly, his movements fluid in a way his forty-year-old body had never managed even in its prime. His hands—when he raised them to his face—were calloused and scarred, marked by years of combat that he had never experienced. But it was his reflection in a pool of still water that stole his breath entirely.
The face staring back at him was younger, harder, carved from granite rather than flesh. His hair, once thinning and nondescript brown, now fell in pale silver waves to his shoulders—hair the color of winter moonlight, of Valyrian steel, of dragon scales. His eyes, previously a forgettable hazel, now gleamed with an unsettling golden hue that seemed to pierce through shadows and lies alike. The physique beneath his torn clothing was that of a warrior in his prime, lean and deadly, every muscle defined by purpose rather than vanity.
"You're awake," a voice said from the shadows. "Good. I was beginning to think the transformation had claimed another one."
The man who stepped into the fungal light was old but not diminished, his white hair worn long and his face a roadmap of scars that spoke of countless battles. He wore simple leather and mail, but Marcus could sense the power that radiated from him like heat from a forge. This was a man who had walked through hell and emerged carrying pieces of it with him.
"I am Aldric," the old warrior said, studying Marcus with eyes that missed nothing. "Master of the Wolf School. And you, stranger who fell from the sky, have been reborn through the Trial of Grasses. Whether that rebirth is a blessing or a curse remains to be seen."
"Wolf School?" Marcus's voice was different too—deeper, rougher, carrying an edge that hadn't existed before. "Trial of Grasses? I don't understand any of this."
"Understanding comes with time. Or it doesn't, and you die." Aldric moved closer, his movements predatory despite his age. "What matters now is what you are. You bear the signs—the enhanced senses, the improved reflexes, the cellular regeneration. But the Trial changes more than just the body. It reveals who you truly are beneath all the lies we tell ourselves."
Marcus climbed off the stone slab, testing his new strength. Every movement felt natural yet alien, as if he were a puppeteer who had suddenly been given a new marionette to master. "This isn't real. I died. I had a heart attack in a parking garage. This is just some kind of... final dream. Dying brain chemistry."
Aldric laugh was like gravel grinding together. "Dying brains don't dream of my face, boy. And they certainly don't dream of what you're about to face." He gestured toward a doorway carved into the stone. "Come. The Trial of Grasses was only the beginning. Now we discover whether you're a man, a monster, or something else entirely."
They moved through corridors that seemed to stretch endlessly into the mountain's heart. Marcus's new senses provided constant input—the drip of water from hidden springs, the whisper of air through ancient ventilation shafts, the presence of other life forms moving through the darkness. He could hear his own heartbeat, strong and steady, could feel the blood rushing through veins that seemed too large, too efficient for any normal human.
"Tell me about the fall," Eldric said as they walked. "The men who found you said you dropped from a clear sky like a stone. No dragon, no griffin, no flying vessel. Just... there one moment, gone the next. How does a man fall from nothing?"
Marcus struggled to find words for the impossible. "I was dying. There was... injustice. A woman lied to protect a powerful man, and I paid the price. I felt my heart stop. Then I was here. I don't know how. I don't know why."
"Justice and injustice," Eldric mused. "Powerful themes for a powerful transformation. The old world believed that those who died with purpose unfinished sometimes found themselves given a second chance. But second chances come with prices, boy. Always with prices."
They emerged into a vast chamber that took Marcus's breath away. The walls were lined with weapons of every description—swords that gleamed with inner light, axes that seemed to whisper of battles long past, crossbows and poisons and devices whose purposes he couldn't begin to guess. But it was the central feature that captured his attention: a massive tree, impossibly ancient, growing through the stone floor and disappearing into darkness above. Its bark was silver-white, like his hair, and its leaves whispered in a wind that didn't exist.
"The Tree of Trials," Eldric said with reverence. "Older than the Wolf School, older than the Trials themselves. Legend says it grew from a seed planted by the first Witcher, watered by the blood of monsters and men alike. It knows truth from lies, courage from cowardice, heroism from villainy. And it will judge you, Marcus Chen of the Falling Sky, as it has judged all who came before you."
"I thought you said I already went through the Trial of Grasses."
"That was the body. This is the soul." Eldric moved to a weapons rack and selected two swords—one steel, one silver, both bearing runes that made Marcus's eyes water to look at directly. "Every Witcher must choose his path. Monster slayer, dragon hunter, protector of the innocent, or merchant of death. The Tree will reveal what kind of killer you truly are."
Marcus took the swords reluctantly, surprised by how natural they felt in his hands. The steel blade hummed with potential, while the silver one seemed to sing a song of endings. "I'm not a killer. I was an accountant. I pushed papers and filed reports. The most violent thing I ever did was punch my boss in the face."
"Was," Eldric emphasized. "Past tense. You died that man, and something else was born in his place. The question is: what?" He gestured toward the tree. "Touch it. Let it taste your essence. Let it show us what kind of monster hunter you'll become."
As Marcus approached the ancient tree, he noticed symbols carved into its bark—dragons and wolves, flames and ice, crowns and broken swords. The imagery seemed to shift and move in the corner of his vision, telling stories that his mind couldn't quite grasp. When his fingers finally made contact with the silver-white bark, the world exploded into sensation.
Visions crashed over him like waves. He saw dragons wheeling in a blood-red sky, their riders wearing crowns of Valyrian steel. He witnessed the birth of the White Walkers, ancient magic twisted into weapons of ice and death. He watched kingdoms rise and fall, saw noble houses destroyed by their own ambitions, witnessed the endless cycle of power and betrayal that seemed to define this world. And through it all, he saw her—a woman with silver-gold hair and violet eyes, bearing the unmistakable features of Old Valyria, watching him with an expression that mixed hope and fear in equal measure.
The vision shifted. He saw himself standing at a crossroads, one path leading toward a dragon's hoard where Targaryen banners fluttered in the wind, the other toward a frozen wasteland where the dead marched under banners of ice. He could feel the weight of choice pressing down upon him, the knowledge that his decisions would shape not just his own fate but the fate of kingdoms.
When the visions finally released him, Marcus found himself on his knees, gasping for breath. The swords had fallen from his hands, though he couldn't remember dropping them. Eldric stood nearby, his expression unreadable.
"Interesting," the old Witcher said simply. "The Tree shows you dragons and Targaryens, ice and fire. It shows you a princess with Valyrian blood and a choice that could shake the very foundations of the world." He picked up the swords and offered them back to Marcus. "But it shows nothing of your own heart. Nothing of what you truly desire."
"I desire to go home," Marcus said, though even as he spoke, he knew it was a lie. There was no home to return to. The man who'd lived that life was dead, killed by injustice and betrayal in a parking garage that probably didn't even exist in this world.
"Home is where you make it,"Eldric replied. "And your home, it seems, is going to be wherever that princess is. The Tree has spoken—you're bound for King's Landing, whether you know it yet or not. But first, you need to learn what it means to be a Witcher."
They spent days or weeks or even moths in intensive training, though Marcus's enhanced reflexes and strength made him a quick study. He learned the basic forms of swordplay, the differences between fighting monsters and men, the properties of alchemy and signs. But underlying every lesson was the knowledge that this was merely preparation for something larger.
"The Targaryens have sent out calls," Eldric explained as they sparred. "Princess Rhaenyra needs a husband, and every noble house with a suitable son or champion is sending candidates. Including us, though we have neither sons nor noble blood. Just you—a man who fell from the sky with the look of Old Valyria about him."
"Why would they want a Witcher?"
"Why does any royal family want anything? Power. Protection. Prestige. You have the look of their bloodline without the madness that sometimes comes with it. And Witchers are neutral by ancient accord—we don't play the game of thrones, we simply survive it." Eldric parried a strike that would have taken a normal man's head off. "But the visions showed you more than marriage politics. They showed you the real war coming. Ice and fire. The living and the dead. The old world ending and something new being born."
Marcus thought of the White Walkers he'd seen in his vision, the endless armies of the dead marching south while dragons wheeled overhead in a sky split between winter and flame. "Can one man make a difference in a war like that?"
"One man?" Eldric's laugh was bitter. "That's what they always ask. But you're not one man anymore, boy. You're a Witcher. And Witchers have been making differences since before the Wall was built, since before the first Targaryen set foot on Westerosi soil. We walk between worlds—life and death, human and monster, ice and fire. It's what we do."
As the training session ended, The old man led him to a chamber that would apparently serve as his quarters. Simple but comfortable, with everything a Witcher might need: potions ingredients, weapon maintenance tools, books written in languages Marcus somehow understood despite never having learned them.
"Rest," the old master commanded. "Tomorrow we ride for King's Landing. The princess awaits her suitors, and the kingdom awaits its fate. You'll need to decide what kind of Witcher you're going to be—the kind who hunts dragons, or the kind who saves them. The kind who slays Targaryens, or the kind who protects them. The kind who fights the dead, or..." He paused, his expression grave. "Or the kind who joins them."
Alone in his chamber, Marcus—though that name felt increasingly foreign—studied his reflection in a polished shield. The face staring back was his yet not his, younger and harder and marked by destiny in ways he was only beginning to understand. He thought of the princess from his vision, of the choice that lay ahead, of the war between ice and fire that would determine the fate of this world.
In his previous life, he'd died trying to save one woman from one moment of injustice. Now, it seemed, he would have the chance to save entire kingdoms from annihilation. The question was whether he was ready to pay the price that such salvation would demand.
Because Witchers, are beings that walks at the edge of abys, only death or insanity awaits.
Outside his window, the eternal twilight of the underground world held its breath, waiting for the choices that would shape the future. Somewhere in the darkness, destiny stirred, and Marcus Chen—the man who'd fallen from Earth into legend—prepared to face his first real trial.
Not the trial of Grasses, but the trial of becoming something more than human without losing what made him worthy of resurrection in the first place.