Ban Ard was a city built around its academy of mages, a place where the entire local economy kept turning because mages and apprentices were its core competitive edge.
Mages supplied merchants with magical items to sell. Merchants supplied mages with whatever materials they needed. Alongside Gors Velen and Novigrad, it was one of the three great distribution hubs for enchanted goods.
Compared to Ard Carraigh, its walls weren't especially tall—but it didn't need towering walls. The mages themselves were the city's guardians.
They paid the entry fee close to midday. Victor pulled out the dark-lensed spectacles he'd bought at the Ard Carraigh market, handed them to Lambert, and told him to put them on. Then he wrapped the silver sword in cloth and stowed it on the horse.
Just like that, the two dust-covered travelers drew no odd looks and faced no harassment, and they smoothly booked a room at a tavern called the Limping Hank.
What a miserable era. Everywhere you went, someone was limping.
They ordered food and ate hunched over the table in their room, tearing into it like wolves—two whole herb-roasted chickens, a huge bowl of mashed potatoes, a bottle of grape wine, and a jug of milk.
Stuffed, Lambert patted his stomach. "Straight to the academy?"
Victor wrung out two towels. He snapped one at the witcher's face and used the other to scrub his own until it was clean.
"Let's go." He was about to find out whether his dream could actually come true.
…
They didn't ride. They went on foot instead. Moving through streets and alleys, they could hear vendors hawking their wares from every direction. Lambert was used to it. Victor, on the other hand, listened with bright-eyed interest.
"Come take a look! Incredible magic padlocks—locks that only open with a secret passphrase!"
"My honorable lady, have a look at my goods!"
"Sir, have you heard of the Eternal Fire?"
"Come on, come on! Only three music boxes left that play by themselves!"
"Stop thinking and just buy it! North of the Pontar, nobody's cheaper than me!"
Some sales pitches really could survive any century.
…
The Ban Ard Academy sat in the city center. Though people called it a "mage academy," it was really a broad university. It offered education in letters, arithmetic, law, engineering, and more.
A red-brick wall ringed the grounds. Inside stood multiple Gothic buildings. Looking in from the gate, its grandeur was no less than the Kaedweni palace complex Victor had seen in the distance back in Ard Carraigh.
"I'll take you this far. You go in on your own," Lambert said, stopping at the entrance. "Mages and witchers don't exactly get along. I'm not going in." The magical array at the gate made his Wolf School medallion tremble without pause.
Victor hesitated, about to speak—when an unexpected voice cut in.
"By magic—what do I see? A witcher!?" The speaker wore a purple velvet doublet cinched at the waist, with a short jacket trimmed in sable over it. Still seated in the saddle, he stared at the vibrating Wolf School medallion on Lambert's chest.
Then he flicked an indifferent glance at Victor. "And his apprentice."
Lambert put on his standard sour expression and didn't respond at all.
And then, unexpectedly, ignoring the disgust practically spilling off Lambert's face, the mage dismounted with slow, aristocratic poise and introduced himself.
"Greetings, gentlemen. I am Master Dorregaray—mage."
With someone announcing himself like that, failing to answer would be rude. And in Ban Ard, being rude to a mage tended to come with consequences.
So Lambert shrugged. "Master Lambert. Witcher."
Victor was momentarily speechless, but he followed the same format anyway. "Master Victor. Alchemist."
Dorregaray clearly appreciated that mild, non-overreaching jab. He barked a laugh—and even gave Victor a slight nod, as if apologizing for mistaking his status.
"The White Wolf—Geralt of Rivia—was my friend," he said. "May he rest in peace."
"May he rest in peace," Lambert and Victor said together.
The mage continued, "I owe him a debt.
"So—Lambert of the School of the Wolf, and… an alchemist. What brings you two to Ban Ard? I believe I can help." He tried to sound friendly, but his lifted chin and self-satisfied tone made it clear he wasn't practiced at it.
Lambert glanced at Victor, and with that shared look of understanding, he said, "I'm here with Victor. He wants to become a mage." After a moment's thought, he added, "And he knew the White Wolf well, too."
At that answer, the archmage's smile turned oddly amused. "Is that so? You wish to become a mage." He nodded. "Very well. Follow me."
He didn't remount. He led his horse through the gates on foot, walking straight down the path toward the tallest mage tower at the heart of the grounds.
At first, the two travelers simply followed behind without thinking much of it. But as they went, students they passed naturally stepped aside, bowed, and offered respectful greetings.
Even a fool could tell something was off.
"My lord… what position do you hold at the academy?" Victor asked, stepping closer. His tone had quietly shifted into proper deference.
The archmage's smile deepened. "Archmage Dorregaray of Vole—Rector of the Ban Ard Academy. I took the post after the Thanedd coup. It's been nearly two years now. Don't tell me you didn't know that?"
It was mortifying.
But Victor truly hadn't known. He hadn't expected to run into anyone important. He'd only planned to take the entrance assessment and see what happened. If he had talent and got in, he'd learn what he needed to learn soon enough.
He never imagined a witcher's lingering goodwill could run so deep that the rector himself would step down from his horse and personally guide them through the doors.
Perhaps sensing the boy's embarrassment, Dorregaray didn't press it. He led them to the tower, swept a hand to open the door, and all three entered.
…
"Mage, wizard, sorcerer—different words, same kind of person: a spellcaster who commands Chaos.
"Air, fire, earth, water—what element do you sense? Or are you a Source yourself? Have you ever shown signs of magical outbursts?"
Dorregaray had them sit in a sitting room. After asking their preference, he conjured a glass of mandrake vodka for Lambert and milk for Victor, set himself like a man prepared for a long discussion—and then asked questions that made Victor's throat go tight with awkwardness.
Victor could only keep a blank face. "Sorry. I don't sense anything at all, and I've never had a magical outburst. I just don't want to believe I have no talent, so I came to verify it."
That answer left even the archmage a little speechless.
After a brief silence, he waved a hand toward a cabinet. Several instruments floated out and drifted through the air. "Then let's test it properly."
Some time later…
"I'm sorry. Unfortunately, you do not have the aptitude to become a mage." The impeccably dressed archmage put on a practiced look of regret, his neat little moustache twitching as if he truly felt disappointed.
In truth, he did feel a bit disappointed—and annoyed. He'd thought this might be a chance to repay Geralt's help during the Thanedd coup. Instead, it turned out to be two people who seemed to have come as a joke…
No. They had only wanted to test it. The mismatch was his own fault for expecting more than he should have.
With that thought, the rector calmed down considerably. "Even if you cannot become a mage, Ban Ard's humanities are among the finest on the Continent. If you wish to become a scribe or a lawyer, I can write you a recommendation for admission."
Those gentle words declared the end of Victor's dream… cleanly, absolutely—without even the faintest chance of a reversal.
"I hope you understand: the academy never turns away a gifted child. And that statement also means the opposite—we cannot accept a child without gift.
"Victor, there is no sign of magical flow in you at all. You are a completely ordinary, normal man."