Chapter 5: INTO THE KEEP
The stairs ended at another door—smaller, simpler, unenchanted. It opened with a push, hinges squealing loud enough to make me wince.
So much for stealth.
I waited ten heartbeats, listening for footsteps or shouts or the sound of swords being drawn. Nothing. Just the whisper of air moving through abandoned corridors and the distant drip of water from somewhere I couldn't identify.
[LOCATION UPDATE: KAER MORHEN — SUBTERRANEAN LEVEL 3]
[AREA STATUS: ABANDONED — NO LIFE SIGNS DETECTED (IMMEDIATE VICINITY)]
The passage beyond was thick with dust. My footprints marked virgin territory—no one had walked here in decades, maybe longer. Cobwebs hung across doorways like curtains, and the torches mounted on the walls had long since rotted to nothing.
I moved forward anyway, keeping my enhanced senses stretched for any sign of danger.
The architecture here was different from the Elder ruin below. Still old, still massive, but built for a different purpose. Training halls with weapon racks lining the walls, most of them empty. Dormitories with beds that had collapsed into piles of rotted wood. A mess hall with tables still set for meals that would never be eaten.
This is the keep itself. The lower levels, probably sealed off when they stopped using them.
I found a mural that confirmed my suspicions. Faded paint on stone, depicting warriors in armor fighting creatures that shouldn't exist—griffins, wyverns, things with too many teeth and not enough regard for human survival. And in the center of the image, a wolf's head medallion.
My heart stopped.
Kaer Morhen. I'm actually in Kaer Morhen.
The Witcher fortress. The last bastion of the School of the Wolf. Where Geralt trained, where Ciri learned to fight, where—
Where everything goes wrong if I remember the timeline correctly.
I leaned against the wall, suddenly dizzy for reasons that had nothing to do with stamina drain. The weight of meta-knowledge pressed down on me like a physical thing.
I knew this story. Not perfectly—I'd watched the show, played some of the games, skimmed a wiki or two when I wanted context. But I knew the broad strokes. Ciri's powers, Voleth Meir's possession, the Wild Hunt's pursuit. I knew who lived and who died and why.
That knowledge could save people. Or it could destroy everything. Butterflies don't just flap their wings in fiction—they cause hurricanes.
[MENTAL STATE: ELEVATED STRESS DETECTED]
[RECOMMENDATION: ESTABLISH SECURE POSITION BEFORE PROCESSING]
Thanks for the advice, magic brain-computer.
I pushed off the wall and kept moving. Thinking could wait until I had a better sense of the situation.
The next chamber held something useful—an old armory, locked behind a door that rust had welded shut. It took three kicks to break it open, each one sending pain shooting through my still-healing arm.
Inside: weapons. Most of them corroded beyond use, steel swords turned to brittle iron, silver blades tarnished black. But one training sword remained functional—standard steel, edge dulled by time, but solid enough to hold when I tested the grip.
Better than a bug mandible for dealing with anything that isn't a monster.
I claimed it, sliding the blade through my makeshift belt opposite the endrega weapon. Not pretty, but functional.
[INVENTORY UPDATED: TRAINING SWORD (STEEL, DAMAGED)]
[DAMAGE RATING: REDUCED]
[DURABILITY: 40%]
The armory had other things worth noting: a water skin that only leaked a little, a cloak moth-eaten but still warm, and boots that fit better than the crumbling footwear that had come with this body. Small victories.
I climbed another stairwell and found more abandoned space—storerooms, workshops, chambers whose purpose I couldn't identify. The dust grew thinner as I ascended. Not gone, but thinner, like these areas saw occasional traffic from people who didn't bother cleaning.
Then I heard voices.
I froze mid-step, hand moving to the training sword before I consciously decided to reach for it.
People. Living people, not far above.
Enhanced hearing stretched toward the sound. Multiple speakers, male, the words indistinct but the tone clear—casual conversation, not alarm. They didn't know I was here.
Good. Let's keep it that way until I know what I'm dealing with.
I found a passage that led toward the voices, moving carefully now, testing each step for creaking stones or loose debris. The corridor ended at a metal grate set into the floor—ventilation or drainage, probably both.
Through the grate, I could see a larger chamber below. A main hall of some kind, with a massive fireplace and tables arranged for communal eating. Torches lit the space with flickering warmth.
And there were people.
Two men sparred in the center of the hall, wooden practice swords clacking together in a rhythm that spoke of long familiarity. An older man watched from a chair near the fire, occasionally calling out corrections. A fourth figure—younger, leaner, clearly irritated—paced near the far door with the restless energy of someone who'd rather be anywhere else.
The sparring stopped. One of the fighters—scarred face, quiet intensity—stepped back and lowered his weapon. The other—white hair, cat-like eyes I could see even from this distance—did the same.
"Again," the old man said.
"Vesemir, we've been at this for three hours." The white-haired one. Geralt. It had to be Geralt.
"And you'll go another three if your form keeps slipping. You've spent too long on the road. Your footwork shows it."
The voice was wrong. In my head, Geralt sounded like Henry Cavill—deep, measured, distinctive. This voice was different. Rougher. More tired.
Different universe. Different version. Don't expect a perfect match.
Lambert—it had to be Lambert, the pacing one—threw up his hands. "Can we at least eat first? Some of us have been on patrol since dawn."
"Some of us," the scarred one said quietly, "don't complain about patrol."
"Some of us don't have to listen to nekker mating calls for six hours, Eskel."
The banter continued, familiar in its rhythm even if the details didn't match my memories. Family dynamics. Brothers who loved each other and showed it through mockery.
Then the door at the far end of the hall opened, and my heart lurched.
Ash-blonde hair. Green eyes. A face I'd seen in fragments of nightmare and vision.
Ciri walked into the hall, and the Ciri-Link blazed to life.
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