Chapter 7: FIRST CONTACT
Footsteps echoed through the corridor.
I pressed myself against the wall, making sure my position was visible but not aggressive. No weapons in hand—I'd left both blades tucked behind a loose stone fifty feet back. Nothing that could be interpreted as a threat.
Here we go.
The footsteps grew closer. Heavy boots on stone, moving with the casual confidence of someone who knew these halls better than their own heartbeat. Lambert's patrol, right on schedule.
He rounded the corner and stopped dead.
For one frozen moment, we stared at each other. His hand moved before his brain caught up—sword clearing the sheath in a motion so fast my enhanced eyes barely tracked it.
"Who the fuck are you?"
I raised my hands slowly, palms open, keeping my movements deliberate and non-threatening. "Someone who's been trying to figure out the same thing."
Lambert didn't lower his blade. If anything, his grip tightened, knuckles going white around the hilt. His eyes swept over me—cataloging the ancient clothes, the dust in my hair, the cat-like pupils that marked me as something other than human.
"Wrong answer."
He advanced, circling to my left, blade angled for a quick thrust. I matched his movement, keeping my hands visible, trying to stay out of the killing arc without looking like I was preparing to fight back.
[THREAT ASSESSMENT: WITCHER — HOSTILE]
[RECOMMENDATION: AVOID COMBAT]
Thanks for the obvious advice.
"I'm not here to fight," I said, keeping my voice level. "I woke up in your basement. In a sealed chamber. I've been down there for—" I paused, calculated. "—a long time."
Lambert's sword didn't waver. "Bullshit. There's nothing under the keep except storage and collapsed tunnels."
"There's more than that. Older construction. Elder runes. A door that took me days to break through."
Something flickered in his expression—doubt, maybe, or recognition. The Witchers knew their home held secrets. They just didn't know all of them.
"Even if that's true," Lambert said, still circling, "that doesn't explain what you are. You've got Witcher eyes but you don't smell like any Trial I know. And your heartbeat—" He paused, head tilting slightly. "Too slow. Even for one of us."
Damn. Forgot about the enhanced senses going both ways.
"I don't know what I am," I admitted. "The chamber I woke in had records. Called the body 'The First Blade.' Said it was eight hundred years old." I let that hang in the air. "I'm hoping someone here can help me figure out what that means."
Lambert's eyes narrowed. "First Blade? Never heard of it."
"Neither had I. Until I woke up inside it."
The standoff stretched. My arms were starting to ache from holding them raised, but I didn't lower them. Any sudden movement would end this conversation in blood.
Then I felt it—another presence, behind me, close enough to strike. I hadn't heard him approach. Hadn't sensed anything until he was already there.
"Don't turn around."
Geralt's voice was lower than I expected, rougher, carrying the weight of decades on the Path. I kept my eyes forward, on Lambert, even as every instinct screamed to face the larger threat.
"Not planning to."
Footsteps circled around me. Geralt moved into view, positioning himself to Lambert's right, creating a crossfire I had no chance of surviving. His yellow eyes studied me with the same predator intensity I'd seen through the grate, but up close it was worse. Like being examined by something that had decided whether you were worth killing before you'd finished your first sentence.
"You're not human," he said. Not a question.
"Not fully. No."
"What are you?"
"I told your friend. I woke up in a chamber under the keep. Ancient body, fragmented memories, abilities I don't fully understand." I managed something that might have been a smile. "The fire hands were a surprise."
Lambert blinked. "Fire hands?"
"I can do... Igni, I think it's called. Without the gestures. First time it happened, I nearly burned my own face off."
Not strictly true, but close enough.
Geralt and Lambert exchanged a look. Something passed between them—years of partnership compressed into a single glance.
"Igni without Signs," Geralt said slowly. "That's not possible."
"And yet." I kept my hands raised. "Look, I know how this sounds. Crazy stranger appears in your basement, claims to be some ancient experiment, demonstrates impossible magic. If I were you, I'd be suspicious too."
"If you were me," Lambert muttered, "you'd have already stabbed yourself."
"Probably. But I'm hoping for a better outcome." I met Geralt's eyes directly—a risk, challenging a Witcher, but I needed him to see I wasn't trying to deceive. "Take me to whoever's in charge. Test me. Question me. I've got nothing to hide except answers I don't have."
Silence stretched between us. The corridor felt colder than it had a moment ago, the ancient stones pressing in from all sides.
Geralt's sword didn't lower, but his stance shifted—still ready, but no longer coiled for an immediate strike.
"Lambert. Get Vesemir."
"You want me to leave you alone with—"
"Now."
Lambert shot me a look that promised future violence, then disappeared down the corridor at a pace that was almost running. His footsteps faded into the distance, leaving me alone with the White Wolf.
"You're going to stand there with your hands up until Vesemir arrives," Geralt said. It wasn't a question.
"I can do that."
"Good." He settled into a position that looked casual but kept his blade perfectly aligned for a killing stroke. "Because if you move, I'll take your head off before you finish blinking."
I believed him.
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