Chapter 8: THE INTERROGATION
The main hall was larger than it had looked through the grate.
They'd positioned me in the center, surrounded by four Witchers and approximately zero exits that didn't involve going through someone who could kill me faster than I could blink. The fireplace crackled behind Vesemir's chair, casting dancing shadows across stone walls that had probably seen interrogations like this before.
At least they haven't started cutting pieces off. Yet.
Vesemir circled me like a hawk examining prey. He moved well for someone his age—then again, "his age" was probably measured in centuries. The old Witcher's eyes missed nothing, cataloging every detail of my appearance with the practiced assessment of someone who'd seen more strange things than I could imagine.
"Name," he said.
"Cole."
"Full name."
"I don't remember one."
His eyebrow rose. "Convenient."
"Not particularly. I'd rather have a past to claim than this." I gestured at myself, the ancient clothes, the body that didn't feel quite mine. "Waking up with gaps in your memory isn't as fun as it sounds."
"Where did you come from?"
"A sealed chamber, three levels below where your storage ends. Elder construction. Runes I don't recognize on every surface. The door was magically sealed—took everything I had to break through."
"How did you break through?"
I hesitated. This was the tricky part—revealing abilities without revealing too much. "I pushed against the magic. Something inside me... pushed back. The enchantments shattered."
Vesemir's expression didn't change, but Lambert made a sound of disbelief from his position near the door.
"You expect us to believe you can break Elder seals by pushing?"
"I expect you to test whatever you want and draw your own conclusions." I kept my voice calm. "I'm not asking for trust. I'm asking for the chance to earn it."
Vesemir stopped circling. He stood directly in front of me now, close enough that I could see the lines of old scars beneath his beard.
"Show me your reflexes."
His hand moved—faster than any human, faster than I'd expected even from a Witcher of his reputation. A strike aimed at my throat, not lethal but designed to test.
My body reacted before my mind caught up. I twisted, deflected, ended up in a stance I didn't consciously choose with his wrist caught in my grip.
Shit.
I released him immediately, stepping back, hands raised again. "Sorry. Instinct."
Vesemir rubbed his wrist, something unreadable in his ancient eyes. "That wasn't human reflex speed. Wasn't Witcher speed either." He glanced at Geralt. "You feel it?"
Geralt nodded slowly. "Something old. The mutations are... different."
"Show me this fire magic."
I extended my palm, focused, and let the heat build. Igni bloomed from my hand—no gesture, no sign, just pure will given form in flame.
[SP: 100/125]
The fire reflected in four sets of yellow eyes. Even Eskel, who'd been silent since I arrived, shifted his weight at the display.
"No Signs," Lambert said, voice flat with disbelief. "That's not supposed to be possible."
"And yet," I repeated, extinguishing the flame. "I don't understand it either. But it's real."
Vesemir resumed his circling, slower now, thoughtful. "What do you know about monsters?"
Everything. I know everything, from two different sources—the body's instincts and a lifetime of media consumption from another world.
"Fragments," I lied. "Some of it feels like memory, but it's scattered. I'd need to see creatures to know if I recognize them."
A half-truth. Better than admitting I could recite the Bestiary from memory.
"What do you want here?"
The question caught me off guard with its directness. I considered lies, deflections, carefully constructed stories—and dismissed them all.
"Answers. Training. A chance to understand what I am." I paused. "And maybe help, if you'll have it. Something woke me up for a reason. I'd like to know what that reason is."
Vesemir stopped circling. He faced me directly, and for a long moment the only sound was the crackle of the fire.
"You're not lying," he said finally. "But you're not telling the whole truth either."
"Would you? In my position?"
Another pause. Then, surprisingly, a slight nod. "No. I wouldn't."
He turned to face the other Witchers. "He stays. Watched. Tested. We'll know soon enough if he's useful or dangerous."
Lambert opened his mouth to protest. Geralt's expression didn't change, but his eyes flicked to me once—a warning I noted and filed away.
"He trains with us," Vesemir continued. "Earns his place or proves he's a threat. Either way, better to keep him close than let him wander."
"And if he's a threat?" Lambert asked.
Vesemir's smile was thin and cold. "Then we deal with it. Like we always have."
He turned back to me. "Eskel. Get him water. He looks like he hasn't had a proper drink in centuries."
The scarred Witcher moved without comment, returning a moment later with a cup that he pressed into my hands. The gesture was small—practical, not friendly—but it was the first kindness anyone had shown me since I'd opened my eyes in that dusty chamber.
"Thanks," I said.
Eskel nodded once, returned to his position by the wall.
The water was cold and clean and tasted like survival.
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