1241 – NORTHERN WOODS, EN ROUTE TO BLAVIKEN
The morning mist had yet to burn off the forest floor when Sven's sandals crunched over the root-tangled path, his blue tunic already speckled with damp moss and fallen leaves. The journey to Blaviken had been planned as a straightforward trade run—he'd packed his satchel with dried thyme from Mahakam, hand-drawn maps of the lower Pontar Valley, and a small batch of cinnamon he'd bartered for in Crow's Perch. For three days he'd walked in relative peace, humming off-key tavern tunes and calculating how much coin he could squeeze out of Blaviken's market before heading north to Oxenfurt for the autumn gambling dens.
Then he heard them: the snap of a twig under heavy boots, followed by a rough voice cutting through the quiet of the pines.
"Hold there, merchant boy."
Sven paused, his yellow-gold eyes scanning the treeline before three figures emerged onto the path. The leader was a burly man with a beard matted with dirt, clad in tattered leather armor and gripping a crude iron spear. Two others flanked him—one thin as a reed with a rusty dagger, the other broad-shouldered and swinging a wooden club. All wore the hungry look of men who'd not eaten properly in weeks.
Perfect, Sven thought, suppressing a sigh. This is exactly the kind of hassle I came here to avoid.
He forced a friendly smile, letting his satchel hang loose at his side to look less threatening. "Morning to you sirs. I'm just a simple trader heading to Blaviken—happy to part with ten crowns if you'll let me pass. Got a whole satchel of spices I'd hate to spill in a scuffle."
The bearded leader let out a bark of laughter, tapping his spear against the ground. "Ten crowns? You think we're beggars? Look at you—fancy clothes, nice bag… you've got more gold hidden away somewhere. And a lone man like you? Easier to take everything when you're cold and still."
The thin bandit lunged first, dagger flashing toward Sven's ribs. In one fluid motion, Sven stepped aside, catching the man's wrist with his left hand and twisting until bone cracked like dry kindling. The bandit crumpled to the ground with a shriek, clutching his useless arm. The club-wielder charged next, swinging wide—but Sven ducked under the blow, slamming his palm into the man's sternum. The crack of broken ribs echoed through the trees as the brute collapsed, gasping for air.
The leader stared, his face draining of color as his men writhed in the dirt. "Witcher," he whispered, stumbling backward. "You're a Witcher."
Sven's patience snapped. He'd spent years building his reputation as a harmless merchant, and the last thing he needed was word spreading that a Witcher was prowling these roads. In two quick steps he was in front of the leader, his hand closing around the man's throat. "I'm a trader," he growled, and with a sharp twist, heard the satisfying pop of vertebrae giving way. The body crumpled to the path.
From behind a moss-covered oak, a pair of eyes watched—red hair tucked under a dark hood, a dagger held tight in gloved hands. Renfri had been observing from the moment her men had moved to waylay the traveler, planning to step in if they botched the job. But what she'd seen had frozen her in place: this wasn't some soft merchant, but a fighter whose speed and strength rivaled even the most seasoned mercenaries she'd known. As Sven turned his gaze toward her hiding spot, she held her breath—but instead of giving chase, he simply nodded once, then turned his attention to the bandits' bodies.
Smart, she thought, melting back into the undergrowth. He knows better than to chase a shadow when there's loot to be had.
Sven knelt beside the leader's corpse first, patting down the leather armor. A small pouch of crowns—thirty-seven in total—went into his own bag, along with a water skin and a half-eaten loaf of bread. The thin bandit had nothing but a crumpled letter and a few copper coins. It was the club-wielder who yielded the real prize: tucked into a hidden pocket of his trousers was a rolled piece of parchment, sealed with wax. When Sven unfurled it, he found a detailed diagram for a silver sword—its design intricate, with rune slots carved into the blade and a hilt shaped like a coiled basilisk. The notes in the margin were written in Elder Speech, but even he could tell this was no common blueprint.
Now that's worth more than all my spices combined, he mused, carefully rolling the diagram and tucking it into his satchel's inner pocket. He left the bodies where they lay—let the wolves and crows have them; it wasn't his business to bury every fool who tried to kill him.
The path ahead was still damp, and his blue tunic was stained with dirt and a fine spray of blood. A mile further on, the trees thinned to reveal a clear, fast-running river, its water sparkling in the midday sun. Sven waded into the cool current, setting his satchel on the bank before stripping off his tunic and trousers. As he scrubbed the fabric against a smooth rock, he could feel his skin healing from the few minor scrapes he'd picked up—his mutations at work, even if he'd rather not need them.
He spread the clothes on a flat boulder to dry, sitting beside the river with his bare feet in the water. The scar across his chest—from his days as a test subject—glinted in the sun, a reminder of why he'd chosen this life of trade and low risk. When the fabric was dry enough to wear, he dressed and shouldered his satchel, then turned his back on the forest path. If bandits were lurking in the woods, he'd take the open road instead—even if it meant walking an extra few miles.
The dirt road stretched out before him, flanked by fields of wild rye and the occasional copse of birch trees. By sunset, the sky had turned a deep gray, and Sven knew he'd not reach Blaviken before dark. He found a flat spot just off the road, far enough from the treeline to spot trouble coming, and set up his small canvas tent. A fire crackled to life quickly—he'd learned long ago how to start one with just flint and dry grass—and he hung a pot of water over the flames to boil.
As the moon rose thin and crescent in the night sky, Sven sat by the fire, poking at the embers with a stick. His mind wandered to the sword diagram tucked safely in his bag, and to the red-haired woman he'd let escape. She was their leader, he thought. Might see her again in Blaviken. He shrugged, pulling the loaf of bread from his satchel. Whatever came next, he'd handle it the same way he always did—with as little effort and as much profit as possible.
Tomorrow, Blaviken awaited.