Chapter 13: The White Frost Descends

Fifteen minutes. That’s how long it took, with a fair bit of prodding and cursing, to get the Witchers to pack up their Gwent decks. Gear checked, potions downed, blades oiled – each to their own preferred concoction. Decoctions brewed from monster bits, bombs of every damn sort hanging from their belts, ready to grab when the shit hit the fan. Zeilin swigged a Cat potion. Made the night as clear as day, even with the moon choked by clouds. This old castle, with its skeletal trees and whispering weeds, was creepy enough as it was. Good eyes were always an advantage, no matter what crawled out of the dark.

They took their places in the courtyard. Five mages, five Witchers. Paired up, spread out in a rough fan before the main fortress gate, all facing the courtyard's center. Zeilin stuck with Francesca. Better the devil you knew, especially when the other four mages were strangers, and likely just as arrogant. Artoria stayed close to him. Good with a sword, the girl was, but she knew bugger all about fighting monsters. Witchers, trained for years, still got themselves killed by a moment's bad luck or a stupid mistake. Zeilin wasn't about to let her wander off with this kind of trouble brewing.

"Careful," Francesca murmured, her voice low beside him. "The chaotic energies… they're stirring." Zeilin shot her a sideways glance. Face like stone, the elf-witch. But her knuckles were white where she gripped her skirts. Betrayed her, that did. Even mages, for all their power, felt the primal fear of the unknown. Still flesh and blood under all that magic.

"The moon is at its zenith! Steel yourselves, brothers and sisters!" An old man’s voice, surprisingly strong, boomed across the courtyard. Hen Gedymdeith, his arms raised. Eldest of the Grand Chapter, he was. Respected, powerful. A true Archmage. Kings in the North listened when he spoke, or when Tissaia de Vries spoke for the Chapter – seemed like Gedymdeith was calling the shots tonight.

At his signal, the other mages raised their hands. You could almost see the raw magic, the Chaos, coalescing around them, drawn from the very air. That strange power, unleashed on the world by the Conjunction of the Spheres. Only a few, the Sources, could even feel it, let alone wield it. One in ten thousand, maybe. And most of them went mad from it. Unless they learned control, they ended up drooling lunatics. But if they mastered it… gods, the power a mage could unleash was terrifying. Even to themselves, sometimes.

Francesca closed her eyes, hands uplifted. The Witchers, without a word, stepped back, forming a protective line behind the mages. Silver swords hissed from their scabbards, runes glinting faintly in the gloom. Eyes scanning the darkness, ready for anything. Zeilin pulled Artoria closer. She had her own sword out. He sighed, a quiet sound. "That fancy blade of yours won't do much against what might be coming. Some beasts, steel just bounces off 'em. Remember what I told you? If a Leshen shows, or a Fiend… use these." He pressed two objects into her hand. She took them, turning them over, curious. 

"Devil's Puffball. Samum bomb. They'll feel those. And this…" He handed her a vial. "Relict Oil. Slap it on your sword. Don't know what we're facing, but Relict Oil's about the nastiest poison we've got."

"But… my sword. It was blessed by the Lady of the Lake. To defile it with such… substances…" She frowned, looking at the thick, white gunk in the vial with clear distaste. But Zeilin was right. And she knew it. A blade oil could make all the difference. A few seconds of internal war, then she uncorked the vial. The sacred sword, gift of a goddess, was soon coated in the foul-smelling oil. "Very well. I will not be a burden."

"Focus! It comes!" Francesca's sharp hiss cut through the tension. Above them, the storm clouds writhed, twisting into a monstrous vortex. The moon vanished completely. Darkness slammed down, not just on the castle, but across the entire Mahakam range. Lightning ripped across the sky, momentarily illuminating the scene in stark, ghostly flashes, the thunder like the drums of some hellish army. The wind rose to a screaming gale. Dead branches, leaves, grit, and stones whipped through the air. Zeilin squinted, trying to shield his eyes. The air grew heavy, wet. A storm was breaking, his Witcher senses screamed it. If he didn't know better, he’d have sworn the mages were doing this. But no mage, not even five Archmages working in concert, could conjure a storm of this magnitude. This was something else. Something vast, and terrible. Another clap of thunder, deafening. The lightning flash lit their faces – pale, grim, every one of them.

"Bloody hells! Are they trying to summon a damn golden dragon?!" George yelled, but the wind snatched his words away, turning them into a faint whisper by the time they reached Zeilin. The dust and debris swirled so thick Zeilin couldn't see Letho, barely ten paces away. Sharp stones pelted his skin like angry hornets. But they all stood their ground, Witchers ready. Through his enhanced vision, Zeilin saw more than just the storm. The courtyard… it was shifting. Ghostly images flickered in and out of existence – fields, city streets, alien landscapes – all superimposed on the crumbling stones of the castle. He’d only ever read about such things in dusty old scrolls, in half-forgotten legends. A Conjunction of the Spheres. A small one, maybe. Just two worlds brushing up against each other, a tear in the fabric of reality. But if word of this got out… An ancient legend, made real. Enough to shake the foundations of their world. The Conjunctions. They’d brought magic to this world. And monsters. Most common folk saw them as omens of doom, the end of days. Zeilin knew it wasn't that simple. Unless it was a full-blown collision, like the one fifteen hundred years ago, it wouldn't shatter the world. But still… no one trifled with legends made manifest.

The storm reached its crescendo. The sky itself felt like a lead weight, pressing down, crushing the air from his lungs. He threw an arm up to protect his face as flying debris raked his skin, drawing blood. He ducked low, pulling Artoria tight against him. She flinched but didn't cry out. But it wasn't the stinging pain that held Zeilin’s attention. In the dead center of the courtyard, the air cracked. Like glass struck by a giant fist, space itself began to splinter. And in the heart of those fractures, a portal tore open – blacker than any mage-gate, colder than any winter night. Without warning, the five Archmages threw up their shields. Shimmering domes of energy slammed down, enclosing each pair of mage and Witcher. Francesca was small, for an elf. Artoria, even slighter. The shield, meant for two, easily covered the three of them.

"What in the blazes is happening?!" Zeilin yelled, though the words were barely audible over the storm’s roar. The shield, translucent, looking fragile as a soap bubble, held firm against the raging wind and driving rain. Artoria, huddled beside him, stared out with wide, frightened eyes. Francesca didn't look back. Her gaze was fixed, hard and unblinking, on that black, unnatural portal. He didn't need her to explain. He saw it too. No monster crawled from the portal. No lurking beast attacked from the shadows. But the air, which moments before had held the damp promise of a spring storm, turned bitingly cold. Snow began to fall. Heavy, wet flakes, swirling in the unnatural wind. The temperature plummeted, from mild spring warmth to the heart of a frozen winter, in seconds. Outside their shimmering shield, the laurel trees, still green a moment ago, withered and died, their leaves blackening, their branches snapping in the sudden, brutal frost. Without the mages' protection, they’d all be frozen statues in minutes. On the ground, a rime of white frost spread outwards from the portal, devouring the earth, a visible tide of absolute cold. The blizzard intensified, thick flakes replacing the rain. In an instant, the ruined castle was cloaked in a shroud of white. But this snow… it wasn't clean. Streaks of an ugly, pale yellow tainted it, making the winter landscape seem diseased, unclean. Zeilin had no eye for its terrible beauty. He, and every other soul in that courtyard, knew what this meant. They were ready. Or as ready as anyone could be. The White Frost… The Wild Hunt.