Bone cracking wails and torn sounds echoed from the depths of Arcapan up to any cornerstone above the catacombs. Snake hisses accompanied the screams of pure despair in an off tune orchestra. Chords crept in the unmaking of bones and somewhere, through all that ruckus, a river hushed a chant.

The dark world turned red, not for the flames as high as the ceiling, burning away the small beings of the earth and raining ash over the rituals. A thousand dead insects and worms joined instead the scarlet river which bloomed towards the pit.

Jaskier thought he had, at last, reached hell. Though last colorful memories were of a swirling danced, hazed in blissful colors by one of the most fulfilling wines his lips had ever tasted, now the four walls closed in on him and on a forever thirst and hunger. Any liquids drenching from the ceiling so low he too had to hunch to stand, were too slow in their fall to be drinkable. They fell before him and the door as draped he did not wish to touch. 

Screams have been going on for days. Or were them weeks, he wondered. 

It felt like an eternity since he woke up in the dark, with no memories of how he got there, no knowledge as to where that place even was. Though he too had joined the chorus of the wails, his throat had now grown to dry. If he wasn't already dead, Jaskier was sure he's end will be anon.

Geoffrey paced in front of the locked doors of the palace. He was inside, restless to the orders they have all received: the councilmen, the guards and a handful of loyal subjects, in Sylvain's vision, were instructed to stay inside the keep's most mortified construction. They had plentiness, peace and comfort, but no allowance to go out until their King so kindly agrees. 

And the King had not been seen since the order, away in some secret corner with the mage from Nilfgaard. Oh, how Geoffrey's skin turned to goosebumps at the mere thought of that ghoulish presence, lurking and placing lies in the mind of one he once loved.

There was also the matter of bodies. A few nights back, a fellow knight swore he heard the front doors open, from the outside, and filled with curiosity, Geoffrey investigated enough to see trails of blood, signs of fights. 

Something strange was happening in Arcapan. Fireplaces warmed the halls, but the air was thick, there was only silence. Recently, all windows have been shut too, in barricades of woods they'd only ever use in midst of storms. In all that ruckus, only he cared to ask the question; no one could see the madness as well as he who saw the evergreen kindness before.

Though it was hard to admit it, alas, Sylvain had changed. Looking at him scared Geoffrey for a while and the second the mage insinuated there ever being a way to restore the King his legs, whatever darkness seeded in the king's mind from sorrow, grew into something far more dangerous.

"It's not possible," Geoffrey had insisted that very night, before the decisions had been made and all orders had been passed. He used to be able to bend Sylvain towards the right paths, by slightly risking his life against a fresher rage, yet that night was nothing but venom where once dripped honey. It was pain. "My father taught me how all magic demands a price to be paid and to grow your legs back, your Highness, that sounds like a dark magic with a dark sacrifice to it."

"Do I look like I cannot afford paying the price?" Sylvain's raspy voice replied. His neck was locked into the bow of his head heavy with a crown and a desire slowly winning him over. Pondering on the ground, his eyes slowly reached to look at where his legs used to be, where now was nothing but the margin of a chair. 

To Geoffrey, Sylvain sounded like his mother, willing to throw away an entire fortune. It was not money which worried the knight, but the possibility of a higher implication. "Even if the price turns out to be in flesh?"

"Am I not this kingdom's king?" Sylvain's head had raised. Tiresome shadows laid under his eyes, pushing them into his skull. Sleepless night had erased his youth, replaced it with a disturbing contradiction between a pressured soul and exhausted body, aching still for more. "Am I not deserving of my people's support?"

He went on for hours, about how him walking would make Arcapan more, but the dices have already been thrown and Geoffrey knew Sylvain had dug himself so low he was now in a pit, all tangled, so lost that if he tried to help him up, back on the lighted surface, Geoffrey would end up dragged along in the dirt, like the many heads on spikes that questioned the orders and the decisions of a lonely tower.

A paper slipped under the tall doors and by its fine sound, Geoffrey flinched into stepping right over it. The thin paper stuck to the water he had brushed over the bottom of his boots and slowly, he walked away, at last from the doors.

He went to the baths and only there, he retrieved the little piece of paper. His breath was trapped away and sealed into his throat from all the emotions he experienced. Treason, but for a good cause, he somehow guessed would still be seen as treason by the mad king.

It has been done, the paper said. Geoffrey had sent word to Kaer Morhen, he had called upon the old alliances and hoped the Witchers would hear and interfere with the dark magic pinching out Arcapan's light.

There was a faint light which, reflected into ice, shone back a little brighter. Azaras cleaned her hands in the stream. Under thick frozen layers, rivers remained alive and moving, part of an unseen dance of nature. So cold, the water was perhaps the cleanest, purity shielded away from dirt such as hers, that she washed with strong rubs, despite the shivers.

Her armour cackled with the shakes in her shoulders and in her body, but even so, she cupped the crystal clear water and brought it to her lips. First she drank through the cracks between slender finger. She tasted the metal of thirst, before then the remaining was tossed over her closed lids, over eyelashes and nose.

In the second of her pause into the darkness, her mind burst into emotions from beyond and what she could not understand showed before the images of her thoughts. The wolf of her dreams showed up on the other side of the river.

It's dark furred paw touched the ice, tapped it twice, but did not move to come over. In the depth of those yellow eyes, Azaras opened hers, identical and sighed. Her hands dropped and heavier than ever, she felt Geralt's medallion.

For that piece she looked down but another color caught her attention.

In a reality drawn-out of colors, a purple shone amongst the tumbled rocks in the very bottom of the rather small river. Though red of frost, she dove her right hand after it without hesitation.

"The purple stone," she smiled to herself. Having been lowered down and holding her weight on the tiptoes, Azaras finally sat back on the shore's snow, with the amethyst in her hand.

It's been a long time since her mind dared thing back of Sylvain, of his bright eyes and clear face. Each time she tried to remember the glee of collecting stones, just like then, the images were followed by pain. A monster eating him alive and those crawlinf screams could make the river freeze altogether again.

Azaras tightened her hand over the stone. She had nothing but memory to remember her brother by, until she tucked that tumbled violent piece of the river-life, coldly to her chest, under the ties of her blouse.

Her days have grown quieter again since she parted ways with Eskel. He refused though to let her go before testing just how well she'll be representing their kind from now on. It turned out being a Witcher was more than just swinging swords, firing arrows and travelling a lot.

There was alchemy, sigil magic... Things Azaras vaguely remembered seeing Geralt use. These were things she would have to sit back at least a year to learn the surface of and there was only so much Eskel could show her in an hour.

Since she was not heading for Kaer Morhen to convince Vesemir to teach her more, Eskel showed Azaras one sigil and gave her one already prepared potion from his own. That little bottle was supposed to enhance her senses even further, help he see in the dark, move faster too. She tucked it in her pouch and held it in her mind as something to be used only in grave need.

After all, Azaras did not feel that ever since she started looking for Geralt she needed more from her strengths. The medallion's faint vibration saved her plenty of times by warning her what was in the dark, watching and lurking.

Even apart, Geralt was still looking out for her, even if he did not know.

The one sigil Eskel showed her however, the one she chose to learn, was still giving her headaches. Azaras had many talents, or so she had been told growing up, but apparently, torching the air from pushes of her palm was not something she was good at.

With her freezing hands, she practiced again, punching the air, pointlessly, because not even a fugitive warmth helped her achieve the skill.

Though the medallion did not sense anything, a clear thud stopped Azaras' rather amusing tries to create flames the way Eskel so beautifully did, without an effort. On edge of the river, Azaras turned around, half on her knees and with both her hands busy reaching around to her sword.

Before her was no monster though, just a young girl, with eyes red from tears, hugging her almost ripped clothes. She had tossed Azaras' a bag filled to the brim with coins and then whimpered a beg.

It didn't matter to Azaras how she recognized her as a Witcher and not even half the prepared explanation. All she needed was the name of the monster who kept taking advantage of this young lady and she paused her focused search for a little rendezvous in the village.

Maria, for that was the young lass' name, lived in a filthy village whose bar was named after their biggest natural problem in the area: mud snakes. In that particular place, men got drunk off of the nastiest alcohol ever made, out of snake venom, which Azaras had been warned about through rumors in the past, when she was still just a child, about to learn how very cruel the world of man was.

It was an all-men's bar too.

"You can't go inside," Maria held onto Azaras' sleeve. This girl, hardly even past her teenage years, held so much fear in her frail self that Azaras looked into her eyes and understood at last why Geralt carried two swords and always spoke of two types of monsters.

"Wait here," Azaras instructed the girl to wait across the street, while, through the muddy snow, she made her way to the bar's door and entered. Immediately, she was hit across the face by thick smoke, intoxicating atmosphere and a piercing spice in the air. All of it closed in on her as she let the door shut behind, as the mouths of the men there closed.

Twelve of them, drunk, dirty and of varied ages, though elderly states dominated in disgusting ways.

Azaras paid no mind to the looks she received. Some were glares, other pairs of eyes tried to picture her without clothes, strip her without a touch; her own eyes had more clear purposes, unchallenged by hallucinations. While everyone there watched as young Maria was defamed time after time for the last week, only one was the culpirt after her sayings.

Though the light in there was minimal, Azaras narrowed her eyes and finally distinguished the man with a disturbing aspect. His crooked teeth were not the only feature standing out horribly, but also a permanent grin, a greasy beard and half bald head. He was old enough to be the girl's father and that helped her tune out any derogatory words that started as a whisper, then escalated to a true revolt the more she stepped inside the bar.

"You don't belong here!" One shouted getting up. The angry type of drunk.

"A thirsty whore-"

Everyone muted by the speed with which, Azaras, now before Maria's monster, grabbed him by the balls and lifting him up the wall he was seated besides at the table. She kicked that table to the side and twisted her hand on him until the little tears beginning had him crying and screaming for relief.

"You like hurting little girls, you filth?" She talked through gritted teeth. Inflicting pain, for once, tuned out every single one of her many burdening emotions and instead of worrying, she focused on a job. It was this simplicity which made Witchers so kin on going from one kill to another, she imagined.

"What?" The man tried to push her off of him but her grip was iron and her posture was unmovable, while he bended to the will of how hard she twisted her wrist between his legs. Pain was making him flail and squirm.

"Maria," Azaras whispered. "Ring any bells?"

"You're a Witcher?" One man watching half exclaimed. His inquiry was somehow bigger, because it was simply too hard for him to comprehend that he'll pay for his sins by the hands of someone "beneath him".

Azaras tilted her head back. She sighed. As a silence before a storm, he ripped the cock of the man she was holding through his pants, letting him fall to his knees, in blood and tears. "Feel that for a few seconds," she guided him coldly while gasps came from behind.

"Who do you think you are!"

"You know what's the difference between you lot and monsters?" Azaras answered the questions of angry men trying to think of a way to approach someone armed so well, with a question of her own. She turned to glance over her shoulder back at eleven more way to make her pain a bit more bearable. "Monsters kill to survive, you just chose to be evil motherfuckers."

Her head reached to her sword while talking and by the time she was done, she stained it with the brains of the man crying for his lost instrument of monstrosity.

Azaras butchered the shameful bustards of the Snake Pit, rid the continent of just a few of the worst kind of beings. By the time she returned outside, to the girl, her armour was covered in blood again, much like the pouch of coin she has been given as imbold for taking the job and she simply returned.

"Keep these," Azaras was short on words. Now that she felt the fresh air, sanity return and she could almost grasp the desperation of making haste towards finding Geralt, wherever he may be.

But before she walked away from Maria and her hands now holding blood and coins with a happiness on borders of madness itself, for she did not expect charity at all, Azaras stopped and lingered a while longer. She pointed to the coins and flatly smiled, "Maybe you should use them to get a sword."

Half of it was an advice, the other half was mercy, because Azaras knew, deep in her bones, there was a war on their horizon which will not care for little girls, for children or for anyone at all. A world of savages was ready to erupt.

"Thank you," Maria's voice has lost is fearful shiver. "I had lost all hope until I saw you. There's been another Witcher by our village some days ago, but I was too frighten to get close to him..."

Azaras body stopped altogether. Her breath hitched and her empty stomach convulsed inside. "How... how did he look like?"

Confused, the girl hugged her pouch to her chest and shrugged. "A strong man. Amber eyes, as any Witcher. He had white hair-"

Azaras could not hold back her gasp, even if it startled the girl to see the strong women from the woods suddenly have her eyes sparkle with some fugitive tears. "What direction did he take?" Desperation seethe through.

chapter dedicated to jonbernthals

author's note:   seeing azaras be selfless just makes seeing sylvain be greedy all the more sad, because they were both raised by the same mad mother, they just ended uo having different paths