Ash on His Boots
Kaelen emerged from the treeline just as the first light of dawn crept over the hills.
His armor was streaked with blood—some of it his, most of it not. His sword was slung across his back, and so was the boy, half-conscious, his broken leg bound tightly with strips of Kaelen's undershirt. The kid's arms hung limply, head bobbing with every step.
Kaelen didn't slow.
The path back to town was quiet, the trees behind him holding their breath. The forest had gone still—too still. Whatever power had been working inside it… was gone. At least for now.
The noble's estate sat on the far ridge, its banners already stirring in the early breeze. Someone must've seen him coming—by the time he reached the gates, servants were rushing out, guards scrambling to open them.
The boy's father—pale, red-eyed, still in last night's finery—ran to meet him.
Kaelen dropped to one knee and eased the boy off his shoulders.
"Alive," he said flatly. "Broken leg. Might need a surgeon."
The noble fell to his knees beside his son, already weeping, cradling the boy's dirt-smeared face. He looked up at Kaelen, gratitude and disbelief etched deep into his expression.
"You… you brought him back…"
Kaelen just shrugged. "Didn't do it for free."
He stepped back as the healers swarmed in. The sun rose a little higher, casting gold over his ash-streaked face and yellow eyes. He looked back once—just once—toward the treeline far behind him.
That forest hadn't just been cursed.
It had been controlled.
And whoever was behind it?
They weren't done.
Not yet.
Kaelen turned without a word, already walking away from the estate, the mud on his boots leaving faint streaks across the polished stone path. The job was done. The kid was alive. Payment could come later—or not at all. He didn't care.
He'd gotten what he really came for.
Blood. Answers. A fight worth remembering.
"Wait," the noble called.
Kaelen slowed, barely glancing back.
The man jogged forward, pushing past his guards. He looked shaken, exhausted, but his eyes... there was something offabout them now. Something too alert.
He reached out and took Kaelen's hand—firmly. Too firmly.
"Thank you, Witcher," the man said, voice low. "Truly. You have no idea what you've just done for me."
Kaelen's gaze narrowed, and he started to pull away—but the noble held on.
Then he laughed.
Not relief.
Not joy.
A slow, cold, creeping laugh, bubbling up from somewhere that didn't belong to a man who'd just gotten his son back.
"Thanks for getting rid of the competition," the noble whispered, lips twitching. "The forest, the cultists… all loose ends, tied up so neatly. You're better than I hoped."
Kaelen's eyes flared.
Before he could react—
The noble's hand glowed with sudden magic—raw, violent, and unrefined. A sigil lit up beneath them, etched into the stone without Kaelen noticing, and in a flash of force—
BOOM.
Kaelen was launched backwards, body lifted clean off his feet and hurled like a ragdoll through the air.
CRASH.
He tore through a second-story window of the estate in a spray of glass and wood, landing hard on the marble floor inside, sliding to a brutal stop against a table that exploded under his weight.
He groaned, rolled onto his side, spitting blood.
The noble's voice drifted up through the shattered window.
"Don't take it personally, Witcher. It's just business."
Kaelen's eyes opened—cold, yellow, and furious.
He got to his feet.
Very. Slowly.
"This time," he growled, drawing his sword, "I'm not leaving anyone breathing."
Kaelen wiped blood from his mouth, blade already in his hand, knuckles white on the grip. Every inch of him ached from the fall, but the fire in his chest drowned it out.
He sprinted across the ruined study and dived through the broken window—glass still falling like ice behind him.
The wind caught him mid-air.
Below, the estate courtyard had changed.
The guards weren't guards anymore.
Twenty—or more—knights stood in formation, but their movements weren't human. Their heads snapped up in eerie unison, red eyes glowing beneath their helms. Not a flicker of emotion. Not a word spoken.
Not men.
Possessed.
Kaelen landed in a crouch, sword-first, his boots crunching into the stone with a sharp crack.
One of the knights stepped forward.
His jaw hung slightly open behind the helm, revealing blackened gums and a flickering, unnatural tongue. A wet, growling hiss escaped.
Then they charged.
All of them.
Kaelen stood up slowly, rolling his shoulders.
"Oh, good," he muttered, spinning his sword once in hand. "I was worried I might get bored."
They came in a wave of steel and red eyes.
Kaelen ran to meet them—*
—And the courtyard became a slaughterhouse.
They surged toward him like a tide of steel and hatred.
Kaelen didn't hesitate.
The first knight raised his greatsword to cleave him in two—Kaelen sidestepped, faster than thought, and drove his blade up under the man's chin. Steel punched through helm, skull, and brain. He ripped it free and spun, bringing the sword around in a savage arc that took the next knight's head clean off.
Blood sprayed in thick arcs. But it wasn't red.
Black.
Thick, tar-like, hissing where it hit the ground.
These weren't just possessed.
They were corrupted.
A third knight slammed into him with a shield, but Kaelen pivoted on instinct, rolling over the man's back and landing behind him—slash—severed tendons, then a vicious downward stab between the shoulder blades.
Another came from the side.
Kaelen didn't block—he ducked, grabbed the knight by the wrist, yanked him forward, and rammed his sword through the back of his knee. The knight screamed—Kaelen ended it with a brutal stomp to the throat that collapsed the windpipe with a wet crunch.
He moved like a storm, darting and twisting, steel flashing in tight, violent bursts. He never stopped. Never hesitated. His blade was an extension of his will—blunt when it needed to be, surgical when it mattered.
A knight came at him from behind.
Too slow.
Kaelen drove an elbow back—heard the snap of bone—then spun and kicked the man into two more, knocking all three down like skittles. He threw a Quen sign up mid-turn, absorbing a spear strike that would've gutted him, then shatteredthe knight's skull with a follow-up pommel strike.
Still they kept coming.
Ten left.
Eight.
Five.
He was covered in black blood, his own cuts stinging, breathing hard but steady.
Three knights rushed him together.
Kaelen leapt into the air, came down in a spinning arc—cleaved one in half at the waist, his blade catching in the ribs of the second. He wrenched it free, spun, and buried it in the last one's throat just as the corrupted knight screamed some ancient, broken word.
And then—
Silence.
The courtyard was slick with black gore and broken bodies. The air stank of iron and rot.
Kaelen stood in the center, hunched slightly, blood dripping from his armor, chest rising and falling like a war drum.
His blade hung at his side, gleaming dull in the pale sun.
From the far end of the estate, slow applause echoed.
The noble stood atop the steps, hands folded behind his back, his eyes now glowing faintly green.
"Well," he said, voice smooth, "I suppose now I have to take you seriously."
Kaelen didn't respond.
He lifted his sword again.
"Good," he said. "I was hoping you'd make this personal."
The noble smiled.
Not a kind smile. Not even a cruel one. Just… empty.
He raised one hand, fingers spread wide. His lips began to move—not loudly this time, but low and sharp, in a tongue that fought the air around it. The sound grated against Kaelen's ears like steel on bone.
Kaelen's grip on his sword tightened.
The courtyard trembled.
Then he heard it—
A crack.
Then another.
Bone snapping. Metal groaning.
One of the dead knights twitched.
Another sat up, helm still split open, black blood pouring from the wound—but eyes now burning with even deeper fire. Not just red.
Flame-colored.
All around him, the bodies he'd cut down began to move.
Some with broken spines dragging themselves up. Others still half-decapitated, but now grinning. Their muscles twitched unnaturally. Armor clattered. Limbs jerked back into motion, forced by something far worse than necromancy.
Kaelen stepped back, jaw clenched.
"No," he muttered. "You don't get back up."
The noble's voice rose with the chant—mad now, manic. "You think you kill the past and it stays buried?" he cried. "No, Witcher. You just wake it up."
The knights—no, the zombies—charged.
Faster.
Not shambling horrors, but blurs of steel and rot. Faster than they had been alive. Stronger than they should be. Driven by rage and dark purpose.
Kaelen didn't run.
He roared.
And the second wave began.
The first zombie knight swung—Kaelen parried, but the blow nearly broke his arm. The strength was inhuman. He sidestepped and plunged his blade through the knight's stomach—only to find it still moving, clawing toward him on the blade, snarling.
Kaelen headbutted the thing off his sword and spun—caught another one with a slash to the leg. It didn't fall. It jumped at him, and he ducked, kicked its feet out, and drove his blade down into its skull, twisting, smashing until the head caved in.
Still more came.
Ten. Fifteen. All of them.
Kaelen's eyes narrowed.
This wasn't just a fight anymore.
This was war.
And if the noble wanted to play necromancer?
Kaelen would show him why Witchers were made to kill monsters.
Kaelen was breathing hard now, blood—his and theirs—streaking every inch of him. The ground around him was a swamp of torn limbs, crushed helmets, and black, bubbling gore.
They just kept coming.
Stronger. Faster. Smarter.
This wasn't a brawl anymore. If he kept swinging wildly, he'd die. Not because they were better—
—but because he was still human.
Almost.
Kaelen reached into the pouch at his side and pulled out a small, dark glass vial. The liquid inside shimmered like mercury, toxic silver dancing in the light.
Cat.
He didn't hesitate.
He popped the cork with his thumb, drank the potion in one smooth pull, and bit down on the wave of nausea that followed. His veins went cold. His heartbeat slowed… then sped up again, like fire catching dry tinder.
The world shifted.
The color drained from everything—but in its place came clarity.
He could see their movements before they made them. Hear every shift in armor, every creak of decaying joints. The air glowed with residual magic. Every rotten knight lit up like a dying star.
Kaelen smiled—slow, and dangerous.
"Let's do this properly."
They rushed again—but now, Kaelen glided between them.
He parried with precision, stepping just outside the arc of each blade. His own sword moved like liquid death—clean, surgical, silent. He didn't shout. Didn't grunt. Didn't struggle.
He dismantled them.
One by one.
He sliced hamstrings and let them fall, then crushed windpipes with the heel of his boot. He feinted high, then severed arms at the shoulder. A low spin took out two legs in one go. The blade flicked once—throat opened like wet parchment.
Kaelen didn't stop. Didn't slow. He hunted.
They were slower now. Confused. Afraid.
The ones that were still "alive" enough to feel fear started backing away.
But there was no escape.
Kaelen stalked them down in silence, his yellow eyes glowing like lanterns through the potion's effect. Every move was deliberate. Every strike lethal.
A disemboweled knight tried to crawl away—Kaelen walked past and flicked his blade once without even looking. The head dropped a second later.
Ten minutes.
That's how long it took.
Ten minutes, and the courtyard was silent again.
For real this time.
No twitching limbs. No cursed breath.
Just Kaelen—standing in the middle, breathing slow, sword slick with blood and magic, face pale from the potion, but eyes alive with something far worse than rage.
Focus.
From the steps, the noble's smile was gone.
Now he looked… uncertain.
Maybe even afraid.
Kaelen looked up at him slowly.
"You're next."
The noble barely had time to blink.
One heartbeat, Kaelen was twenty paces away.
The next—
He was right there.
Face to face.
Blade already rising.
The Cat potion still burned in his veins, his muscles coiled like springs, every ounce of him moving faster than thought. The noble's eyes widened—just a flicker of realization—before Kaelen punched the flat of his blade into the man's gut, folding him in half with a grunt of pain.
Kaelen didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
He just drove his elbow into the noble's face, snapping bone and knocking the man to the ground. Blood sprayed across the marble steps.
The noble scrambled backward, coughing, hands glowing as he tried to summon another spell.
Too late.
Kaelen's boot came down on his chest, pinning him.
"Can't chant with a crushed windpipe," Kaelen muttered coldly.
And then he did just that.
His foot drove down—ribs shattered, lungs collapsed, and the noble gasped one last time as the magic in his chest sputtered and died. His eyes rolled back, lips quivering with a half-formed curse.
Kaelen crouched beside the dying man, blade resting across one knee.
"You used your own son," he said, voice low and flat. "You tried to kill me with corpses. You think I'm the monster?"
The noble twitched.
Kaelen didn't flinch.
He rammed the sword through the noble's heart, pinning him to the stone.
"Now you get to be one."
The light in the noble's eyes vanished.
And for the second time that day, silence returned.
But Kaelen knew better.
This wasn't the end.
This was just the first name.