The smoke hit Elric's nostrils before he reached the forge—coal smoke tinged with something sharper. Sulfur. The acrid bite of heated metal kissed by magic.
Veskar Stonevein's forge squatted between two granite outcroppings like a toad that had found the perfect rock to sun itself on. Elric had been climbing toward it for the better part of an hour, following a goat track that switchbacked up the mountainside. The place looked exactly as it had three years ago: ramshackle chimney belching dark smoke, leather bellows working themselves with mechanical precision, and the steady ping-ping-ping of hammer on anvil echoing off the cliffs.
The dwarf didn't look up when Elric ducked through the forge's low doorway. Veskar stood hunched over his anvil, gray beard tucked into his leather apron, hammering at something that glowed white-hot between the tongs. His scarred hands moved with the fluid precision of a man who'd been shaping metal since before Elric was born.
"You're early," Veskar said without pausing in his work. Ping. Ping. Ping. "Or late, depending on how you count it."
"How did you—"
"Your medallion's been singing the mountain song for the past quarter-hour." Veskar finally looked up, stone-blue eyes crinkling with amusement. "Heard it coming up the path like a drunk bard with a broken lute."
Elric pressed his hand to the griffin pendant. The humming had grown stronger during the climb, until it felt like a tuning fork pressed against his sternum.
"It started when I got Vesemir's message."
"Ah." Veskar set down his hammer and wiped his hands on a rag that had seen better decades. "So the old Wolf finally called you north."
The dwarf plunged the glowing metal into a barrel of water. Steam hissed up between them like an angry spirit. When it cleared, Veskar was studying Elric with the same intensity he'd been giving the hot iron.
"You look like hell, lad."
Elric caught his reflection in the polished surface of a hanging shield. Three weeks of sleepless nights showed in the hollow of his cheeks, the shadows under his amber eyes. "Been working."
"On that rift near the old stones? Aye, I felt the disturbance from here. Nasty bit of work, that." Veskar hung up his tongs and pulled two clay cups from a shelf. "Ale?"
"It's not even noon."
"It's also not a social call." The dwarf filled both cups from a stone jug. "You wouldn't be here unless something had you spooked. And seeing as how you just sealed a tear in reality with nothing but stubborn will and Griffin arrogance, I'm guessing it's not the usual sort of spook."
Elric accepted the ale and drank. It was good—dark and rich, with the bite of mountain herbs. "Vesemir asked for help with 'ancient disturbances.' You know anything about that?"
Veskar was quiet for a long moment, rolling his cup between scarred palms. The forge crackled. Somewhere outside, a crow called to its mate.
"Depends," the dwarf said finally. "How much do you know about the old days? Before your time. Before most Witchers' time."
"I know the schools used to work together more often. Joint contracts, shared knowledge." Elric set down his cup. "But that ended badly."
"Aye, it did." Veskar's expression darkened. "Your Griffin masters, they were always the scholars. Loved their books and theories and fancy magical experiments. The Wolves, they were practical men. Is it dead? Good. How quickly can we kill the next one? Different philosophies."
"That's not news, Veskar."
"No, but this might be." The dwarf stood and walked to an iron-bound chest in the corner of the forge. He worked the lock with a key that hung around his neck, then lifted out something wrapped in oiled leather.
When he unwrapped it, Elric's medallion gave a violent shudder.
The artifact looked like a sword hilt, but wrong. Too long, too slender, carved from some dark metal that seemed to drink the forge-light. Runes crawled along its length—not Dwarven work, not even Elder Speech. Something older.
"What is it?"
"Part of a project I worked on, oh, thirty years back. Joint commission between the Griffin School and..." Veskar hesitated. "Well, let's just say it involved more than one school. We called it threshold magic."
Elric's breath caught. He'd heard whispers of threshold magic in the dustiest corners of Griffin libraries—theoretical work dealing with energies that existed before the Conjunction of Spheres. "That's just legend."
"Legends have a way of being more real than comfortable, lad." Veskar rewrapped the hilt and set it aside. "The project was meant to explore magic from before the worlds joined. Pure source energy, unfiltered by the laws that govern our current reality."
"What happened?"
"What always happens when you poke at things better left alone." The dwarf's voice was flat. "People died. Good people. Griffin masters who thought they could bind anything with the right sigils. Wolf witchers who thought they could fight anything with the right sword."
Veskar refilled his cup and drank deeply before continuing. "The project was shut down after we lost seven men in a single day. The survivors scattered, took oaths never to speak of it. Most of those survivors are dead now, claimed by time or monsters or simple bad luck."
"But not all."
"No. Not all." Veskar met Elric's eyes. "Vesemir was part of it. So was I. And if that old Wolf is calling for help now, after all these years..."
"You think something from the project is stirring."
"I think Vesemir doesn't send desperate messages unless the world's about to end. And I think your medallion's been singing because whatever we tried to bind back then recognizes you for what you are."
Elric felt ice in his stomach. "Which is?"
"A Griffin who's spent years modifying Signs, pushing the boundaries of what Witcher magic can do. The same sort of work that got those seven men killed." Veskar leaned back against his workbench. "Tell me, lad—those enhanced Signs of yours. Where did you get the inspiration?"
The question hit like a fist to the gut. Elric had always assumed his innovations came from his own research, his natural talent with magical theory. But now, thinking back...
"I found fragments," he said slowly. "Old Griffin notes, scattered through different ruins. I thought I was piecing together lost techniques."
"Or maybe the techniques were finding you." Veskar's expression was grim. "Magic calls to magic, especially when it's hungry."
"You're saying I've been... influenced?"
"I'm saying you might want to think twice before riding north to Kaer Morhen. The Wolves never trusted Griffin magic, even in the best of times. If they're desperate enough to call you for help, it means their own methods have failed. And if their methods have failed..."
Veskar didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.
Elric stood and paced to the forge's entrance, looking out at the mountains that rolled north like frozen waves. Somewhere beyond those peaks, Kaer Morhen waited. And with it, whatever ancient power had driven Vesemir to break decades of silence.
"You're trying to scare me off."
"I'm trying to keep you alive." Veskar's voice was soft but firm. "You're talented, lad. More talented than you have any right to be. But talent without wisdom is just another way to die young."
"And wisdom without action is just another way to let the world burn." Elric turned back to face the dwarf. "If something from your threshold project is awakening, then we need to stop it. Not run from it."
Veskar was quiet for a long moment, studying Elric with those stone-blue eyes. Finally, he sighed and pushed himself away from the workbench.
"Your mother was just as stubborn."
The words hit Elric like a slap. "You knew my mother?"
"Knew her? Boy, I taught her half of what she knew about binding magic." Veskar's expression softened. "Brilliant woman. Brilliant and foolish, just like her son. She never could leave well enough alone, either."
Questions flooded Elric's mind, but Veskar was already moving, pulling items from shelves and drawers with practiced efficiency.
"If you're determined to ride into the maw of whatever's stirring at Kaer Morhen, you'll need more than enhanced Signs and Griffin arrogance." The dwarf held up a pendant—a disc of dark metal inscribed with interlocking runes. "Focusing charm. It'll help stabilize your magic if things go wrong."
Elric took the pendant, feeling the cool weight of it in his palm. The metal seemed to pulse with contained energy, like a heartbeat made of stone and steel.
"What's the price?"
"That you come back alive to tell me how badly we miscalculated thirty years ago." Veskar's smile was sharp as a blade. "And that you remember what I taught you about the difference between courage and stupidity."
Elric slipped the pendant over his head. It settled against his chest next to his Griffin medallion, and immediately the violent humming subsided to a steady, bearable thrum.
"Better?"
"Much." Elric flexed his fingers, feeling the enhanced stability in his magical channels. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. If I'm right about what's happening at Kaer Morhen, you'll need more than a focusing charm to survive it." Veskar walked him to the forge's entrance. "The Wolves will test you, lad. They don't trust easily, especially not Griffin scholars with fancy theories. Prove yourself useful, but don't try to prove yourself superior. The difference might keep you breathing."
Elric stepped out into the mountain air, shouldering his pack. The sun had climbed higher while they talked, burning off the morning mist. The path north beckoned.
"Veskar." He turned back to the dwarf. "My mother. What happened to her?"
The old smith's expression went carefully blank. "She tried to bind something that was better left free. And like most of us who work with forces beyond our understanding..." He shrugged. "She learned too late that some prices are higher than we can afford to pay."
With that, Veskar turned and walked back into his forge, leaving Elric alone with the wind and the weight of unanswered questions.
The path to Kaer Morhen stretched north, winding through peaks that had witnessed the rise and fall of empires. Somewhere along that path, answers waited. Along with whatever ancient power had stirred from its long sleep.
Elric's medallion hummed its steady song, no longer frantic but still insistent. Whatever was calling him north, it was stronger now. Hungrier.
He pulled his cloak tight against the mountain wind and began walking. Behind him, the ping-ping-ping of Veskar's hammer resumed, a rhythm as old as the stones themselves.
The sound followed him for a long time, until distance and wind finally swallowed it. But the echo remained, beating time with his medallion's hum and the steady rhythm of his boots on stone.
North. Always north. Toward Kaer Morhen and whatever waited in the shadows of the Wolf's keep.