The wind, as always, carried the scent of pine and something else indefinable – ozone perhaps, or the metallic tang of distant blood. Rian didn’t bother with the scent-blockers most Witchers used; they dulled everything, and a dull world was a dangerous one. Besides, the wind was constant, an invisible, restless hand that combed through his silver hair and tugged at the worn leather of his jerkin. It was also a reliable barometer. If it shifted north and brought the biting chill of the Ard Skellig peaks, he’d know a snowstorm was brewing. If it died altogether, a different kind of trouble often followed. Today, it merely whispered through the jagged teeth of the Dragon’s Tooth mountains, pushing him steadily west, towards Kaer Morhen.
He hated this part of the path. The climb itself wasn’t the issue – his muscles were wire-taut, used to far worse. No, it was the sheer drop to his left, a dizzying vertical plunge into the valley below. His palms always sweated when he had to hug the narrow ledge, the scree loose beneath his boots. It was irrational, he knew. He'd stared down wraiths and fought trolls twice his size, but the vast, empty air beneath him always made his gut clench. He kept his gaze fixed on the rough-hewn rock face inches from his nose, focusing on the minute crevices and lichen patches. The one good thing about this particular stretch was the silence. No cawing gulls, no distant wolf howls, just the wind and the crunch of his own footsteps. He found the caw of a crow to be particularly grating, a sharp, arrogant sound that always seemed to mock. He much preferred the hoot of an owl, or even the rustling of leaves; sounds with more dignity, more respect for the quiet.
He was a half-day out from the keep when the wind, which had been a steady companion, faltered. Not a complete cessation, but a sudden, unnatural stillness in the gorge itself, as if the air had thickened. Rian paused, hand already dropping to the hilt of his steel sword. This wasn't the pre-storm lull; this was too localized, too abrupt. The scent of pine was gone, replaced by something faint, earthy, and strangely sweet, like dying flowers. His medallion vibrated. Not a tremor, more a low, persistent thrumming, like a distant heartbeat. Magic. Powerful, but not aggressive. Old, perhaps.
He scanned the immediate vicinity. No obvious sources. No glowing runes, no shimmering distortions in the air. The path continued its winding ascent, the drop still yawning to his left. The thrumming grew a fraction stronger when he took another step. He took one more, then another, following the faint pull. It led him off the main path, towards a seemingly innocuous cleft in the rock face he’d passed a hundred times without a second glance. The opening was narrow, almost hidden by an overhang of moss-covered rock. No one would notice it unless they were looking. Or unless they were pulled.
He squeezed through, leather scraping against stone. The passage widened slightly after a few paces, leading into a small, natural alcove. It wasn't a cave, more like a shallow grotto. Moonlight, filtered by the thick canopy above, struggled to reach the floor. The air here was heavy with the sweet, cloying scent, and his medallion sang louder now, a constant, low hum against his chest.
His eyes adjusted quickly to the gloom. The grotto was empty, save for a few fallen rocks and a patch of dried moss. Yet the magic radiated from here. He ran a gloved hand along the rough stone wall, searching for a hidden rune or a source. Nothing. The stone was cold, ordinary. He knelt, pushing aside the moss. Beneath it, the dirt was dark and loose. He felt the magic pulse beneath his fingertips, a palpable thrumming that echoed his medallion.
Curiosity overriding caution, he began to dig. His fingers, calloused from years of gripping swords and monster hides, scraped at the soil. It was surprisingly soft, as if recently disturbed, though the moss growth suggested otherwise. After a few inches, his fingers brushed against something hard and smooth. Not rock. Something worked. He pulled it free, brushing away the clinging dirt.
It was a small, ornate box, no bigger than his palm, crafted from some dark, polished wood, inlaid with intricate silver patterns he couldn't quite discern in the dim light. No clasp, no lock visible. It felt cool, almost cold, to the touch, and hummed faintly with the same magical resonance as his medallion. This was it. The source. He turned it over in his hand, wondering at its purpose, its age, and why it was buried in a forgotten grotto near Kaer Morhen. Who would leave such a thing here? And why was it hidden, yet broadcasting its presence so strongly?
He tucked the box securely inside his jerkin, the hum now a steady warmth against his skin. The silence in the grotto, broken only by the rapid beat of his own heart, felt heavier than before. The sweet scent seemed to cling to his clothes, a silent promise of questions yet unasked. He backed out of the grotto, leaving no trace of his intrusion, and continued towards Kaer Morhen, the box a strange, potent weight.