A game of Gwent …
The dim, smoky glow of the tavern lanterns cast wavering shadows against the wooden walls. The oaken surfaces stained from years of spilt ale and drawn blood from drunken brawls.
The warm, yeasty scent of beer mingled with the tang of sweat and the faint note of rusty blades and daggers. Patrons spoke in hushed voices, keeping one eye on their drinks and if they were lucky enough to have a second, on whoever staggered in through the battered oak door.
I sat at my usual corner, back to the wall, nursing a tankard of bitter soured ale and shuffling a deck of Gwent cards that had seen better days. Each frayed at the edges and crease marks running their surfaces.
My reputation unfortunately preceded me, a trickster with nimble fingers and the sharpness of a knife hidden in the smile. Dagnar the name and separating patrons from their coin the game.
A ripple of unease whispered through the room as the door creaked open on its half broken hinges. The cold forced itself in on a gust of frigid wind like a wicked omen. A precursor of a bad night on the dark horizon. He walked in, tall and pale, dressed in all black and silver, with the kind of presence that sucked the air from the lungs leaving one speechless. Scars crisscrossed his face, each line a history of violence. And surely a horrid tale that went hand in hand with its presence.
His eyes, those damned eyes, glowed like embers from the depths of a dying fire. A fire that didn’t need much prodding to become adequately stoked. I didn't need a name to know who this man was. A Witcher.
The chatter died as he strode past tables of farmers and soldiers, boots thudding with the cadence of a death march. He halted by the hearth, the flicker of flames licking at his silhouette, and let his gaze sweep the room like the precision surgeon’s blade. For a moment, I held my breath, fingers tightening on the edge of my cards.
“I’m looking for someone,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, the kind of tone that could cleave stone. I caught the bartender’s eyes shifting nervously, but no one answered.
The Witcher sighed, more weary than frustrated, and turned to face me, as if he had known where I was the whole time.
“You there,” he said. My grin was automatic, masking the twist of anxiety and fear burbling in my gut.
“Aye, Witcher. What brings you to our humble corner of Novigrad?” I raised my tankard in a mocking toast.
“Yennifer. I’m told she was seen passing through,” he said, eyes narrowing. “Have you heard of her whereabouts?”
“Ah, the sorceress,” I drawled, pretending to think while I shuffled the deck. The cards slapping against the table buying me time to phrase my thoughts. “Perhaps we could make this interesting? A simple game of Gwent. I win, you share a drink, a tale, and toss me a copper. You win, and I’ll tell you what I know.” Another ploy to buy me time.
The room collectively exhaled, tension slipping from their postures and they resumed their duties and conversation. The Witcher’s lip twitched, half amusement, half disdain.
“Fine,” he said in his voice that sounded like raking stones. He pulled up a chair and sat across from me. He dropped a pouch on the table; the heavy clink of coin echoed. “Deal.”
I set the cards, fingers moving deftly, sliding in a marked one just so. A dangerous move on my part, but my hope that his hands weren’t as well versed in cards as they were with his weapons. A few rounds passed in tense silence. Outside, the wind howled like a starving wolf. Inside, soldiers whispered about Nilfgaard’s relentless push north, about the battered Redanian defenses and whispers of a rebellion brewing in Skellige. The war may be drawing to a close. Gods be praised. But here at our table, there was only the game, and the Witcher’s unsettling gaze catching every flinch, every tell.
“You’re sweating,” he noted, laying down a biting frost card that turned the tide.
“Just the heat,” I replied smoothly. But my stomach churned as I watched my carefully laid strategy fall apart. My siege troops no longer holding their position on the table they once had.
“Strange,” The pale Witcher said, glancing at my deck. His golden eyes met mine with a knowing glint. “Your cards … they’re heavier than they should be.”
I feigned a chuckle, a sound as thin as parchment and attempted to change the course of conversation. “You never said your name, your accent? Is it Rivian?” I tried to snatch the cards back, but his hand shot out, iron-hard fingers closing around my wrist.
“Cheaters don’t deserve mercy,” he growled.
Time slowed to a heartbeat, then splintered into chaos. I reached for the knife at my belt, but he was faster. His chair clattered to the floor as he drew his steel sword in a flash of silver. The blade caught the firelight as it swung toward me; I stumbled back, drawing my knife too late.
A roar erupted as patrons scrambled for the exits, tables overturned and tankards spilled, beer slicking the floor. He advanced upon me, a dangerous gleam in his eyes. I lunged, aiming for the gap beneath his ribs, but he sidestepped with the grace of predator on the hunt.
“Igni,” he intoned, and flames roared to life from his outstretched hand. I cried out, throwing up an arm to shield my face. The heat seared, blistering skin in an instant.
“Damn you to the nine Hells!” I spat, desperation clawing at my throat. I swung wildly, the blade catching nothing but air. His foot slammed into my chest, sending me sprawling into an upturned table. Pain shot up my spine as I crashed to the ground, the room spinning.
“You know where she is,” he said, sword tip pressing against my throat, cold as a winter's kiss. I gasped for air, vision spotting.
“Sod off,” I managed, defiance trembling in my voice.
A second of silence, then the blade sank in, swift and merciless. My world shrank to a pinpoint of pain before slipping into blackness. Over the din, I heard him mutter, half to himself, “I’ll find you, Yen.”
The last thing I saw as my eyes began to lose their focus was the Witcher’s unyielding expression as he pulled his sword free.