Aelin had secured the recipe for the Killer Whale decoction.
Now, only one goal remained.
Reach Alchemy Level II.
Not brew the potion. Not collect rare ingredients. Not even survive the toxic brew itself.
No, the real hurdle was simpler—and infinitely more frustrating.
Unlock the damn skill.
He could try grinding it from drowners, maybe pray for a lucky loot drop from one of those half-buried chests littering the valley.
But that was just it—luck. And if Aelin had learned one thing since coming to this cursed castle, it was that luck was in short supply.
Even if a chest did spawn, who said it would contain what he needed?
Which left only one path forward.
Learning.
If the Codex could adapt sword styles from the School of the Wolf and etch them into his combat instincts, then surely it could do the same for alchemy—right?
So—
He slipped out of the apprentice dormitory and made for the eastern tower, cloak drawn tight against the cold.
Vesemir had mentioned a chamber on the second floor of the southern wing earlier that morning. Someplace they used for "healing and lunch," though knowing witchers, that could mean anything from herbal salves to ground-up monster glands.
Didn't matter. Someone in there had to know the craft.
…
Kaer Morhen, 1179.
It barely resembled the shattered ruin he'd seen in the game set two centuries later.
It wasn't bustling—gods no. Witcher apprentices didn't exactly multiply.
But it wasn't dead, either.
The first frost had crept in from the valley, and winter was already whispering through the cracks in the keep. Which meant the veterans were trickling home from their contracts—worn, silent, carrying the smell of road dust and blood on their cloaks.
Aelin passed four or five along the path, each shouldering twin blades, each giving him the same cold glance. A flicker of recognition. A flicker of judgment. And then—nothing.
The road to the main keep cut through a row of worn workshops: blacksmith, tailor, apothecary. All manned by older witchers with silver hair, lined faces, and eyes like slit-cut amber.
For a moment, Aelin could almost pretend this was just a fortress like any other.
Alive.
Human.
Hard to believe this place—this stronghold—would fall. That one day, it would be little more than broken stone and bitter ghosts, with only Vesemir, Geralt, Eskel, and Lambert left to haunt its bones.
When did that happen again?
The thought stirred a knot in his chest. Now that the Mountain Trial no longer hung over him like an executioner's blade, the future had begun creeping in—uninvited, unwelcome.
That was the price of foresight.
You saw the ending.
But never the moment it all began to break.
…
The walk to the southern wing passed without interruption. No one stopped him. No instructors lurking in the halls. No half-dead apprentices asking where he was going during their so-called "lunch break."
The excuse he'd rehearsed stayed in his mouth, unused.
He reached the second floor and found a narrow hallway veering left, its floor worn smooth by generations of boots. At the far end, a wooden door waited—plain, weathered, shut.
He knocked.
Once. Then twice in a quicker rhythm.
Knock knock—knock knock.
A pause. Then hinges creaked.
A girl opened the door.
She was maybe a year older than him. Auburn hair tucked behind pale ears, face neat, restrained—like she'd learned composure before she'd learned to smile.
"Who are you looking for?" she asked.
Aelin blinked.
A girl?
That wasn't what he'd expected.
The School of the Wolf—at least in the records and in-game lore—favored male sorcerers. Male scholars. Male everything.
Not… this.
Still, he kept his voice steady.
"This is the alchemy chamber, right?" he asked. "I'd like to study."
She looked him over—one slow pass, eyes flicking from his boots to his collar.
"This is the alchemy room," she said. "But it's private."
"Private?"
That threw him. Visibly.
Vesemir had pointed to this tower himself. Healing supplies, he'd said. Lunch, he'd added—like that explained anything.
If it wasn't school property… then what?
Since when did mages claim rooms in Kaer Morhen as their own?
Unless… even here, even now, the rift between witchers and sorcerers was already taking root.
Aelin hesitated. Then reached beneath his collar and drew out the pendant.
He held it up.
"I'd like to study under the room's owner," he said. "I can pay tuition."
Before the girl could answer, a voice called from inside.
Older. Amused.
"Mary? Who is it?"
The girl turned slightly, not taking her eyes off Aelin.
"A witcher pup," she called back. "Says he wants to pay to study alchemy."
"A witcher pup?" the voice repeated, with a dry chuckle. "And here I thought all those little meatheads only knew how to swing steel."
Footsteps followed. Sharp. Heels on stone.
Aelin went stiff. Mary did too, though her lips twitched with something like warning.
Then the footsteps stopped.
And the sorceress entered.
Kaer Morhen's wind had teeth. The keep's stones leeched warmth from the skin. Frost was in the air even when it wasn't on the ground.
But this woman—this woman carried summer with her.
She wore a gown the color of blood poured over fire. Silk-thin. Deep-cut. Gold thread and pearls curled across her bodice like written spells, glinting each time she moved. Her hair—darker red than wine—fell over her shoulders like flame.
For a moment, Aelin forgot where he was.
Porcelain skin. A mouth that looked sculpted, not grown. And a presence that drew the room in around her.
Not a mage.
A sorceress.
His throat went dry.
He had, very clearly, knocked on the wrong door.
But he was already here.
"May I learn alchemy from you?" he asked. The words came out flatter than he liked. He held out the pendant. "I can pay with this."
The woman—Vela, as he would soon learn—looked at the pendant. Then him.
Something changed in her face. Barely visible. But not nothing.
"Do you know the name of that necklace?" she asked.
"The Illusion Pendant of Vela?"
She smiled.
"That's the name. And…"
She stepped closer.
"I'm Vela."
Aelin froze.
Oh.
Behind him, Mary let out a muffled snort that turned into a cough. She ducked her head quickly, shoulders shaking.
"Sorry," she whispered, not sounding sorry at all.
Aelin wanted to vanish. He started withdrawing the pendant—ready to apologize, retreat, anything.
But Vela spoke again.
"You can."
He blinked. "Can… what?"
"You asked if I'd teach you alchemy," she said. "I said yes."
She turned and walked back into the room.
Aelin didn't think. He followed.
The door slammed shut behind him.
No hand touched it.
So this is magic, he thought.
…
The room didn't smell like chemicals or smoke. Not even the usual sting of herb oil.
Instead, it smelled… warm.
Orange peel. Cardamom. A hint of something floral, buried beneath the spice.
Velvet carpets drank the sound of his boots. Paintings gleamed from the walls—portraits, landscapes, all old and saturated with oil and meaning. Lace curtains softened the stone windows, filtering the autumn light into something quieter.
There were no beds.
Yet the room felt more like a salon than a lab.
Only four alchemy benches lined the back wall, their burners cold.
Mary had already returned to hers, quietly grinding something with a mortar and pestle.
"Sit," Vela said, nodding to the chair beside her.
Aelin sat, still holding the pendant like an idiot.
"Where should I put this?" he asked.
She looked at him oddly. "It's yours. Why ask me?"
Then her eyes narrowed, amused.
"I'm not charging you for the lesson."
He hesitated. "…Then what do you want?"
She smiled.
"An answer."
She held up a single finger.
"Why do you want to study alchemy?"
That's it?
Still, he hesitated. What if she could read him? Not his face—his thoughts.
But lying felt pointless.
"I want to craft a potion," he said. "To survive the Trial of the Mountain."
Behind him, Mary let out a very un-subtle gasp.
"You're still an apprentice?"
She didn't even try to hide that she was listening.
Aelin nodded.
She looked stunned. But Vela—
Vela didn't react at all.
She just nodded, slowly. As if that answer was enough.
Or as if it never mattered to begin with.
Snap.
She flicked her fingers.
A black-bound tome floated from Mary's bench and settled before Aelin. The cover folded open.
And Vela began to teach.
"Since you want to brew potions," she said, "we'll start with the fundamentals of Alchemy and Elixirs."
"Elixirs, as the name suggests, are potions infused with magical force…"
…
Ding. Skill trace detected: [Alchemy].
Unlock skill for 10,000 micro experience orbs?
Aelin stared at the message, jaw twitching.
Ten. Thousand.
He nearly cursed aloud.
What the hell?!