Witcher: Rukh and Steel

Triss's POV

The frigid air of Kaer Morhen bit at Triss's skin as she and the Witchers stood outside the ancient keep. Yunan, the enigmatic Magi, had proposed a demonstration of his power—a claim that had been met with skepticism and unease.

Yunan stood a few paces ahead, his green and gold robes fluttering lightly in the cold breeze. With a nonchalant stretch, he raised his hand, murmuring incantations in a language unfamiliar to Triss.

The atmosphere shifted abruptly. The very air seemed to hum with energy, and the ground beneath them trembled. A brilliant golden light emanated from Yunan's palm, casting elongated shadows across the snow.

Before them, the earth split open, and a colossal structure began to emerge. Towering gates, inscribed with luminescent blue symbols, rose from the ground, flanked by jagged pillars that seemed to pierce the sky. The once-clear night was now overcast, swirling with dark, foreboding clouds.

As the massive gates creaked open, a palpable tension gripped the onlookers. From the depths of the emerging edifice, a figure stepped forth.

Baal, the Djinn of Wrath and Heroes, stood towering before them. His form was draconic, with bat-like wings, scaly skin, and prominent horns. Dark, shaggy hair framed a face that bore a third eye on his forehead. Adorned with two necklaces and a belt, his presence exuded an aura of formidable power.

Electric blue lightning crackled around him, illuminating the night and sending arcs of energy into the ground. The sheer force of his presence caused the Witchers to instinctively reach for their weapons, while Triss felt the hairs on her arms stand on end.

Baal's voice resonated like rolling thunder. "Magi, why have you summoned me?"

Yunan, appearing unfazed, offered a lazy smile. "Just conducting a little experiment."

Triss, struggling to process the spectacle before her, demanded, "Yunan, what is this?"

Turning to her, Yunan's eyes gleamed with a mix of mischief and serenity. "Allow me to introduce Baal, the Djinn of Wrath and Heroes."

Lambert, his voice tinged with disbelief, muttered, "This is insane."

Eskel's grip on his sword tightened, his gaze never leaving Baal. "What have you brought to our doorstep, Yunan?"

Yunan chuckled softly. "A demonstration of possibilities."

Vesemir, his expression stern, interjected, "And what do you intend to do with this... Djinn?"

Baal's eyes, all three of them, scanned the group before focusing back on Yunan. "Magi, is this world in need of my power?"

Yunan shook his head. "Not today, Baal. Merely showcasing your grandeur to our new friends."

With a nod, Baal began to recede, his form dissolving into particles of light that were reabsorbed into the towering structure. The massive gates slowly closed, and the edifice sank back into the earth, leaving no trace of its brief existence.

The night was silent once more, save for the howling wind.

Triss, her mind racing, turned to Yunan. "What are you?"

Yunan's smile remained enigmatic. "As I said, a Magi. One who guides, observes, and occasionally... entertains."

Lambert scoffed. "Entertains? That's one way to put it."

Vesemir's eyes narrowed. "This power... it's beyond anything we've encountered."

Yunan gave a slight bow. "And yet, it's but a fraction of what's possible."

Triss felt a shiver run down her spine. The implications of Yunan's abilities were vast and unsettling. The balance of their world had just been irrevocably altered, and she wasn't sure what that would mean for the future.

Leo's POV

The night was supposed to be just like any other.

Patrolling Kaer Morhen's walls, training with Vesemir, listening to Lambert's endless complaints—Leo was used to the routine. He wasn't a full Witcher, never underwent the Trial of the Grasses, but he had trained hard. He knew the dangers of the world, the weight of the sword at his hip, the reality of monsters lurking beyond the mountains.

He thought he understood power.

But now?

Now he stood in shocked silence, staring at the massive Dungeon that loomed over the valley.

The structure remained. Unmoving. Unchanging. Permanent.

Leo could still hear the echo of Baal's voice vibrating through his bones. The air still smelled like ozone and raw power. The once-frozen ground near the dungeon's entrance had blackened and cracked, pulsing faintly with a strange, unfamiliar energy.

Yunan had just reshaped the land.

Not with a spell, not with an incantation, but with a casual wave of his hand.

And that… thing.

Baal.

Leo had faced his fair share of terrifying creatures in training. Wyverns, wolves, even a Leshen once, though Vesemir had stepped in before things got ugly.

But Baal?

Baal wasn't a monster.

He was something else entirely.

And worst of all, he was still there.

The Witchers and Triss weren't moving. No one spoke.

Even Lambert—who always had something to say—had his mouth pressed into a thin line, his hand resting tensely on the hilt of his sword.

Finally, Vesemir broke the silence.

"Yunan." His voice was firm, steady. "Why is it still here?"

Yunan stretched lazily, tipping his hat up to meet Vesemir's gaze. "Because," he said simply, "it doesn't go away until someone conquers it."

Leo swallowed hard.

Conquer it?

Eskel narrowed his eyes. "Explain."

Yunan sighed, as if this was some massive inconvenience, but after a pause, he finally began speaking.

"Dungeons are magical constructs," he said, waving a hand toward the towering structure. "They appear when a Magi wills it. Inside, there are trials, monsters, and puzzles. Think of it like… a test. Or a challenge."

He glanced at the group, then added, "A dangerous one, of course. But that's the fun part."

Leo resisted the urge to shiver.

"This 'test,'" Vesemir said, crossing his arms. "What happens when someone wins?"

Yunan smiled. "Ah. That's the interesting part." He turned slightly toward the Dungeon, his robe rippling with the movement. "Whoever conquers the Dungeon gains the favor of the Djinn inside."

Triss frowned. "Favor?"

"They form a contract," Yunan explained. "The winner gains a powerful Djinn companion, capable of enhancing their magic, strength, or skills beyond normal limits."

Leo's breath caught.

A Djinn companion?

If someone like Geralt or Eskel conquered this place, what kind of power boost would they get?

"What happens if they fail?" Eskel asked, his voice unreadable.

Yunan's lazy smile didn't fade.

"They die."

Leo stiffened.

Lambert cursed under his breath.

Triss's expression darkened. "So that's the kind of game you play?"

Yunan shrugged. "It's not a game. It's a choice. A test of worthiness."

Vesemir's eyes flicked back toward the Dungeon. The blue runes carved into the massive gates pulsed softly, like a heartbeat. The wind howled through the valley, yet the air felt… still.

"So what happens now?" Vesemir asked, voice heavy.

Yunan smirked. "Now? We wait and see who's brave enough to enter."

Leo's stomach turned.

Because looking at that monument of magic and danger, standing unnaturally tall against the mountains, he had a sinking feeling.

Someone would enter.

And when they did, nothing would be the same again.

The tension in the hall was palpable.

The Witchers stood in a loose circle near the fire, their postures tense, their expressions unreadable. Triss sat nearby, hands glowing with soft golden light as she worked to heal Geralt, who lay unconscious on a long wooden table. His breathing was steady, but his body was still covered in bruises and half-healed wounds.

Yunan, as expected, was the only one completely unbothered.

He was perched lazily on a nearby chair, legs crossed, one arm resting on the back, as if he were an amused spectator rather than a potential threat. His wide-brimmed hat tilted just enough to cast a shadow over his eyes, but the small smirk on his lips made it clear he was enjoying himself far too much.

Vesemir exhaled slowly. "So. What do we do about this?"

"This," Lambert scoffed, jerking a thumb toward the looming dungeon outside, "or him?" His glare flicked toward Yunan, who merely blinked at him with exaggerated innocence.

"Both," Eskel said simply.

No one spoke for a moment. The wind outside howled through the cracks in the ancient stone walls, a reminder that Kaer Morhen stood isolated from the rest of the world. No help was coming. No reinforcements. Whatever they decided now, they would have to handle it themselves.

Triss finally spoke up, her voice calm but firm. "First, we focus on Geralt." Her hands pulsed with another wave of healing magic. "He's in no immediate danger, but it will take time before he wakes up. And when he does…" she hesitated, then sighed, "his memories are… fragmented."

Vesemir's brows furrowed. "How bad?"

"Bad," she admitted. "He remembers basic things—how to fight, his training, but… not much else. Faces, names, past events—those are gone."

"Shit," Lambert muttered.

Yunan tilted his head slightly. "Fascinating."

Lambert shot him a glare. "You wanna not sound so damn entertained by this?"

Yunan stretched, completely unaffected. "Can't help it. Memory loss is such an interesting thing. I wonder if it's natural or… influenced."

That got their attention.

Eskel's golden eyes narrowed. "What do you mean, 'influenced'?"

Yunan shrugged. "Oh, nothing. Just a thought." His smirk widened as if daring them to push further.

Lambert took the bait immediately. "If you know something, say it, you cryptic bastard."

Yunan leaned back, resting his chin on his palm. "I don't know anything. But Geralt isn't exactly the type to misplace his memories on his own, is he?"

Eskel and Vesemir exchanged a look. They had been thinking the same thing.

Triss, still focused on Geralt, spoke without looking up. "It could be something magical. A curse, an effect from whatever happened before we found him. I won't know until he wakes up."

Vesemir sighed, rubbing his temples. "And the dungeon?"

That was the real problem.

The Witchers could deal with injuries, memory loss, and rogue mages. But a massive, unknown magical structure appearing out of nowhere? That was an entirely different level of trouble.

No one had approached it yet—not out of fear, but because none of them were stupid enough to charge into something blind.

Eskel glanced toward the heavy wooden doors leading outside. "We need to decide how to handle it. If that thing isn't going anywhere, we can't just ignore it."

Vesemir nodded. "Agreed. But until we know what it is, we don't engage." He turned toward Yunan, who was still looking as relaxed as ever. "And you're sure it won't cause harm unless someone enters?"

Yunan lifted a hand in a mock oath. "Absolutely. It's just sitting there. Waiting. No monsters spilling out, no curses being flung around. Just a nice, ominous structure full of opportunity." His grin was infuriating.

Lambert scowled. "Opportunity my ass."

Vesemir ignored the exchange. "Then we wait. Geralt's recovery takes priority. After that, we see where we stand."

Eskel nodded. "Agreed."

Lambert huffed but didn't argue.

Triss let out a slow breath. "Then we wait."

A long silence stretched between them. The fire crackled softly, and outside, the Dungeon loomed, patient and unyielding.

And Yunan?

Yunan just smiled.

Yunan's POV

Kaer Morhen was peaceful in the early hours of the morning.

Yunan sat by the fire, legs crossed, lazily flipping through a book he had borrowed from the Witchers' collection. It wasn't particularly interesting—mostly dry historical accounts about monsters and wars—but it gave him something to do while waiting.

And right now, waiting was the name of the game.

Geralt had yet to wake, and the others had spent the past few hours preoccupied with their own concerns. Vesemir had gone to check the keep's defenses, Eskel was outside patrolling, and Lambert had grumbled something about needing more mead before storming off.

That left Yunan and Triss in the main hall.

She sat beside the unconscious Witcher, watching over him with quiet concern. Her healing had done most of the work, but whatever had caused his memory loss wasn't something that could be fixed with a simple spell.

Yunan glanced at her, smirking slightly. "You're staring at him like he's going to vanish."

Triss didn't look up. "If you had any real attachments, you'd understand why."

He chuckled. "Probably. But attachments are exhausting."

She didn't dignify that with a response.

Instead, the two of them sat in silence for a while, the only sounds coming from the crackling fire and the distant howl of the wind outside.

Then, finally—

A sharp inhale.

Geralt's body tensed for a moment before his golden eyes snapped open.

Triss was at his side immediately. "Geralt?"

He blinked, exhaling slowly as his gaze flickered between them. His brow furrowed slightly, as if trying to piece together where he was and why.

"…Triss?" His voice was hoarse.

Relief flickered across her face. "Yes. You're safe. You're in Kaer Morhen."

His eyes moved to Yunan, lingering on him for a second longer than necessary. Yunan gave him a lazy wave.

"Yo."

Geralt blinked. "Who the hell are you?"

Yunan smirked. "Oh, you know. Just a passing Magi."

Geralt clearly did not know. His frown deepened, but before he could ask, he winced, bringing a hand to his forehead.

Triss placed a hand on his arm. "Don't push yourself. Your memories are… fragmented."

Geralt exhaled, eyes unfocused. "…I don't remember much."

Triss nodded. "We know. You remember me, though?"

He hesitated. Then, slowly, he nodded. "Bits and pieces. It's… fuzzy."

She sighed, but it wasn't unexpected. "It'll take time."

Yunan, meanwhile, found himself studying the White Wolf with mild curiosity. It was one thing to see Geralt in the games or books, another to actually be here. To watch him in real-time.

Fascinating.

Triss must have caught the look in his eyes because she turned toward him abruptly.

"Alright," she said, folding her arms. "Enough stalling. We need to talk."

Yunan raised an eyebrow. "About?"

"You."

Geralt, still groggy, gave him another look. "…Who is he?"

"That's what I want to know," Triss muttered. Then, fixing Yunan with a sharp stare, she continued. "You call yourself a Magi. You summoned that thing outside. You don't seem affected by the cold. And you're speaking as if none of this is surprising to you. So tell me, Yunan—"

Her eyes narrowed.

"What are you?"

Yunan tilted his head, mildly amused. "You really want to know?"

"Yes."

Yunan sighed, stretching his arms above his head. "Fine, fine. I'll explain a little."

Triss and Geralt both watched him carefully as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

"A Magi," he began, "is someone chosen by the Rukh—the essence of life. We guide, observe, and occasionally interfere with the natural order." He smirked slightly. "Think of us as… cosmic meddlers."

Triss frowned. "That sounds dangerously close to a god complex."

"Oh, please," Yunan scoffed. "If I had a god complex, I'd be doing something a lot more dramatic."

Geralt, still looking lost, tried to process the information. "Rukh?"

"The fundamental force of the universe," Yunan explained. "Light Rukh represents fate and balance. Dark Rukh… well, let's just say that leads to less balanced individuals."

Triss narrowed her eyes. "And you were… chosen by this force?"

"Mm-hmm." Yunan nodded. "Though 'chosen' is a strong word. More like… shoved into the role and expected to roll with it." He grinned. "Which, honestly, suits me just fine."

Geralt rubbed his temple. "And you ended up here how?"

"Accident. Sort of." Yunan gestured vaguely. "Think of it like a teleportation mishap with a bit of divine meddling involved."

Triss didn't look convinced. "And that Dungeon? The one you summoned outside?"

"Oh, that?" Yunan chuckled. "That's just a test. A fun little challenge for anyone ambitious enough to enter."

Geralt blinked at him. Then looked at Triss.

Then back at Yunan.

"…Why do I feel like this is going to be a problem?"

Triss pinched the bridge of her nose. "Because it is."

Yunan just smiled. "That depends on how much fun you're willing to have."

The fire crackled softly in the great hall, its warmth doing little to dispel the tension that had settled over them. Geralt sat on the wooden table, silent, still piecing together the fragmented remains of his memory. Across from him, Yunan lounged in a chair, looking as relaxed as ever, as if the events of earlier had been nothing more than idle entertainment to him.

But Triss couldn't forget.

She had seen it.

They all had.

The Dungeon had risen from the earth, an impossible structure filled with unknowable magic, and from its depths had come him.

Baal.

A being of towering presence, with wings like a storm and eyes that burned like lightning itself. The sheer power radiating from him had been palpable, crackling through the air like a brewing tempest. She had felt it in her bones, in her very magic—an entity so far beyond the Djinn she had encountered before that it may as well have been an entirely different species.

And Yunan?

He had been unfazed.

The so-called Magi had spoken to the Djinn as if it were an old acquaintance, summoning it with a mere thought and dismissing it just as easily.

The memory of Baal's rumbling voice still echoed in her mind:

"Magi, why have you summoned me?"

"Just conducting a little experiment."

Even now, sitting in the hall, the weight of that moment hadn't left her. And yet, Yunan spoke of it like it was nothing.

Triss folded her arms. "You said that Dungeon is a test," she said. "And that whoever conquers it gains the favor of the Djinn inside."

Yunan hummed in agreement, tilting his head slightly. "That's right."

She narrowed her eyes. "What exactly does that mean? What's inside? What can someone get from it?"

That finally made Yunan sit up a little straighter, though the smirk on his lips never wavered. "Ah. Now you're asking the real questions."

Triss didn't respond, waiting for him to continue.

Yunan tapped his fingers lazily against the arm of his chair. "The Dungeon offers treasures, Triss. More than you can imagine."

She frowned. "What treasures?"

Yunan chuckled. "Oh, the usual—gold coins, fine jewels, crowns once worn by long-dead kings. Magic carpets that can take you across the Continent in an instant. Jars of wine that never stop flowing, feasts that never spoil, entire armories of enchanted weapons." He paused, then added with a smirk, "There's even a lightning gun in there somewhere."

Triss stared. "...A what?"

Yunan grinned. "A weapon. Shoots concentrated lightning. Very flashy."

Geralt muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like "What the fuck is wrong with mages?" but Triss ignored him.

"If those are the ordinary treasures," she said, voice sharp, "what's the real prize?"

Yunan's smirk widened.

"You already met him."

The firelight flickered.

"The Djinn."

Triss inhaled slowly, bracing herself as he continued.

"Baal, the Djinn of Wrath and Heroes," Yunan said, his voice carrying a weight that was absent from his usual lazy drawl. "The true ruler of the Dungeon. The spirit bound to its trials. Whoever conquers his domain… becomes his master."

The very idea made her stomach twist.

She had felt Baal's presence. The raw, titanic power behind his gaze. The way the air itself had trembled when he spoke.

And yet Yunan spoke as if this was all some kind of game.

Geralt's golden eyes flicked toward him, sharp with understanding. "And what does 'grant power' mean?"

Yunan leaned back again, slipping into his usual amusement. "Depends on the Djinn. Baal favors warriors. He grants his vessel immense physical strength and control over lightning. His wielder could summon storms, hurl thunderbolts, and strike down their enemies with raw, elemental force."

Triss clenched her jaw. That kind of power… in the wrong hands…

"And once someone claims the Djinn?" she asked.

Yunan gave a slow, knowing smile. "They become its master."

A chill crawled up her spine.

"And if they fail?"

Yunan shrugged. "Then they weren't meant to have it in the first place."

The casual way he said it sent a fresh wave of frustration through her.

"You're playing with something dangerous," she said, her voice sharp. "You summoned a force of nature and left it sitting in our world. You're inviting people to risk their lives for something they don't understand."

Yunan chuckled, unfazed. "It's their choice to make."

Triss exhaled sharply, forcing herself to calm down. There was no point in arguing with him—his perspective was so far removed from theirs that she doubted he even saw the danger in what he was doing.

Instead, she turned toward Geralt. "You cannot let anyone enter that Dungeon lightly. If what he's saying is true—"

"Oh, it's true," Yunan interrupted cheerfully.

She ignored him. "—then the wrong person getting their hands on that Djinn could be catastrophic."

Geralt nodded slowly, rubbing his temple. "I hear you."

She wasn't sure if that reassured her or not.

Yunan, meanwhile, simply leaned back in his chair, stretching lazily. "Personally," he mused, "I'm looking forward to seeing who's brave enough to try."

Triss glared at him.