Witcher: Rukh and Steel

The wind howled through the ancient walls of Kaer Morhen as Yunan stepped through the fortress gates. Snow clung to his robes, melting in patches as he moved with an easy, unhurried stride. The keep was silent—winter had a way of swallowing all sound—but he knew Vesemir would be waiting.

And he was right.

The old Witcher stood in the courtyard, arms crossed, his sharp, calculating gaze fixed on Yunan. There was no hostility, no suspicion—just the quiet wariness of a man who had lived through centuries of both miracles and disasters.

Yunan smirked and tossed a small vial toward Vesemir. The Witcher caught it without hesitation, his fingers closing around the smooth glass. Inside, the liquid shimmered, shifting between deep blue and silver, reflecting the light of the torches burning along the walls.

Vesemir turned the vial in his hands, studying it with a careful eye. "What am I looking at?"

"A better Witcher formula," Yunan replied simply.

Vesemir's brows furrowed. "A better way for what?"

Yunan stretched, rolling his shoulders as he exhaled. "Toussaint. There was a mage there, old and bitter. He had a son—taken by the Law of Surprise and turned into a Witcher of the Griffin School." He tilted his head slightly. "The father didn't take it well."

Vesemir's gaze sharpened. "And?"

Yunan grinned. "He spent the rest of his life trying to remove what had been done to his son. Not just cure him—erase the mutation entirely. Make it so he was never a Witcher to begin with."

Vesemir's grip on the vial tightened. "He wanted to undo the Trial."

"Completely." Yunan nodded. "He saw the process as a curse, something unnatural. He believed that if he could strip away the mutations, he could restore his son. But along the way…" He chuckled. "Well, he did something far more interesting."

Vesemir frowned. "What do you mean?"

Yunan gestured to the vial. "That. His failed attempt at reversing the Witcher process."

The old Witcher's eyes darkened. "Failed?"

"Depends on how you look at it," Yunan said, slipping his hands into his sleeves. "He never managed to remove the mutations entirely. But what he did do was refine them. He made Witchers stronger—faster, more agile, sharper senses. He stripped away the drawbacks—no more emotional suppression, no more infertility. Just pure enhancement."

Vesemir stared at the swirling liquid in the vial. "A superior mutation."

"More or less," Yunan agreed. "And best of all, it can be administered to those who've already undergone the previous process. It works on existing Witchers."

For a long moment, there was silence. The wind howled through the valley, biting at their skin, but neither of them seemed to feel it.

Finally, Vesemir spoke. "And you trust it?"

Yunan chuckled. "Trust is a strong word. But it worked on his son. He lived—stronger than before. No complications."

Vesemir exhaled through his nose. "And what does it require?"

Yunan's smirk widened. "The eggs of the Pale Widow—from Toussaint."

Vesemir's POV

The cold wind howled through the valley behind Kaer Morhen, carving its way through the rugged cliffs and skeletal remains of ancient trees. The snow grew thinner here, the rocky terrain more exposed, the land untouched by Witchers for centuries.

Vesemir moved carefully down the path, following Yunan's steady steps. The Magi moved with an ease that Vesemir found unsettling—not because he was careless, but because he acted as if the world itself bent to his whims.

Finally, Yunan stopped.

A sheer cliff face stood before them, its jagged surface worn down by time. Yunan pressed his palm against the cold stone, closing his eyes. Vesemir remained silent, watching.

After a moment, the younger man smirked. "This will do."

Vesemir folded his arms. "You're making a nest for them here?"

"Somewhere close, but contained." Yunan's emerald eyes gleamed with mischief as he stepped back, rolling his shoulders. "The Pale Widows need warmth, moisture, and deep soil. This rock is too cold, too rigid." He tilted his head. "But that's a problem easily fixed."

He raised his hands, and the air shifted.

Vesemir felt it before he saw it. A strange pressure in the air, like standing at the center of a storm about to break. Snow and dust swirled around them as the temperature fluctuated, caught in the invisible force coiling around Yunan's fingertips.

Then, the mountain moved.

Golden runes flared into existence, spiraling around Yunan's outstretched hands. The rock trembled as unseen forces bent the stone to his will.

The cliffside split open, not violently, but with an eerie fluidity—as if the rock had always meant to move. The entrance stretched wide, revealing a cavern that had not existed moments before.

Vesemir narrowed his eyes, stepping forward cautiously. "That's a neat trick."

Yunan grinned. "Oh, we're just getting started."

Inside, the space was already reshaping itself. Stalactites formed along the ceiling, glowing faintly with embedded runes. The ground softened, giving way to rich, dark soil, untouched by frost or decay. Small underground streams bubbled to life, weaving through the chamber, their waters shimmering with faint traces of magic.

It wasn't just a cave.

It was an ecosystem.

A perfectly crafted environment, tailored to the needs of the creatures it would soon house.

Vesemir let out a slow breath, scanning the chamber with a critical eye. The air was warmer now, but not uncomfortably so. The moisture levels were precise, enough to keep the ground damp but not flooded. It was… unnatural.

Controlled. Designed.

His gaze flickered toward the barely visible barriers lining the walls—runes woven into the very foundation of the cavern, pulsing like a heartbeat.

"Reinforcements?" Vesemir asked.

Yunan smirked. "Naturally. If one tries to escape, the barriers will repel it. If they try to burrow out, the earth will harden against them. And if, by some miracle, something does break through…" He tapped his boot against the ground. "This entire cave can collapse on command."

Vesemir huffed, crossing his arms. "You're paranoid."

Yunan chuckled. "No, I'm careful."

The cavern settled, its transformation complete. The foundation for the future had been built.

And now, it was time to populate it.

Yunan raised his hand, and a new pulse of magic flickered through the air. A small rift—a pocket in space itself—cracked open beside him, swirling with deep violet and gold. Vesemir had seen storage magic before, but never like this.

Yunan reached into the void, his fingers moving through unseen dimensions. Then—he pulled.

From the depths of the rift, a smooth black containment box emerged. Intricate runes glowed along its edges, locking in whatever lay inside. The moment it left the void, a strange chittering noise echoed from within.

Vesemir instinctively tensed. Something was alive in there.

Yunan set the box on the ground, muttering a few words under his breath. The runes flickered, then faded. With a soft hiss, the lid unlocked and slid open.

Vesemir did not move.

From inside, pale, spindly legs shifted. Translucent bodies, barely visible in the dim light, twitched as they adjusted to the change in temperature. Milky white eyes gleamed, reflecting the faint magic woven through the chamber.

The Pale Widows.

Dozens of eggs, nestled in a protective cocoon of silk, pulsed faintly with life. A few of the more mature creatures stirred, their delicate limbs moving with unnatural precision. They did not try to run.

The chamber was perfect.

Vesemir let out a slow breath. "And you're sure about this?"

Yunan stepped back, admiring his work. "Absolutely."

The old Witcher's gaze lingered on the creatures before him.

It was madness.

And yet…

If it worked?

If what Yunan claimed was true—if this was the key to a new kind of Witcher—then it was worth the risk.

Vesemir turned to face Yunan, his voice steady. "Then let's begin."

Five months.

That's how long it had taken.

Geralt, Leo, Lambert, and Eskel had hunted them down—base after base, crushing Salamandra and the Order of the Flaming Rose, leaving nothing but ruins in their wake.

At first, their enemies had been arrogant, convinced they had stolen Witcher strength, that they were on the verge of evolution.

Then the side effects started.

And now?

They were panicked.

Cornered. Doomed.

Because the formula they stole wasn't just fake.

It was a trap.

And tonight, they would learn the final price of their ambition.

Eskel's POV

The air inside the ruined fortress was wrong.

It stank of alchemy gone wrong, of sweat and panic.

And something else.

Something unnatural.

Eskel had seen plenty of failed mutagens in his time—bodies torn apart, minds shattered beyond repair. But this? This was new.

The leaders of Salamandra and the Order of the Flaming Rose stood in the center of the chamber, surrounded by their knights and alchemists. They were supposed to be stronger.

Instead, they looked sick.

"You Witchers don't know when to quit," one of the knights sneered, his voice hoarse, like he had been holding back something for too long. His eyes flickered—not with confidence, but restraint. "Killing us won't change what's coming."

Eskel narrowed his eyes. "You sure about that?"

One of the alchemists stepped forward, looking like he hadn't slept in weeks. His hands were shaking. "You… you tricked us!"

Eskel smirked. There it is.

"You mean the formula?" His tone was mocking, full of amusement. "Oh, yeah. That little adjustment."

The room shifted.

"You—" One of the Order's commanders pointed at them, his voice cracking. "You lied to us!"

Eskel chuckled, taking a slow step forward. "You really thought you could steal our secrets? That you could just grab a few vials and suddenly become our equals?"

The fear set in.

One of the alchemists turned on his colleagues, pure rage twisting his face. "You assured us this would make us stronger!"

"It—It did!" another stammered. "We—"

"We drank it!" one of the mercenaries shouted, his hands clenched into fists. "And now we can't stop thinking about each other!"

The leaders paled.

The Order of the Flaming Rose had been expecting power.

They had received something else entirely.

Lambert's POV

Oh, this was fucking perfect.

Watching these self-righteous bastards—who had spent years butchering mages, burning non-humans, and dissecting Witchers—realize they had been played?

Fucking priceless.

"You should see your faces," Lambert drawled, barely holding back laughter. "All that time, all those resources, all those experiments—"

His grin widened.

"—and you turned yourselves into obsessive little lapdogs."

The room erupted into chaos.

"You lied to us!"

"You said this would make us unstoppable!"

One of the mercenaries grabbed a nearby alchemist, slamming him against the wall. "You said this was real!"

The alchemist stammered, his face pale. "I—I don't understand—"

Lambert sighed dramatically. "Oh, let me explain, then." He grinned. "That formula you stole? Yeah, we let you have it."

The realization hit them all at once.

They hadn't stolen anything.

They had spent five months injecting themselves with nothing but hormonal instability.

Attraction.

Obsession.

They had unknowingly bound themselves to anyone else who had taken the same formula—drawn to each other in ways they couldn't control.

And now?

Now they were standing in a room full of each other.

And losing control.

Leo's POV

The first sword was drawn.

But not at the Witchers.

At each other.

Leo's eyes flickered as the tension snapped.

The knights of the Flaming Rose turned on themselves, their breaths heavy, their expressions torn between rage and something more twisted.

"You did this to me!" one shouted.

"You made me—!" another tried to speak, but his voice cracked.

One of the mercenaries lunged at another—not in battle, but in some twisted instinct, trying to pull him close. The other slashed him down instantly, panting like a man trying to control himself.

It was madness.

Leo grinned. "Well, that's a new way to lose a fight."

Eskel stepped forward. "Told you. The formula was flawed."

"Flawed?" Lambert laughed. "This is a fucking disaster."

The Order was falling apart, their strongest warriors driven to insanity by their own mutagens.

And the Witchers?

They hadn't lifted a finger.

Then—

The thunder cracked.

Geralt's POV

Enough.

The battle was already lost.

But he wanted it ended.

Geralt exhaled, gripping the silver medallion around his neck.

The mark of Djinn's Favor.

The gift of Baal, the Djinn of Wrath and Heroes.

The **air crackled with power as golden lightning erupted from his body. His blade shifted, no longer mere steel, but lightning given form.

Djinn Equip—Baal's Thunderclad Wrath.

Geralt vanished.

One second, he was standing at the edge of the battlefield.

The next, he was in the heart of the enemy.

His blade tore through them, each strike a flash of pure destruction.

He moved too fast to be human.

The knights of the Flaming Rose had spent years slaughtering Witchers.

But now?

They weren't fighting Witchers.

They were fighting monsters.

And they lost.

The Aftermath

Minutes.

That's all it took.

Not hours. Not a drawn-out war.

Minutes.

The floor of the fortress was slick with blood, the leaders of Salamandra and the Order of the Flaming Rose lying dead.

Geralt exhaled, feeling the magic fade from his limbs. Baal's power retreated, waiting for the next time he called upon it.

Leo wiped his blade clean. "That's it?"

Eskel sheathed his sword. "That's it."

Lambert let out a sharp laugh. "Shit. I was expecting more."

Geralt turned toward the entrance, adjusting his armor.

"I'm going to Vizima."

Eskel frowned. "Alone?"

Geralt didn't turn. "There's something I need to do."

The others didn't ask.

Lambert sighed, rolling his shoulders. "Well, guess we're heading back to Kaer Morhen." He glanced at Leo. "Try not to miss us too much, kid."

Leo smirked. "No promises."

Geralt walked into the night, his path leading to Vizima.

The others?

They had earned their rest.

And Kaer Morhen was waiting.

The Lodge of Sorceresses gathered in their hidden chamber within Montecalvo Castle. The air pulsed with quiet power, the very walls woven with wards and enchantments to keep their discussions hidden from the world.

Tonight, the world had given them something unacceptable—a tower that should not exist.

Philippa Eilhart sat at the head of the table, her sharp eyes scanning the gathered sorceresses. The flickering candlelight cast shadows across their faces, but their expressions remained unreadable.

Her fingers drummed once—twice—against the stone table. "A tower has appeared in the middle of a lake in Toussaint. A structure of unknown origin. And not a single one of you saw it coming?"

Silence.

Sheala de Tancarville crossed her arms, her face carefully neutral. "Our spies confirm it wasn't constructed through ordinary means. One day, the lake was undisturbed. The next, it was simply there."

Philippa narrowed her eyes. "Teleportation?"

Francesca Findabair, the elven queen of Dol Blathanna, shook her head. "Impossible. No mage—not even Vilgefortz—could teleport an entire tower without it being noticed. Such an act would require an inconceivable amount of power, not to mention leave a magical residue that even a novice could detect."

Sabrina Glevissig scoffed. "And yet, it stands. And no one knows who built it?"

A hesitation.

Then, Triss Merigold spoke.

"I… may know the name of the one responsible."

The air grew heavy as all eyes turned to her.

Philippa's gaze sharpened. "Speak."

Triss exhaled, her voice measured. "His name is Yunan."

The name meant nothing to them.

A nobody. A phantom. A ghost.

Philippa leaned forward. "And who, exactly, is Yunan?"

Triss hesitated before placing an enchanted file onto the table. Runes flickered along its edges, ensuring that only those present could read what lay within.

"He's a mage," Triss said slowly, "but not one of our world."

A ripple of disbelief passed through the Lodge.

Philippa's expression didn't change. "Explain."

Triss nodded. "He calls himself a Magi—a title I do not fully understand, but one that he claims holds weight where he comes from. He doesn't belong to Ban Ard, Aretuza, or any known magical school. He is—" She hesitated. "—powerful. But lazy. Incredibly lazy."

Sabrina scoffed. "A lazy mage conjured a tower from nothing?"

Triss gave her a flat look. "I met him."

That got their attention.

"When?" Philippa demanded.

Triss's voice remained calm. "At Kaer Morhen."

Silence.

Triss continued. "When I arrived to heal Geralt, he was already there. The Witchers trusted him, though they did not know his full capabilities." She glanced at Philippa. "And when I questioned his strength—when I doubted him—he created a dungeon."

The weight of her words settled over the room.

Philippa's nails tapped once more against the table. "Are you saying this tower is the same as what you saw at Kaer Morhen?"

Triss shook her head. "No. That one was different. But the principle is the same. Yunan does not follow our rules of magic. He does not need time, incantations, or preparation. He simply wills things into existence."

That was a problem.

A mage who did not follow their rules, who existed outside of their influence—a wild card.

And the Lodge did not like wild cards.

Philippa sat back, deep in thought.

Then, she smiled.

"Then we must find him."

In Vizima, King Foltest of Temeria sat in his grand throne room, his sharp gaze fixed on the reports spread across the long oak table before him. The dim torchlight flickered across the polished stone walls, but Foltest barely acknowledged it.

His spies had delivered something impossible.

A tower had appeared overnight in the middle of a lake in Toussaint.

Not built.

Not discovered.

Not announced by Nilfgaard or the Duchy.

It had simply appeared.

And no one knew how.

Foltest sighed, rubbing his temples. "First Nilfgaard, now this?"

The room was silent, save for the soft crackling of the fire. His advisors shifted uncomfortably, their faces tight with unease. They were used to wars, rebellions, and conspiracies—things that made sense in the grand game of politics.

But this?

This was beyond comprehension.

The only one who didn't look shaken was Triss Merigold.

She stood confidently before the king, her arms folded, her emerald eyes sharp and unwavering.

Foltest's gaze locked onto her. "Merigold," he said, voice expectant. "You're the mage here. I assume you have some explanation?"

Triss nodded, stepping forward without hesitation. "I do."

Foltest raised an eyebrow. "That's refreshing. Enlighten me."

Triss reached into her robes and placed an enchanted file of parchment on the table. The runes along its edges flickered with restrained magic, sealing its contents.

She met Foltest's gaze without flinching.

"This was not the work of Nilfgaard. Nor was it done by any known sorcerer on the Continent," she said, her voice steady. "This tower… was created by a mage named Yunan."

The name meant nothing to Foltest.

He leaned back, skeptical. "And who, exactly, is Yunan?"

Triss exhaled, already prepared for the question. "A mage," she said, then paused before adding, "but not from our world."

The room tensed.

Foltest studied her for a long moment before chuckling. "That's a bold claim."

Triss did not smile. "It's the truth."

The room was hers now. She could feel it. The power dynamic had shifted—Foltest, for all his sharp wit and commanding presence, needed her answers.

"I met him," she continued, her voice calm but firm. "At Kaer Morhen."

Foltest's amusement faded slightly. "When?"

"When I went to heal Geralt. Yunan was already there." She crossed her arms. "The Witchers knew him, though I don't think they fully understood what he was."

Foltest's expression turned calculating. "And what is he?"

Triss's lips pressed into a thin line. "Powerful. But lazy. He doesn't act like a sorcerer or a ruler. He has no allegiance, no interest in politics. He simply… does things. As if magic itself is a toy to him."

Foltest leaned forward, intrigued. "You sound as though you tested him."

Triss nodded, her eyes steady. "I did."

"And?"

She smiled, a knowing look of control crossing her features.

"I challenged him to prove how strong he was." She let the words linger in the air before continuing, "So he made a dungeon appear."

The room fell into silence.

Foltest's fingers stilled on the armrest. His golden eyes sharpened.

"Explain."

Triss was prepared.

"Magi, as he calls himself, have a type of magic unlike anything we've ever seen," she stated. "It doesn't draw from Chaos. It doesn't require incantations, potions, or conduits."

She stepped closer to the table, gesturing toward the enchanted file.

"They don't learn magic. They command it."

Foltest's grip on the armrest tightened. "You mean to say this Yunan… can create structures, creatures, and magical constructs just by willing them into existence?"

Triss nodded, confident. "Yes."

Foltest tapped his fingers against the wood, thinking. Then he chuckled.

"So let me summarize," he mused. "A mage with no allegiance, no known origin, and magic that defies the very laws of sorcery, has casually raised a tower in Nilfgaardian territory?"

Triss met his gaze. "That's correct."

Foltest sighed, rubbing his jaw. "And Emperor Emhyr remains silent."

Triss nodded. "Which means either Nilfgaard doesn't know how to deal with him…"

"…or they're waiting to see what happens." Foltest finished.

A beat passed before he smirked. "Interesting."

But Triss wasn't done.

She held her ground, her presence commanding as she spoke the next words with absolute certainty.

"Your Majesty," she said, "there is something more dangerous about that tower."

Foltest raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

Triss placed a second enchanted file onto the table. The runes along its surface glowed faintly, whispering of ancient knowledge.

"Whoever conquers the dungeon inside that tower," she said carefully, "gains the allegiance of the Djinn that resides within it."

The room grew deathly still.

Foltest's fingers froze on the armrest. His advisors exchanged glances of shock and fear.

In Vizima, King Foltest of Temeria sat on his grand throne, his sharp gaze scanning the handwritten reports spread across the long oak table before him. The dim torchlight flickered across polished stone walls, casting restless shadows, but Foltest barely acknowledged them.

His spies had delivered something impossible.

A tower had appeared overnight in the middle of a lake in Toussaint.

Not built.

Not discovered.

Not announced by Nilfgaard or the Duchy.

It had simply appeared.

And no one knew how.

Foltest sighed, rubbing his temples. "First Nilfgaard, now this?"

The room was silent, save for the soft crackling of the fire. His advisors shifted uncomfortably, their faces tight with unease. They were accustomed to wars, betrayals, and rebellions—challenges that could be solved with armies or assassins.

But this?

This was something else entirely.

Only three women in the room remained unshaken.

At the center of it all, Triss Merigold stood with her arms crossed, her emerald eyes sharp and unwavering. She wasn't just here to answer questions—she was here to steer the conversation.

To her left, Princess Adda sat in her own ornately carved chair, her posture relaxed but her expression predatory. She tapped a well-manicured finger against the table, her amber eyes glinting with interest. Unlike the rest of the court, Adda looked amused.

And beside her, Keira Metz leaned back lazily, a smirk playing at her lips as she toyed with the edge of her sleeve, waiting for Triss to speak. Unlike the others, she wasn't confused—she was intrigued.

Foltest's gaze locked onto Triss.

"Merigold," he said, voice expectant. "You're the mage here. I assume you have some explanation?"

Triss didn't hesitate. She stepped forward, her tone calm and composed.

"I do."

Foltest raised an eyebrow. "That's refreshing. Enlighten me."

Triss reached into her robes and placed an enchanted file of parchment on the table. The runes along its edges flickered with restrained magic, sealing its contents.

She met Foltest's gaze without flinching.

"This was not the work of Nilfgaard. Nor was it done by any known sorcerer on the Continent," she said, her voice measured and authoritative. "This tower… was created by a mage named Yunan."

The name meant nothing to Foltest.

He leaned back, skeptical. "And who, exactly, is Yunan?"

Triss exhaled, already prepared for the question. "A mage," she said, then paused before adding, "but not from our world."

The room tensed.

For the first time, Keira Metz actually looked intrigued. She sat up slightly, her fingers tracing an invisible sigil in the air, as though testing the very notion.

Foltest studied Triss for a long moment before chuckling. "That's a bold claim."

Triss's confidence did not waver. "It's the truth."

She was in control now, and she knew it.

"I met him," she continued, her voice unwavering. "At Kaer Morhen."

Foltest's amusement faded slightly. "When?"

"When I went to heal Geralt. Yunan was already there," she explained. "The Witchers knew him, though I don't think they fully understood what he was."

Foltest's expression turned calculating. "And what is he?"

Triss held his gaze. "Powerful. But lazy. He doesn't act like a sorcerer or a ruler. He has no allegiance, no interest in politics. He simply… does things. As if magic itself is a toy to him."

For the first time, Adda spoke.

"A man who plays with magic like a child," she mused, smirking. "That sounds dangerous."

Triss nodded. "It is."

Foltest leaned forward. "You sound as though you tested him."

Triss smiled slightly, a knowing look crossing her features. "I did."

"And?"

She let the silence linger before answering.

"I challenged him to prove how strong he was," she said, her confidence unwavering. "So he made a dungeon appear."

The room fell silent.

Keira Metz let out a quiet whistle. "Now that is interesting."

Foltest's fingers stilled on the armrest. His golden eyes sharpened.

"Explain."

Triss was fully prepared.

"He summoned a dungeon—a structure layered with magic, crawling with monsters and treasures beyond anything seen before. Geralt and the other Witchers entered it. They fought, adapted, and survived."

She glanced at Keira, who was still smirking.

"In fact," Triss added, "I believe Keira here already knows what comes from these dungeons."

Keira chuckled, leaning forward. "Oh? You mean all this gold and artifacts?" She tapped the necklace around her neck. "That little dungeon of his is a goldmine, if you know how to play the game right."

Foltest raised an eyebrow, looking at Keira with new curiosity. "So you've benefited from Yunan's magic as well?"

Keira tilted her head. "I'd say we all will. If we don't get ourselves killed first."

Foltest tapped his fingers against the wood, deep in thought. "And this tower in Toussaint—another dungeon?"

Triss nodded.

Foltest leaned back. "And what's inside?"

Triss didn't hesitate. "That is the real question, Your Majesty. The Witchers conquered their dungeon and found a Djinn."

The room went still.

Adda's expression shifted—a mix of curiosity and greed.

Keira blinked, then laughed softly. "So that's how Geralt got his new power."

Foltest's fingers tightened. "A Djinn?"

Triss met his gaze. "Yes. And if **Yunan's dungeon follows the same rules… then there is another one inside this tower. Waiting."

The realization settled over the room.

Foltest slowly stood, his cloak shifting behind him. "Then we have time."

His golden eyes glinted with something sharp.

"I want every spy, every informant gathering intelligence on this tower."

His gaze flicked to Triss. "And you?"

She held his gaze without fear. "I will continue to watch Geralt."

Foltest chuckled. "You always do, don't you?"

But Adda wasn't smiling anymore.

Her eyes flickered with dangerous thoughts.

Because now, she was thinking exactly what Foltest was thinking.

And in her mind, only one question mattered.

Who would claim the next Djinn?