Witcher: Rukh and Steel

Kaer Morhen

Seven months had passed since Yunan repaired Kaer Morhen, breathing life back into the ancient keep.

The transformation was undeniable. Once a ruin, now it stood proud and strong, no longer a shadow of its past glory. Stone walls once fractured by time had been restored, the battlements reforged, the training grounds leveled and reinforced. The ancient halls, once filled with only memories and ghosts, now echoed with voices, footsteps, and purpose.

But some things never changed.

The wind still howled through the valley, whispering through the cracks like an old ghost refusing to leave.

The snow still clung to the fortress, blanketing it in white silence, a reminder that Kaer Morhen would always be a place of hardship.

And Lambert still complained.

Lambert's POV

Lambert crossed his arms, leaning against a newly rebuilt stone pillar in the main hall, his expression twisted into a scowl. Despite the warmth from the crackling hearth, there was a deep chill in the air.

"So let me get this straight," he muttered. "After all this time, you're telling me we're making more Witchers?"

Across the long wooden table, the remaining Witchers sat—Vesemir, Eskel, Leo, and Yunan, who was sprawled lazily on a bench, looking thoroughly unbothered.

But it was Vesemir who answered.

"We are," the old master said firmly, his voice carrying the weight of centuries. "And with Yunan's formulas, they will have a better chance than we did."

At Vesemir's side, three children stood rigid—orphaned survivors, barely older than ten. Their clothes were patched and worn, their faces smeared with dirt, but their eyes burned with something fierce.

Fear. Hope. Determination.

Lambert let out a harsh laugh, shaking his head. "A better chance?" His tone turned sharp. "You really think that changes anything? We barely have a world left that wants us, Vesemir. We've got kings and sorcerers trying to erase our kind, and you want to start over?"

Eskel, who had been watching the fire flicker in the hearth, finally spoke.

"The world may not want us," he said, voice calm but undeniable, "but it still needs us."

A tense silence followed.

The children stood their ground, small hands clenched into tight fists, as if bracing for rejection.

Vesemir looked at Lambert, then at them. "I found them in Kaedwen and Redania," he said, his voice even but heavy with something older. "Their villages were attacked. Burned by monsters. Their families didn't make it."

Lambert exhaled through his nose, but said nothing.

Finally, the eldest of the children stepped forward—a boy with wild black hair and sharp golden eyes, his posture stiff with defiance.

"I want to be a Witcher," he said.

Lambert stared at him, searching for weakness, for doubt.

"Do you?" His voice was cold. "Do you even know what that means?"

The boy did not flinch.

"I know," he said. "But I don't care."

His words were met with a heavy pause.

Then, a second child—a freckled girl with silver-blonde hair, her face set with quiet intensity—stepped forward beside him.

"I'd rather be a Witcher than be dead," she said, voice soft but unshaken.

The third child, a silent, thin boy with dark skin and piercing green eyes, remained still. He didn't speak, but his gaze flickered between Vesemir, Lambert, and Eskel. He was watching. Studying. Calculating.

Lambert ran a hand down his face, growling under his breath.

"Dammit."

Vesemir placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "The decision isn't ours to make," he said quietly. "It's theirs."

Lambert held his gaze for a long moment. Then, finally, he muttered, "Fine. But if this goes to shit, I get to say I told you so."

Vesemir smirked. "Wouldn't expect anything less."

Leo's POV

Leo crossed his arms, leaning against the table, his mind lingering on the hunt.

"It's done," he said simply. "Salamandra is finished. What was left of them was working with the Order of the Flaming Rose, but now they're both gone."

Yunan nodded approvingly. "Nice. Always fun when fanatics and alchemists go up in flames."

Leo smirked. "Literally."

Lambert exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. "Still. It was… satisfying." His smirk returned. "Not that I needed a Djinn-powered Geralt to do my job, but hey, watching him tear through those bastards was worth it."

Eskel chuckled. "Admit it, you enjoyed the chaos."

Lambert grinned. "I won't deny it."

Yunan waved a hand dismissively. "Yes, yes, watching Geralt play storm god is fun and all, but back to important matters—Kaer Morhen looks brand new. Do I get a thank you for that?"

Vesemir gave him a small smile. "You have my gratitude, Yunan. This fortress hasn't stood this strong in centuries."

Eskel nodded in agreement. "Even the lower halls are restored. Feels… strange. Like stepping into the past."

Yunan clapped his hands together. "See? Was that so hard?"

Then, suddenly, he stood up.

"Well, boys, as fun as this has been, I'm heading out."

Vesemir raised a brow. "For how long?"

Yunan grinned.

"A year."

Before anyone could argue, he disappeared in a pulse of magic.

Eskel's POV

The fire crackled.

The wind howled through the open windows.

Lambert sighed, running a hand down his face. "That guy is a pain in the ass."

Eskel chuckled. "But a useful one."

Leo's gaze flicked toward the three children, still standing beside Vesemir.

This was happening.

Kaer Morhen was changing again.

They would train new Witchers.

They would rebuild their lost brotherhood.

And as Eskel watched the next generation, standing there determined yet uncertain, he knew one thing for sure.

The road ahead would not be easy.

But it was the only road left.

Novigrad - Yunan's POV

Novigrad was loud.

The city breathed and pulsed like a living thing—a beast of stone, fire, and secrets, forever shifting between glory and corruption. Gold flowed through its streets as easily as blood, and its people were both merchants and liars, saints and sinners.

And Yunan?

He made himself at home in its belly.

His new house, nestled within the noble district, stood like a relic from another world. A manor of impossible design, too perfectly constructed to have been built by any local craftsmen. Its high walls, lined with protective enchantments, ensured privacy, while the inside…

The inside was something else entirely.

The moment he stepped past its doors, the outside world of smog and commerce vanished. The air inside hummed with magic, ancient and undisturbed.

His library, if it could even be called that, was something no mortal scholar would ever comprehend. The books here were not from this world.

Each shelf held tomes from Alma Torran and the Magi's world, gathered from ancient dungeons and forgotten cities lost to time. Scrolls inked in the language of Solomon, grimoires detailing the Rukh and the very nature of fate itself. Books from Magnostadt's forbidden archives, detailing magic that even the sorcerers of this world had never dreamed of.

One book, bound in black metal, bore the seal of the Sacred Palace, its pages filled with equations that mapped the very structure of existence itself. Another, wrapped in golden silk, was a first-hand account of the creation of Djinns, penned by none other than Solomon himself.

A single one of these books—if it were to fall into the wrong hands—could upend the balance of this world completely.

But to Yunan?

They were just things he had collected.

And then there were the artifacts.

Weapons forged in the heart of dungeons, relics of fallen kings, objects infused with the will of the Rukh.

A massive spear rested upon the mantle—Baal's Fulgur Lance, a weapon capable of summoning storms with a single thrust. In one corner of the room, a curved dagger gleamed in the candlelight, its blade forged from pure Magoi, once wielded by an assassin of Al-Thamen.

And there, mounted upon the wall, was perhaps the most dangerous of them all—a ring, simple in design, yet humming with untapped energy.

The Ring of Zagan.

A fragment of the Great Djinn's power, capable of manipulating plant life at a level beyond mortal comprehension. With a mere whisper, one could turn a desert into a jungle, a city into a garden—or wrap a battlefield in vines that drank the blood of the fallen.

And this?

This single home, filled with treasures and secrets from another world, was worth more than all of Novigrad itself.

If the merchant-kings and noble lords ever realized what lay beyond these walls, they'd sell their own children for even a glimpse inside.

And Yunan?

He barely noticed.

For a month, he played at being just another citizen.

He adjusted the furniture, filled his endless library, experimented with wine (most of it was garbage), and watched the world move without him.

It was… entertaining. For a time.

But then?

Boredom struck.

So he left.

Skellige –Yunan's POV

The air was cold. Sharp.

Salt and steel clung to the wind, carried from the restless waves below. Yunan stood atop the rugged cliffs near Kaer Trolde, his cloak snapping against the sky, watching the fury of the sea below.

The waters crashed, roaring and endless, as if daring him to summon something worthy of their wrath.

He obliged.

Yunan raised a hand, and the earth trembled.

At first, the cliffs only shuddered, as if resisting. Then, with a sound like thunder cracking the bones of the world, stone and magic intertwined, pulling something massive from the very bedrock of the island.

A tower erupted from the cliffs.

Not just any tower.

A dungeon.

Its blackened walls twisted upward like the ribs of a slain god, its very presence humming with power older than men and their petty wars. Runes of forgotten languages ignited along its surface, sealing its gates with magic that only the worthy could break.

It was alive, in a way.

And Skellige would hear its call.

They would come.

And so, he spoke.

Not with mere words, but with a voice that rippled through the air, through the land itself—a challenge that did not simply echo, but engraved itself into the very bones of the island.

"Hear me, warriors and dreamers alike! Beyond these treacherous halls lies a fate only the bold may claim. Those who dare to conquer the Dungeon shall not walk away as they once were. No, they shall rise—bathed in glory, crowned with riches, and wielding power that shakes the very foundations of the world!"

"Step forth, if you have the courage, for destiny favors the brave!"

The moment the words left his lips, the challenge was set.

The Skelligers would come.

And with that, Yunan vanished, teleporting back to his home in Novigrad.

The game had begun.

Skellige –Cerys an Craite's POV

The wind carried more than just salt and cold that day.

It carried a challenge.

Cerys stood atop the battlements of Kaer Trolde, the wind whipping through her hair as she looked out over the roaring sea. The sun had begun to set, casting long shadows over the cliffs—but no one was looking at the ocean today.

They were looking at the tower.

It had not been there yesterday.

The distant silhouette loomed over the jagged cliffs near Kaer Trolde's shores, a monstrous thing of stone and shadow, rising where once there had been only rock and ice.

And the voice.

That damned voice had rattled the bones of Skellige itself.

A summons, clear and undeniable.

"Hear me, warriors and dreamers alike! Beyond these treacherous halls lies a fate only the bold may claim. Those who dare to conquer the Dungeon shall not walk away as they once were. No, they shall rise—bathed in glory, crowned with riches, and wielding power that shakes the very foundations of the world!

Step forth, if you have the courage, for destiny favors the brave!"

And Skellige had listened.

Below, in the courtyard of Kaer Trolde, warriors from every clan were gathering. Ships had already begun arriving, sails marked with the sigils of the strongest families—Drummond, Dimun, Tuirseach, Brokvar.

Cerys could hear their roars of excitement, their boasts of victory.

They didn't care what the tower was.

They only cared that it had issued a challenge.

And in Skellige, a challenge was never ignored.

The great hall of Kaer Trolde was filled with firelight and war-born excitement.

The smell of ale and salt thickened the air as warriors laughed, drank, and sharpened their blades, eager for the battle to come. The massive wooden tables were heavy with food, but few sat to eat—they were waiting.

Cerys stood beside her father, Jarl Crach an Craite, watching as chieftains from across Skellige gathered beneath the banners of Clan an Craite.

Her brother, Hjalmar, already had a tankard in hand, grinning as he listened to the boasting of warriors who swore they would claim the tower's treasures.

At the head of the hall, upon the great throne of Skellige, sat King Bran of Clan Tuirseach. His weathered face was unreadable, but his fingers tapped against the hilt of his sword.

He was listening. Weighing. Deciding.

Finally, the room fell silent as Bran stood.

He was old, but no man doubted his strength. His presence alone commanded the respect of chieftains and warriors alike.

When he spoke, it was as if the sea itself had hushed to listen.

"You have all heard it," Bran said, his voice calm but firm. "You have all felt it."

A murmur rippled through the gathered warriors.

A voice, carried by no man, no ship, no wind.

A voice that had challenged Skellige itself.

Bran's gaze swept across the hall, meeting the eyes of every chieftain, every would-be ruler.

"A tower now stands upon our land," he continued. "It did not rise by the hands of our builders. It did not belong to our ancestors. It is a thing unknown."

His voice hardened.

"But we are Skelligers. We do not fear the unknown. We embrace it."

A roar of approval shook the hall.

Hjalmar grinned, slamming his tankard down. "Then what are we waiting for?" he barked. "Let's go see what the gods have left for us!"

A chieftain from Clan Drummond stood, broad-shouldered and heavy with scars. "Aye! We'll carve our way through and take whatever's inside!"

"Glory awaits those who do not hesitate!" another called.

"Let the gods decide who is worthy!"

Bran let them shout, let their voices rise like a storm, before he raised a hand—and the room fell silent once more.

Then, he spoke the words that would shake the foundations of Skellige.

"Whoever conquers the tower," he said, "shall be the next King or Queen of Skellige."

Silence.

Then, chaos.

The roar of warriors filled the hall, louder than the crashing waves outside.

Chieftains clamored for glory, declaring that they would be the ones to claim the tower's riches, its power—whatever lay beyond those sealed doors.

It did not matter that they did not know what awaited them inside.

All that mattered was that the challenge had been given.

And Skellige would answer.

Cerys Watches and Decides

Cerys did not cheer.

She watched. She listened. She studied.

The tower had not been there before.

It had not been built, nor discovered, nor claimed.

It had simply appeared.

And she could not shake the feeling that it had been placed there for a reason.

But her father—her brother—the chieftains—none of them cared.

All that mattered to them was the promise of battle.

Hjalmar clapped her on the shoulder, grinning like a fool. "What say you, sister? Shall we see who takes the crown first?"

Cerys met his gaze, then looked past him—to the open doors of the hall, to the storm rolling in over the sea.

"We go at dawn," she said.

She would fight. She would prove herself.

But in the back of her mind, one thought remained.

Who had placed that tower upon Skellige's land?

And why?