Witcher: Rukh and Steel

Novigrad – Yunan's POV

For all its secrets, dangers, and politics, Novigrad had one irresistible charm—Gwent.

Yunan had watched wars reshape entire continents, had seen kingdoms fall overnight, had conversed with gods and monsters alike—but the simple thrill of a well-played card?

That was a different kind of power.

At first, it had been casual. A way to blend into Novigrad's daily life, a game to pass the time between learning the city's power structures and drinking with merchants.

Then he overheard something that made him pause.

"You hear about the new Northern Realms card? 'Magi.' Seven strength, powerful ability."

"Aye, a rare one. Official print, too. Pulled one myself."

Yunan perked up.

A new card? Fine.

A rare card? Intriguing.

A rare card called 'Magi'?

Now that… that got his attention.

"What does it do?"

"Brings a unit back from the graveyard, but here's the best part—

'He watches from above, untouched by fate, guiding those who rise anew.'"

Yunan almost spit out his drink.

They had no idea who the Magi was.

But he did.

And he didn't have the damn card.

That was unacceptable.

Thus began his new obsession.

Novigrad – The Friends of a Magi

Two months passed, and Yunan did far more than just play Gwent.

He walked Novigrad's streets without magic, blending into the markets, taverns, and dens of corruption. He listened, learned, and mapped the veins of the city—where power truly lay.

It wasn't in the church or the crown.

It was in gold and steel.

And in his search, he made friends.

Hattori—the ex-master swordsmith, forced into making dumplings instead of blades. A man of regret and talent, pulled into the city's power struggles. Yunan helped him reclaim his forge, and in return, they became good drinking partners.

Vimme Vivaldi—the dwarven banker-king of Novigrad. He and Yunan quickly found common ground—both were unpredictable, both enjoyed mocking those who thought themselves untouchable, and both had a deep love for Gwent.

And so, his home became a haven.

A place for fine wine, sharp conversation, and endless rounds of Gwent.

Gwent Night

The oak table in Yunan's study was covered in cards, empty goblets, and discarded betting slips.

A game was in full swing—Yunan, Hattori, and Vivaldi, deep in their third hour of play. A pile of crowns sat in the center, but they weren't playing for gold anymore.

They were playing for pride.

And for something far more valuable.

"Yer a menace," Vivaldi grumbled, staring at Yunan's field. "Ye play like ye've seen the game end before we even start."

Yunan smirked, swirling his wine lazily. "Now, now, Vivaldi, I'm just a humble collector."

"Collector, my arse," Hattori muttered, playing Scorch, burning away one of Yunan's highest units. "You play like a man who bends fate to his will."

Yunan grinned but said nothing.

Because tonight, there was only one thing he wanted.

Vivaldi sighed, reaching into his coin pouch and pulling out a pristine Gwent card.

And there it was.

Magi – Strength 7 – Unique Ability: "He watches from above, untouched by fate, guiding those who rise anew."

The artwork was striking—a robed figure standing atop a tower, his cloak flowing, his gaze hidden but knowing. Swirling lights surrounded him, as if the very fabric of magic itself obeyed his presence.

It was him.

And they didn't even know it.

Hattori leaned in, studying the card. "Haven't seen that one before. Rare?"

Vivaldi grinned. "Aye. Hard to get. But I'm willin' to bet it."

Yunan rested his chin on his hand, pretending to consider. "What do you want in return?"

Vivaldi rubbed his beard. "Something rare. Something ye can't just buy."

Yunan thought for a moment.

Then, with a flick of his wrist, he placed an object onto the table.

A golden coin—not from this world.

Its surface shimmered unnaturally, runes shifting in patterns that had never been seen in this realm.

Vivaldi's eyes widened.

"What in the hells is that?"

"A coin," Yunan said smoothly, smiling. "From a kingdom that no longer exists."

Hattori, ever the measured one, studied it carefully. "Magical?"

"Not in the way you're thinking," Yunan replied. "It's an artifact of… history. A relic of a time lost. You can keep it as a trinket, or sell it for more gold than you'll ever need."

Vivaldi licked his lips.

"Aye," he muttered, "I think I'll take that bet."

And with that, the game was on.

Yunan played like a man possessed.

He countered Hattori's spies, crushed Vivaldi's siege engines, and revived his own forces with merciless precision.

And when the dust settled?

Yunan leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, and smirked as he placed his final card.

A flawless victory.

Vivaldi groaned, slumping back. "You're a bloody devil, Yunan. I hope ye know that."

Hattori chuckled. "He knew he had won before we even started."

Yunan extended his hand, palm open.

With a dramatic sigh, Vivaldi placed the 'Magi' card into his grasp.

"Ye better frame that, lad," the dwarf muttered. "Took me long enough to get it printed."

Yunan turned the card over in his hands, admiring the artwork.

"He watches from above, untouched by fate, guiding those who rise anew."

Yunan smiled.

They didn't know.

And that made it even better.

Geralt's POV

Loc Muinne was ancient, its ruins standing as a reminder of forgotten empires, and today, it was a battlefield—not of swords, but of words, alliances, and knives in the dark.

Kings, mages, and those who sought power beyond crowns had all gathered, each playing their own game, each seeing the world as a chessboard where pawns could be sacrificed without hesitation.

And somewhere in this viper's nest, Triss was in chains.

Geralt moved through the broken streets, his steps silent but purposeful, his thoughts locked on one goal—get Triss, and get the hell out.

The talks of kings and sorcerers didn't matter. Not to him. Not when someone he cared about was suffering for their schemes.

The sun had begun to set, casting long shadows through the crumbling archways, and Geralt stayed within them, unnoticed, his golden eyes scanning for threats.

Triss was being held by the Nilfgaardians, guarded by men who thought themselves untouchable.

Geralt rolled his shoulders. They wouldn't be for long.

Triss's POV

Pain was a familiar companion.

It pulsed through Triss's body like a heartbeat, a dull ache beneath the surface of her skin. The interrogations had not been gentle, but she had endured worse.

She sat in the cold stone chamber, wrists bound, her once pristine robes torn at the edges, dirt and dried blood smeared against the fabric.

And yet, she kept her chin raised, her green eyes defiant.

This was a game—a deadly one, but one she understood.

Nilfgaard wanted leverage over the Lodge.

The Northern Kings wanted an excuse to purge the sorceresses from power.

And she?

She was a pawn.

But pawns could change the game.

Her fingers twitched, sensing the lingering magic in the air, the whispers of the arcane forces at play.

Then, suddenly, she felt it.

Something shifted in the air.

Not the crude magic of her captors, but something older, something unshackled by this world's laws.

Something watching.

Her breath caught.

Who else had just entered the board?

Yunan's POV

Loc Muinne was a mess.

Yunan had seen palaces built on lies, but this was something else entirely.

Kings played their dangerous games, mages spun webs of intrigue, and Geralt?

Geralt was about to burn the whole thing down just to get to one person.

Yunan, standing atop a half-crumbled tower, watched the Witcher move through the shadows like a beast hunting prey. His expression was unreadable, but his intent?

Clear as day.

Yunan had no particular stake in this war of thrones, but he had an interest in Geralt, Triss, and the way fate swirled around them like a storm.

He had seen kings fall, had watched empires crumble, but this?

This was personal.

He tapped a finger against his staff, considering.

Then, he smiled.

Time to even the odds.

Geralt's POV

Geralt struck fast and mercilessly.

The first guard fell before he could even cry out, his throat slit in the darkness. The second barely had time to raise his sword before Geralt's boot cracked his skull against the wall.

The rest of them?

They were about to learn why hunting a Witcher was a terrible idea.

The prison chamber was just ahead.

And then—

The alarms rang.

Shit.

The guards weren't idiots. They had expected something, and now the whole damn fortress was waking up.

Geralt pressed forward, his swords already drawn, his muscles tensed for battle.

But before he could reach the final door leading to Triss—

It unlocked by itself.

And swung open.

Inside, Triss stood, her bonds loosened, her magic returning to her like a long-lost breath.

She looked at Geralt, then beyond him—her eyes sharpening in recognition.

And then Geralt felt it too.

They were not alone.

Yunan's POV

Yunan leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, a grin tugging at his lips.

"Well, well. Took you long enough, Geralt."

The Witcher narrowed his eyes, stepping forward. "What did you do?"

Yunan gestured lazily. "Oh, nothing much. Just… opened a door or two, whispered a few words of encouragement to the guards about reconsidering their career choices. You know, the usual."

Triss's breath hitched. She looked between them, then back at Yunan. "You—"

Yunan winked.

"Now, now, no need for gratitude. But if you'd like to repay me, I hear there's a rather excellent Gwent tournament happening in Novigrad next month—"

"Yunan," Geralt interrupted, voice flat.

"Yes?"

"Move."

Yunan sighed dramatically, stepping aside. "Always so serious."

As Geralt took Triss's hand, steadying her, the sound of footsteps and shouting grew louder.

Reinforcements.

"Ah," Yunan mused, tapping his chin. "We appear to be outnumbered."

"Then help or leave," Geralt growled.

Yunan rolled his shoulders, looking almost bored.

"Oh, fine," he sighed. "Let's make this interesting."

He raised a hand—and the torches in the hall flickered, their flames twisting unnaturally.

Then, the shadows moved.

And the guards screamed.

Geralt's POV

There was no time to question what Yunan had done.

Geralt took advantage of the chaos, cutting through guards as the hall darkened with illusions and whispers.

Triss, still recovering, raised her hands—bolts of fire erupted from her palms, sending Nilfgaardians scrambling for cover.

Yunan?

Yunan walked calmly through the mayhem, hands behind his back, watching as his magic did the work for him.

Geralt would question everything later.

Right now?

They just needed to get the hell out.

Triss's POV

They reached the edge of Loc Muinne, the city behind them, its towers still glowing under the light of a rising moon.

Triss exhaled sharply, rolling her shoulders, the weight of captivity finally fading.

"That was… unexpected," she muttered.

Geralt sheathed his sword. "Agreed."

Then they both turned to Yunan, who was examining his nails as if nothing had happened.

"So," Yunan said cheerfully. "That was fun, wasn't it?"

Geralt folded his arms. "What do you want, Yunan?"

Yunan smiled.

"Me? Oh, nothing. Just…" He tapped his new Gwent card, twirling it between his fingers. "I do love a good story."

Triss frowned.

"And something tells me," Yunan continued, his grin widening, "that yours is far from over."

The ruins of Loc Muinne were quieter now. The summit had ended in chaos and betrayal, the kings had retreated to their broken alliances, and the mages—those who survived—had scattered like ashes in the wind.

The world had shifted, but for the three who remained at the city's edge, none of it mattered in this moment.

Geralt, Triss, and Yunan stood in the cold night air, the dying embers of the day casting long shadows over the crumbling stone around them.

None of them spoke at first.

The weight of what had transpired still hung between them, unspoken but understood.

It was Yunan who finally broke the silence.

"Well," he sighed, stretching his arms behind his head, "that was a complete disaster, wasn't it?"

Geralt snorted, shaking his head. "I don't know what you expected. Put enough kings and mages in one place, and it was always going to end in blood."

Triss wrapped her arms around herself, the wind biting through her torn cloak. "They were never going to work together," she admitted. "Not when they all wanted control."

Yunan smirked. "Humans and their endless greed for power—always predictable."

Geralt shot him a look. "And you? What do you want, Yunan?"

The Magi's smirk widened. "Oh, nothing grand, I assure you. Just entertainment." He gestured vaguely to the ruins behind them. "And this? This was entertaining."

Triss sighed. "So you helped us because you were… bored?"

Yunan placed a hand over his chest, feigning offense. "Dear Triss, that implies I didn't want to help. Can't I do both?"

Geralt rolled his eyes. "I should've let them catch you instead."

Yunan chuckled, but didn't deny it.

The wind picked up, and with it came the sense of finality.

It was time.

They had fought together, survived together. But their paths had never been meant to stay entwined.

Triss looked toward the western road. "I need to get to Novigrad."

Geralt frowned. "It's too dangerous."

"It always is," she said simply. "The Lodge is in ruins, and sorceresses are being hunted. If I don't go, who will help the ones hiding in the city?"

Geralt exhaled slowly. "Just… be careful."

Triss gave him a small smile. "I always am."

A pause.

Then she turned to Yunan. "And you?"

The Magi hummed, tapping his chin. "Oh, I suppose I'll disappear for a bit. Maybe take a nap. Maybe find a nice bottle of wine." He waved a hand. "Who knows?"

Geralt studied him, his golden eyes narrowing slightly. "Where are you really going?"

Yunan grinned. "Now, now, Witcher. You should know by now—I never reveal all my secrets."

Geralt sighed, rubbing his temple. "Of course you don't."

Another pause, another moment where none of them spoke, but none of them needed to.

They had played their parts in this mess.

Now, it was time to move on.

Geralt pulled himself onto Roach's saddle, adjusting the straps before glancing at Triss one last time. "You know where to find me."

"Kaer Morhen," she said, the words laced with something unspoken.

Geralt gave a final nod, then turned his horse toward the northern road.

He didn't look back.

Triss sighed, pulling her cloak tighter, then turned and began her long walk west—toward Novigrad, toward the flames that awaited her.

And Yunan?

He simply stood there, watching them leave, amusement flickering in his golden eyes.

Then, with a simple snap of his fingers, the air around him twisted and bent—and he was gone.

No one saw where he went.

And that was exactly how he liked it.