[Silver Star Tower — Hidden Passage
Geralt scrambled into the dark passage. The door clicked shut behind him, sealing away the light.
He ran.
The muffled vibrations of wood splintering and men screaming bled through the stone at first, but as he descended, the chaos faded. Soon, the only sound left was the wet slap of his boots on damp rock and the ragged whistle of air in his throat.
His lungs burned like he had inhaled smoke. He stumbled over a loose stone, knees buckling, but he threw a hand out, catching himself against the rough wall. His fingernails scraped against damp masonry, tearing the skin, but he forced his legs to straighten. He didn't stop. He couldn't.
His throat felt like sandpaper. He eyed the black, sluggish water of the sewer channel running parallel to the path. The stench of rot and waste hit him, making his stomach turn. He curled his lip, forcing his sight back to the path. 'Just a little longer.'
He could almost visualize the exit. One last turn, a wooden door, and then the fresh air of the capital’s outskirts. A simple disguise, a hired carriage, and the Empire would be a memory.
"Mord..." he whispered between wheezing breaths. "Going to Mord."
'The coastal kingdom. Chaotic. Crowded. A place where a man could vanish.'
"New towers..." he muttered, the words spilling out feverishly. "They are desperate for alchemists. They won't ask questions."
A grin tugged at his cracked lips. It was perfect. A clean slate.
"And Rhodri..." His hand clenched into a fist. "That traitorous dog. When I return, I won't just kill him. I'll peel him apart." Geralt ground his teeth until his jaw ached. "Once I finish my research, I will show him hell."
His fingers dug into the heavy leather pouch at his waist. It contained his life: the formula for 'Will-Sapper', the raw data on the subjects' neural decay. He clicked his tongue, a sharp sound in the darkness. 'Incomplete.' The thought gnawed at him. 'So close. If only I had another month. They promised me a fresh supply of subjects...'
"It's all that Prince's fault," he hissed, spitting on the floor. "If that brat hadn't meddled in things he doesn't understand, I would be harvesting results right now."
He scrambled deeper, his robes catching and tearing on the jagged rocks, but he didn't care. He reached the sharp bend in the tunnel.
He pushed his legs faster, clutching his heaving chest, gulping down the stale, moldy air like it was fine wine.
'Safe.'
A giggle bubbled up in his throat, high and hysterical.
'I'm safe. The Empire is busy slaughtering the sheep.'
He rounded the corner. Ahead, a sliver of gray light bled through the cracks of a wooden door.
The exit.
The tension drained from his shoulders, leaving him light-headed. He patted the pouch one last time. 'Imperial Gold... Enough to buy a king's life in Mord.'
He paused for a heartbeat, casting one last glance into the suffocating darkness behind him—a glare filled with promise and venom. Then, he turned his back on the ruin of his tower and walked toward the light.
A footstep.
A boot heel struck stone. Unhurried.
Geralt froze. His heart hammered against his ribs.
Another footstep.
It wasn't coming from behind him. It echoed from outside the door ahead.
Another step.
The footstep stopped just beyond the door.
The door opened, and a burst of light flooded in. Geralt instinctively shut his eyelids to shield them.
A figure stepped from the light into the darkness, closing the door behind him—tall, lean, and utterly still.
"H… how?" Geralt stammered, frozen in place.
The Prince should have been behind him, either in the palace or slaying his disciples. Both should be miles away.
A shuddering breath left him. He turned to run back, but a hand shot out of the gloom.
Leather fingers clamped around his throat.
Geralt’s feet lifted from the ground. He clawed at the wrist and kicked wildly, but the grip was unyielding. Alden pulled Geralt out of the door into the light, his voice calm yet firm. "Geralt, there’s a debt you must pay."
[Silver Star Tower — Underground Vault
Esme, the fifteen-year-old, let out a harsh scoff. "Another lie."
Beside her, the boy buried his face in his knees, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Only Arpa, the seventeen-year-old, remained standing. Her unblinking stare remained fixed on the dark maw of the secret passage.
"Stop watching, Arpa," Esme snapped, pulling her ragged tunic tighter around herself. "He isn't coming back. We got fooled again."
Arpa nodded slowly, the tension leaving her spine as she slumped. "Maybe this time..." She hesitated, her focus drifting to the open iron gate of the main cell. "The door is unlocked."
Hugging her knees, Esme sank back into her seat. "They’ve probably poisoned the floor or set up a thorn field. We’ll be skewered the moment we leave." Her voice dropped to a barely audible whisper as she looked at her bare feet, "Remember Lily’s death? Right before us, she—"
The woman in the corner jerked her head up. "Lily... my Lily?" She clawed at the empty air, pupils wide and scanning the shadows. "Mommy's here... where is she? You saw her, didn't you? Give her back."
As Esme’s tears threatened to spill over her lashes, Arpa forced a bitter smile and admitted, "You’re right. I was foolish." With that, she turned away from the passage.
Suddenly, a sound echoed from the darkness. It wasn't only footsteps.
A heavy, dragging weight against stone echoed from the darkness, growing louder with every heartbeat.
The captives froze. The counting woman stopped at 'two.' The rocking woman stilled. Even the muttering died down.
Alden emerged from the shadows.
He didn't walk gently. He strode forward, dragging a man behind him like a sack of grain. Geralt’s heels skidded over the uneven stone, his hands clawing uselessly at Alden’s wrist, his face purple and gasping for air.
Alden released his grip and pushed Geralt forward, causing him to stumble across the uneven stone floor in front of the huddled victims. He rolled, coughing violently and retching as he struggled to catch his breath.
Alden carefully removed his right glove, its leather covered in dust, and reattached it tighter. He smoothed the fabric over his knuckles—a slow, deliberate motion.
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He looked at the prisoners.
"Here is your tormentor," Alden said, his baritone ricocheting off the damp walls. "Take your revenge. Tear him apart. Chew on his bones. Or forgive him and walk away. The choice is yours."
Geralt scrambled to his knees, eyes bulging as he took in the emaciated figures surrounding him. The filth. The madness. The hunger.
"You..." Geralt rasped. He bared his bloody teeth, trying to summon the authority he had wielded for years. "You filth dare? I am the Tower Master! I own you! I—"
Alden’s boot moved.
He kicked Geralt square in the mouth. Geralt’s head snapped back, teeth shattering. Before he could recover, Alden stomped down, pinning Geralt’s jaw to the floor with his heel.
"Mmph! Gghhk!"
Alden didn't look down. He kept his attention on the captives. "What is your wish?"
The prisoners scrambled backward until their backs hit the cold stone. One woman squeezed her eyelids shut, turning her face away. A man curled into a tight ball, shielding his head with his arms. Even with Geralt’s teeth shattered and blood pooling beneath him, they flinched at his ragged breathing, waiting for the demon to rise again.
But near the back, the children moved.
Arpa clapped a hand over her mouth, tears cutting tracks through the grime on her cheeks. She shook her head, retreating into the shadows.
Esme didn’t shrink. Her glare narrowed at Geralt, sharp and burning, before shifting up to Alden—the stranger keeping the demon pinned beneath his boot.
She took a step toward the open cell door. Then she stopped.
Standing at the threshold, she took a deep, shuddering breath, her chest expanding against her ragged tunic. Her lids closed for a moment before snapping open.
She took another step. Then another. She stopped two paces from Alden, her vision fixed on the man beneath his boot until tears of rage pooled in her eyes.
"Can I..." Her voice was a dry rasp. "Can I kick him?"
Alden nodded once.
Esme swung her bare foot, dirt-stained, into Geralt’s ribs.
The sound was dull—a wet slap against heavy robes rather than the crack of bone. She was too weak to do real damage. But she drew her leg back and struck again. And again.
"Die," she whispered. "Die."
The tears on her cheeks went cold. Her lips peeled back, twisting her face into a feral snarl.
Geralt’s weakened hand lashed out, its fingers clawing at her ankle.
Alden’s sword flashed.
Esme flinched, stumbling backward.
But the blade didn't turn toward her. Alden lifted his foot, and lowered the tip of his sword until it rested against Geralt's jugular, pricking the skin.
Geralt froze. His hand went limp, dropping back to the stone.
Esme stepped around to Geralt’s exposed flank, clear of Alden’s blade. She kicked again. And again.
Finally, her strength evaporated. She stopped, chest heaving, gasping for air as she stared down at the bruised man.
Alden looked at the older girl, Arpa, still weeping in the cell. "And you?"
She shook her head, sobbing. "I just want to leave. For it all to end."
Alden nodded. "So be it."
"Hehehehe!"
A shriek of laughter reverberated. The woman who had been counting jumped up, clapping her hands.
"Hit the bad man! Hit the bad man!"
The dam broke. The mad ones surged forward. Alden stepped back, keeping his blade leveled at Geralt's throat. The prisoners surged forward, no longer blocked by his stance.
"Give me back my Lily!" the mother screamed, throwing herself at Geralt. She clawed at his robes, nails digging into his skin.
"Real! It's real," the other woman chanted, raining weak, flailing blows on Geralt's legs with every number.
Geralt’s eyes bulged. He tried to scream, to curse them, but the blade pressed harder against his throat, choking the sound into a whimper.
Alden watched the swarm, descending on Geralt’s lower half—stomping on his ankles, kicking his shins, and raining weak blows against his stomach.
Minutes passed. The energy drained out of them. One by one, they collapsed, panting, weeping, or returning to their muttering.
Geralt lay unconscious among them, his breathing shallow, blood pooling beneath his shattered mouth.
Alden’s scrutiny swept over the exhausted group.
"Code 38 will guide you," he announced. "He will escort you to a safe house. From there, you are free to return to your homes. If you don’t have any, you can stay there. I’ll take care of your necessities."
The prisoners exchanged uncertain glances. A few wandered toward the door, their steps aimless and drifting. Others remained curled on the floor, flinching at the open space, glances darting to the walls as if searching for the bars that were no longer there.
"Can you..." Her voice cracked, a brittle sound in the damp air. "Can you send me to my Lily?"
Alden studied her. Her shoulders sagged under an invisible weight, and her eyes were already staring past him, seeking a ghost. There was nothing left in her to save.
"Are you certain?" he asked quietly. She nodded, and for the first time in years, she smiled. "Please."
Alden remained silent, instead raising his sword.
The lines of pain on her face were smoothed away. "Thank you." She closed her lids and exhaled, her body relaxing in anticipation.
The steel flashed—a single, merciful arc.
She slumped to the floor, dead before her knees touched stone.
Alden flicked the blade clean and sheathed it with a sharp click.
"I will ensure she receives a proper burial," he murmured to the silence.
He turned his attention to the children, who were shrinking back as his focus landed on them. Some of them watched him with wide, unblinking stares—terrified of the sheathed blade yet refusing to look away.
Arpa stood apart from the cluster of children, her brow furrowed.
"What do you want?" she inquired, her voice slow and devoid of the stammering of the others. "If you went to the trouble of saving us, it must be something significant, right?"
Alden paused. He turned fully toward her, studying her face. "Why do you think so?"
One corner of her mouth lifted, but her expression remained cold. "No one does something for others without expecting something in return."
Alden tilted his head, curious. "If that’s your opinion, what can you offer me?"
Arpa’s composed exterior crumbled. Alden smirked, waiting.
With a droop of her shoulders, Arpa looked down, biting her lip as hope vanished like a snuffed candle.
She nodded, forcing a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. "I see. That’s how it is." She took a deep breath. "We have nowhere to go. Our parents sold us to Geralt. He and his executives tortured us constantly. If you can promise my friends a better life, I’ll serve you however you want."
"What do you mean by a better life?" Alden asked, his gaze searching hers.
Arpa’s sight darted to the younger children huddled behind her, and her hands balled into fists at her sides.
"I... I want my friends to be fed once... no, twice every day," she stammered, the words tumbling out. "You can't beat us for no reason. And... and give us a place to... a private place to wash and relieve ourselves. Not in the corner of the room."
Alden stared at her, motionless, without nodding or frowning.
Arpa's chest heaved. She searched his face for a sign of agreement, but found only the void. The color drained from her face. Her hands flew up, fingers splayed as if trying to physically catch the words she had just spoken and stuff them back in.
"You... you don't have to promise that for all of us!" Her voice rose to a shrill plea, cracking with panic. "I... I don't need these things! I am fine with eating once every three days! Just my friends... just my sisters and..."
"That is not difficult," Alden interjected. "I can assure you of all those matters. There's no need for you to serve me."
"There must be a role for me. Otherwise, I won’t accept anything from you." Arpa glared under gritted teeth. Her body was shaking.
Alden nodded. "I see, you’re right. From now on, serve me. Complete missions and train to become strong." His gaze riveted to her glare. "Does that sound fair?"
Arpa nodded, her eyes gleaming with newfound determination, despite her clenched teeth.
"Good," Alden replied, stepping back. "Wait for my men to pick you up in an hour. Don’t leave with the others."
Turning toward the rest, Alden asked, "And you? What do you want?"
The teenage boy scrambled forward, scrubbing snot from his nose with a dirty forearm. He didn't look at the blood on the floor or the dead woman. Alden’s sword held his attention, and as he moved up to the Prince’s face, his pupils widened and shone.
"You... you said you’d train us. If I follow you… can you make me strong..." the boy stammered. "Like you?"
Alden paused, smoothing the leather over his knuckles. He studied the boy—ribs pressing against pale skin, limbs trembling from hunger, yet his chin remained lifted, his focus steady.
Alden replied, measuredly, “I can’t offer that promise—about making you as strong as myself. However, if you work hard, you’ll surpass your current abilities.”
The boy’s breath caught in his throat as he opened his mouth, his eyes sparkling with excitement. "Then I’ll—"
"Before you commit," Alden interrupted, his gaze shifting to Arpa before returning to the boy. "Know this: once you make that decision, it’s irreversible. There’s no escape."
He drew closer, his shadow enveloping the boy. "Do you still want it? It’s not too late. You can turn back."
The boy sniffled and looked up. "Will you beat us? Starve us?"
Alden replied firmly, "No. But if you betray me, I’ll kill you myself."
"I will never betray my savior," the young boy yelped. His resolve hardened as he clenched his fists. "Please make me strong."
The other children looked at the boy, then at the open door, and finally at the tall figure standing in the center of the room. They moved closer, shrinking the distance until they formed a ragged circle around him.
"Me too," one whispered.
"Take us," another said.
A small girl reached out, her fingers barely grazing the hem of his tunic. She looked up. "What should I call you?"
Alden thought for a moment, the weight of the word settling in his mind.
"If you decide to follow me," he replied, voice low, "I would be your 'Master'."
The girl bobbed her head in response. "Okay, Master."
Finally, Esme took a tentative step forward. Despite her stiff and awkward movements, she bowed respectfully. "I… I will also follow you, if you fulfill my one wish."
Alden remained silent, waiting.
She swallowed hard. "This man..." She pointed a trembling finger at Geralt. "He killed my sister. He hurt many others, simply for his amusement. Or what he calls… his experiment."
She looked up, expression fierce. "If you can free us and let us punish a man like him, you must have power."
"I do." Alden’s boot struck Geralt’s mouth, jolting him back to consciousness. Geralt’s eyelids flew open, and he struggled to scream and beg, but the boot pressed down on him, silencing him.
Esme hissed, her face hardening as fear gave way to a cold, unblinking glare. "I want him dead. For everything he has done."
Alden smiled softly, almost amused. "Hmm? How do you want him to die?"
Esme trembled, rage burning through her. "He hid us here, where no one heard our pleas. I want him to die in public, before thousands, where no one hears his voice."
Alden nodded slowly. "Is that the same for the rest of you?"
The other children looked at each other, then nodded in unison.
"I see. Then it shall be done."
