The Witcher: Lord of the Empire

"By the Sun, how the hell does this cursed thing work?"

Nilfgaardian intelligence officer Stefan Skellen—codename Grey Owl—was growing increasingly frustrated.

He'd been fiddling with a small silver box for nearly a quarter of an hour.

"No switches, no seams... Damned magical contraption!"

The silver device in Skellen's hand was a Speaking Box.

On the Emperor's orders, he had once hired a sorcerer named Rience to hunt for the Lion Cub of Cintra, Ciri. But over time, he discovered that Rience seemed to be a double agent. In addition to working for the Empire, Rience appeared to be employed by another powerful Northern mage.

Skellen had attempted to communicate with this mysterious sorcerer through Rience, but had been rebuffed multiple times. Only later did he learn that this sorcerer had once been a 'friend' of His Imperial Majesty.

It wasn't until Rience died in Novigrad that the sorcerer finally handed Skellen this voice-transmitting device for communication purposes.

But the damned magical artifact was one-way only! Skellen had no means of using it himself—it could only be activated by the sorcerer!

After another stretch of futile tinkering, Skellen finally lost his patience and shouted over his shoulder: "Kenna! Do something and get this blasted box working!"

While the Grey Owl barked his orders, a dozen individuals of various appearances lounged idly nearby. Their gear wasn't standardized, but it was all top-quality. A trained eye would have easily recognized the anti-magic properties of their short swords—crafted from dimeritium.

This was a makeshift team, hastily assembled—but each of them was a top-tier elite in their respective units. That was precisely why Skellen had selected them to head north and carry out the Emperor's 'final mission'.

Yet among this group, while most bore the distinct aura of seasoned soldiers, two individuals stood out as entirely out of place.

One of them was a tall, emaciated man dressed like a bounty hunter. He sported whisker-like gray facial hair that resembled a catfish's, and his lifeless eyes looked like those of a dead fish.

The other was a woman dressed like an ordinary traveler. She wore no armor—only a cloak with a hood. Her features were delicate and beautiful.

That woman was Kenna. Upon hearing Stefan's request, she responded with a rather helpless expression.

"Coroner, I'm a psionic, not a sorceress. I'm not afraid of magic—but that doesn't mean I excel at it..."

Beyond the mainstream sorcerers, the chaotic energies of this world had given rise to many fringe practitioners. Though they lacked the raw talent of mages, each possessed their own unique skills.

These individuals often named their professions according to their abilities: Dreamwalkers who could traverse dreams, Seers who caught glimpses of the future, Astrologers who interpreted omens from the spheres above…

Stefan had known that venturing north would inevitably involve magical complications. But every mage within the Empire had already been conscripted—some voluntarily, others by force. Left with few options, he had to settle for those whose talents were merely adjacent to magic.

Unfortunately, this so-called 'psionic'—who was supposedly capable of reading minds—couldn't even fulfill his first request. That only worsened his irritation.

"Damn the North! Damn Cintra! Why the hell did it have to be Lannister of all people?!"

"And he even beat the Eastern Army Group! Let's see him take down the Western one too!"

The noble commander's fury over the plan falling apart cast a heavy silence over the group.

"Heh."

Only the bounty hunter chuckled darkly, still polishing a few trinkets that looked like necklaces.

"Grey Owl," he drawled, "something wrong with the itinerary?"

His tone was laced with malice, clearly picking a fight. Several of the other soldiers—clearly from military backgrounds—frowned at the remark.

Stefan Skellen, Imperial Royal Coroner and agent of the Nilfgaardian intelligence service—codename Grey Owl—could tell a great deal from how each of his companions addressed him. Their choice of words revealed their loyalties.

"Sir." A figure who could've passed for either man or woman approached in uniform, subtly motioning toward the bounty hunter with a glance.

"No need. Thank you, Neratin." Stefan took a deep breath and waved a hand, feigning indifference.

"And thank you for your enthusiasm toward this mission, Leo Bonhart," the Grey Owl muttered—then suddenly raised his voice.

"But if you want to actually earn that damned bounty, you'd best learn when to shut your mouth!"

Leo Bonhart merely shrugged and let out another eerie chuckle. He didn't say a word after that.

Just then, the small silver box in Grey Owl's hand began to vibrate.

A distorted voice emerged from within.

"Good day. Greetings to all those present—especially you, Mr. Skellen."

"Damn it, you skulking sorcerer, always hiding in the shadows! Do you have any idea how long I waited for you like some dumb goose, Vil—"

The man on the other end of the communication box cut off Grey Owl before he could blurt out his name.

"That's quite enough, sir."

"Damn it!" Stefan wasn't actually as furious as he pretended to be—but he had to act like he was. "You're like some fat, ancient spider lurking in the dark, waiting for the first tremble in your web. And now you can't even be bothered to show your face—or speak to me on time?"

"That's a rather heartbreaking metaphor, Grey Owl," came the now-cold voice from the other side of the box.

"Cut the nonsense, Vil—sorcerer," Grey Owl snapped, still full of venom. "Just like we agreed—we need to meet in person."

"Of course. As we agreed…"

The moment the voice fell silent, a fiery red portal exploded open in front of Grey Owl and his party, winds roaring outward from its center.

Grey Owl couldn't wait. He charged through first, followed one by one by the Nilfgaardian officers, agents, and soldiers behind him.

Until only two people remained: the bounty hunter Leo Bonhart, and the psionic Kenna.

"Ladies first." Bonhart gave a sinister smile, clearly wary of the unknown teleportation magic.

"That's not what your mind is thinking, hunter." The beautiful psionic cast him a look of disgust before vanishing into the portal.

Bonhart didn't react to her provocation. He simply wiped the necklace in his hands, muttering as he stared at the swirling magic before him: "'White Wolf' Geralt… 'Lion' Lannister… and the other witchers…"

A greedy grin spread across the bounty hunter's face—one more ravenous than even when spotting a fresh bounty. Then he shook the necklace he had been polishing.

In front of the portal, the three pendants hanging from it began to tremble violently, the beast-head emblems gleaming brilliantly. Even at a glance, their shapes were clear: wolf, cat, griffin.

…

Darkness swallowed everything for a heartbeat—then suddenly, light burst forth.

When his vision cleared, Grey Owl found himself inside an ancient castle. Through the windows, he could see the gloomy sky and crashing waves pounding the coastline.

They had stepped through one portal—yet another stood ahead.

"Step through this portal, and you'll see me," said the voice from the box. "You alone. The rest stay behind."

"What's that supposed to mean, sorcerer?"

"My current identity isn't suited to being revealed to too many people, Grey Owl. Your Emperor would agree."

The Imperial soldiers hesitated—but Bonhart was already chuckling. He strode over to a long table, already laden with roasted meats, fresh fruits, and fine wine.

"I'm starting to like that sorcerer of yours, Grey Owl." He sat down heavily, his dead-fish eyes lighting up with delight. "Shame there's no vodka."

Grey Owl gave the bounty hunter a glance, lingering a moment on the three witcher medallions on his chest, then waved to the soldiers who had accompanied him.

"Rest here. Wait for my return."

Without waiting for a response, he stepped into the second portal.

Boom—a low rumble sounded, and as his vision cleared again, Grey Owl realized the portal behind him had vanished.

Clearly, whoever cast it had no intention of letting anyone else follow.

He looked up—and finally laid eyes on the man he had traveled so far to meet.

One of the North's most powerful sorcerers, a member of the Brotherhood of Sorcerers—

Vilgefortz.

But such magical accolades meant little to someone who held a noble title—especially one who served the Empire.

Grey Owl had no intention of putting on a friendly face for Vilgefortz. And when he saw the sorcerer still flirting shamelessly with his female assistant, his mood soured even further.

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