Morning broke over Kaer Morhen like a sigh. Snow had finally stopped, but the sky remained wrapped in gray. Cain stood in the courtyard, his cloak billowing lightly in the mountain wind, watching the training dummies sway on their poles.
Callum approached from behind, stretching out his shoulders, now broader with age and hardened by years of training. He still carried that easy grin despite everything, though now it came with sharpness beneath.
Cain turned and handed him a small silver flask.
"What's this?" Callum asked, raising an eyebrow.
Cain shrugged casually. "Something I found while organizing our gear. Old Witcher brew, I think. Not poison. Probably."
Callum laughed. "That's comforting."
"Drink it," Cain said, folding his arms. "It's meant for strength. Something to help you last longer when you need it. Only one dose. I figured you'd get more from it than I would."
Callum looked at him, studying his expression. There was no lie in Cain's face—only the familiar weight of thought he always carried.
"...Thanks," he said, and uncorked the flask.
He drank it in one pull. A ripple ran through him—warm, deep, subtle. Not like alcohol. Something else. Something permanent.
He blinked. "That… tasted like snow and fire."
Cain smiled faintly. "Sounds about right."
Later that afternoon, the great hall of Kaer Morhen filled with the weight of decision.
Geralt stood near the hearth, arms crossed. Vesemir leaned against the long table, his hands clasped behind his back. Lambert, Eskel, and Coën flanked the hall.
Cain and Callum stood before them, both straight-backed, wearing their medallions like banners.
"The time has come," Vesemir said, voice low and sure. "You've earned your blades. Your names. Your place. Now you must earn your paths."
Geralt took over. "There are monsters beyond these mountains that need dealing with. Contracts. Plagues. Wars. Curses. The world doesn't know it needs you, but it will."
Lambert stepped forward, smirking. "You can go as a pair, for now. Keep testing that fancy sword-dance of yours. Or head out with one of us—watch, learn, survive."
Callum looked to Cain. Cain remained still.
Vesemir added, more gently, "No matter what path you choose—this place is always home. But no Witcher grows strong in stone halls alone."
Cain nodded slowly. "We understand."
They were being released into the wild.
That night, Cain stood in the upper chamber, looking out over the mountains, eyes narrowed with quiet thought.
He knew where he was in the timeline. The events of the Witcher books—Geralt's fame, the fall of kingdoms, the rise of Nilfgaard—were still decades off. But already, the seeds of unrest stirred across the continent.
The Wild Hunt rode at the edges of reality. Old blood stirred in caves and forgotten ruins. Kings schemed while monsters bred in forgotten forests.
Cain was no longer a boy trapped in another world.
He was a Witcher.
A warrior with purpose, a brother with bonds, a chosen of fate with Elder Blood in his veins and secrets burning beneath his skin.
And tomorrow, he would take his first step beyond Kaer Morhen.
But not alone.
The next morning, Cain sat outside the armory, oiling his cloak's leather straps. The snow had hardened into a crisp crust underfoot, and Kaer Morhen's walls echoed with the quiet sounds of preparation. The other Witchers were already discussing routes and potential contracts—none urgent, but enough to get moving.
Cain, however, didn't know where to start.
He had time. But no direction. No leads, no destiny pulling him. For the first time since coming to this world, he had choices. And choices were dangerous things.
He looked up as Callum walked over, bundled in travel gear, his usual bright demeanor softened with thought.
"Hey," Callum said, nudging his shoulder with a grin. "So… I've got an idea."
Cain raised an eyebrow. "That usually means trouble."
Callum chuckled. "Could be. But maybe not. I was thinking… how about you come with me?"
Cain set the strap down. "Where?"
Callum scratched his neck. "Home. Or, near it. My old home, technically. It's on the way to where my twin sister is training as a sorceress. I figured I'd try to track her down first."
Cain blinked. "Your sister?"
Callum nodded. "Yeah. Red hair, green eyes, sharp tongue. She's always been stronger than me in her own way. She trained with the Brotherhood before striking out on her own. She might still be visiting our old home."
Cain considered. "And your father?"
A sigh. "He's a noble. Minor landholder. Not the worst, but not the best. Doesn't exactly brag about his bastard Witcher son. Don't expect a warm welcome, but the people in the village are decent. Not too ignorant. Might be a few contracts floating around, too."
Cain smiled slightly. "So a tense reunion, an awkward dinner, maybe some monsters, and a powerful sorceress. Sounds like a good time."
Callum smirked. "You in?"
Cain nodded. "Yeah. I don't know much about you outside the Path. This could be a good chance to learn. And if your sister's as powerful as you say… having her as an ally wouldn't hurt. Not to mention, if your father's nobility isn't too insufferable, I wouldn't mind having a foot in the door."
Callum gave him a grateful look. "Thanks, Cain. Really."
Cain gave a small shrug. "We've come this far together. Might as well walk a little further."