The wind shrieked and howled relentlessly as it battered against the sturdy stone walls. Geralt sat idly in the main hall, lost in thoughts. He was certain that the snow on the road leading to Kaer Morhen had already piled too high to pass through. Inside, there wasn't a single voice to be heard, as everyone refrained from saying anything at all. Vesemir looked intensely at the hearth, diligently tending to the flames that already burned vigorously. Lambert’s frown deepened worse and worse as time passed. The silence stretched on, as loud and oppressive as the storm raging outside.
It wasn't the first time that one of them had chosen not to winter at the keep. But they would have at least sent words by now. This year, there was none from Eskel. Coën sat across from Geralt, shifting anxiously from time to time. The griffin keenly felt the absence of one particular wolf. Eskel usually was the first one, aside from the old Vesemir, to arrive at Kaer Morhen, ready to welcome all the wolves and invited guests. It was disconcerting that there was still no sign of him this far into winter. And Lambert had been unusually silent all day; it felt like something was on the brink of exploding at any moment now.
Coën opened his mouth, intending to break the tense silence with a comforting word. Without warning, the windstorm outside roared violently, and with it, a tremor tore through the keep, resonating deep in their bones. That was not a natural occurrence. Something was wrong, something was coming. Everyone reacted swiftly, rushing toward the door. The blizzard made it hard to see anything more than 20 feet away, even with their enhanced vision. All they could see was a looming, ominous shadow that stretched high into the sky, casting its presence over the entire fortress.
“What the fuck is that?!” Lambert exclaimed, eyes straining to see through the stormy outskirt of the keep.
Vesemir tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword. It couldn't be. In all his years, he had met two members of this creature, and they were nowhere near this big, this… enormous. He whispered softly, yet everyone here could hear his every word “It’s a… dragon”. There was no doubt in his voice; the shape of this creature spoke for itself. The shadow of two gigantic wings fluttered faintly, agitating the already fierce winds around them, while the vaguely shaped head of a lizard-like beast moved slowly amidst the fog. Its eyes gleamed with a malevolent light.
Geralt's eyes widened in shock. He could sense everyone's heartbeats quickening instantly. There weren't many dragons left in this world; like witchers, they were an endangered species. And from what he knew, the largest black dragons were said to reach up to 20 meters in length1. This one appeared to be even larger. A single strike from its claw could bring the entire keep crashing down in an instant.
Before they could think of a plan of action, a voice pierced through the harsh sounds of the snowstorm, “Greetings, witchers”. The silhouette drew closer, the fog parted away, revealing the head of a dragon. Obsidian-black scales covered every inch of their skin, glistening faintly even in the dark of night.
If they had been shocked by the presence of a dragon before, they were even more taken aback now. The abilities of true dragons were hardly recorded; there were notes about a true dragon's intelligence, but many believed those to be mere fiction. The dragon did not move their mouth at all to make a sound. This must be telepathy, Vesemir thought. He could feel the nervous energy among the present witchers. Before anyone could act rashly, he spoke up, “Greetings, my name is Vesemir, of the school of the wolf. Pray tell, what draws such a being as yourself to our keep?.”
The dragon halted their head at a respectable distance, “Be at ease, for I come not to bring harm upon you”, their voice soft and tender, “I believe I have someone of import to you. One of yours is in a critical state, thus have I brought him here, that he may be among his kin.”
One of them… There was only one missing this winter, Geralt thought. A chill ran up his spine, one that had nothing to do with the raging storm outside.
The creature moved back, their wings folding and expanding elegantly, unwavering eyes fixed on everyone present. With a deliberate grace, the dragon extended its razor-sharp claws, moving slowly through the air, heading directly toward the witchers; each claw glinting with a measured intent as it drew closer and closer. The witchers, their senses heightened even more by fear and anticipation, stood ready, muscles coiled like springs, prepared to react at a moment's notice.
But then, their palm opened up, revealing a person lying still within its grasp, motionless and seemingly lifeless. The dragon’s hand made a gentle contact with the ground beneath. They could see clearly, just who it was. His eyes stayed shut despite all the commotion, his armour tattered, the scar on his face illuminated by the pallor of his skin.
“Eskel!!!” Lambert shouted. The urgency in his voice snapped everyone out of their shocking state. At last, they all ran straight to their brother without a second thought, caution be damned.
