the angels hidden blade

FIFTEEN

"God's, this is disturbing," Nefeli muttered, standing next to Geralt in a chamber filled with naked women and fruit trees.

The man next to her scoffed and glanced down at her, his eyes filled with questions.

Nefeli averted her gaze from his intense stare back to the peculiar scene before them. 

God's she wanted to run out the large metal doors and disappear. 

The chamber was a masterpiece of magic, that much she could feel, its buzzing presence enveloping her the moment they entered.

But there was something off about it—a sickening quality that clung to her skin and pricked at her soul. 

It was akin to the slimy coating of pond gunk she had walked through in the marshes, making her teeth ache and the hairs on her neck stand on end.

"The magic in this chamber, something is wrong with it. It feels sick." Nefeli whispered, her voice tinged with concern. She could taste metal, and that made her all the more anxious. 

Geralt's gaze sharpened, his amber eyes roaming her face before he nodded in understanding, taking a small step closer to her. He must have felt it too. 

A flowering tree floated above them, its roots spiralling down in an intricate pattern, and its vibrant pink blossoms were almost blinding to Nefeli's eyes. 

Yet, the colour seemed unnatural, an illusion that promised something it couldn't deliver. 

Just like you. The voice in her head said as she grit her teeth and tried not to think about how her hair almost matched the flowers on the tree. 

"It might look inviting, but it's definitely not. And if you get stuck here, I'm not getting you out," she whispered fiercely to Geralt, tightening her grip on the silver dagger at her side. 

She meant it too, she was not letting the sick magic anywhere near her. It brushed her skin and made her feel ill. 

"I wouldn't dream of it, Little Cupid," the dark voice next to her whispered and again all the hair on her body stood on end. His voice sounded like a mixture of threat and promise, it didn't make sense to her. 

All of that feeling was immediately cut off as an old man strolled towards them. 

"Greetings, I am Stregobor, Master Stregobor," announced an old man with grey hair, his gaze fixed upon Geralt's face.

The old man's dim blue eyes then shifted to Nefeli, and he inclined his head slightly. 

A shiver raced up her spine as a mist of magic caressed her skin, confirming her suspicions. This was the man behind the sickening magic. And something about it desperately wanted to get to her. 

The wizard carried a large staff with a crystal wound around its end. His robes showcased flashes of purple and crimson, revealing his wealth and the marks of age were etched deeply upon his face.

Geralt moved closer to her, standing by her side as she instinctively positioned her hand near her dagger, ready to defend herself. 

"We have a Kikimora for Master Irion," Nefeli declared quietly, her eyes fixed on the old man.

Don't let him get to you. 

"Yes, well, forgive the confusion. Irion created this tower, but he's been dead for two hundred years. In order to honour him, I have taken his name as my personal sobriquet," the man explained, his well-kept beard twitching as he spoke.