the angels hidden blade

SIXTEEN

"Destiny has many faces, Witcher. Mine, for example, is beautiful on the outside but hideous on the inside," Stregobor uttered, his fingers deftly twirling an apple, its gleaming red skin contrasting with the grotesque shadows cast by his twisted features.

Nefeli couldn't restrain a snort of disdain as she appraised the repulsive appearance of the old sorcerer. 

Her eyes drifted across the cluttered chamber, noticing numerous illusions that seemed to dance with ethereal grace. 

A cynical thought crossed her mind – perhaps Stregobor hadn't bothered to conjure a mirror for himself amidst the illusions, leaving his own reflection untouched by the cruel hand of honesty.

Unperturbed by the contempt evident in Nefeli's expression, the ancient wizard turned his imploring gaze towards Geralt.

"She, with her talons dripping with the stain of destiny, has extended her reach towards me," he confessed, the bright red apple balanced precariously between them.

The vibrant, crimson apple seemed to possess an otherworldly glow, akin to a painting portraying the deceptive powers that lay beneath the man's facade—an illusion that was both captivating and disconcerting.

"Wizards are all cut from the same cloth, spewing nonsense while wearing masks of wisdom," Geralt retorted with a sharp edge in his voice, his anger palpable. 

Nefeli, feeling an unexpected surge of anxiety, sensed her heart racing at the tension in the air. 

The old man's pale eyes, however, were fixed on hers, and in that moment of connection, the vibrant apple in his grasp vanished, dissolving into the intricate tapestry of illusions that surrounded them.

The sudden disappearance of the fruit mirrored the elusive nature of the truth Stregobor seemed to be weaving around them, leaving an unsettling silence in its wake.

"Hmm, it seems those ensnared by magic are all lumped together in your eyes, Witcher. No discerning nuances, no distinguishing traits," Stregobor chuckled, the sound echoing through the chamber, his gaze shifting to where Nefeli stood, a picture of rigidity and tension.

He was telling her that all Witchers saw those on the outside of their order as just that. Outsiders. Nothing. 

Her stomach dropped and her eyes fell away from the wizard. She didn't want to touch that part of her that knew he was right. 

It became evident that Stregobor was playing a calculated game, attempting to dismantle their defences and unravel the intricate workings of their minds. 

Despite Geralt's stoic and unreadable expression, Nefeli knew that he, with his heightened senses, could keenly feel her unease. 

"Speak plainly," Geralt demanded, his voice carrying an undercurrent of barely contained fury. 

However, it was uncertain whether it was a manifestation of his true emotions or merely a figment of Nefeli's imagination.

"Have you ever heard of the Curse of the Black Sun? The first full eclipse in 1,200 years. It marked the imminent return of Lilit, the demon goddess of the night, determined to unleash her wrath upon the human race," the old wizard spoke, his words hanging in the air like a heavy shroud. 

Stregobor's magic, with an aura cold and foreboding, emanated from him, sending involuntary shivers down Nefeli's spine. 

Clutching her dagger tightly, Nefeli watched the old man with a careful eye, her instincts on high alert.