THE WITCHER AND THE WOLF

CHAPTER THREE

Amadeus was spent.

The battle with the Count of Wallachia had drained him—body, mind, and magic. His veins still pulsed with the residue of old spells, but they no longer answered his call. The earth beneath his boots was soft with dew and blood, the long grass brushing his legs as he led his horse, Knight, by the reins. Too weary to ride, he walked, one slow step after another, through the endless green of a quiet land that seemed to hold its breath.

Beside him moved Snow, a massive white wolf with shoulders as high as Amadeus’ chest and eyes as cold as the northern ice. Loyal, silent, deadly. Always a step ahead, always watching. They hunted not for glory, but for survival.

A deer emerged from the trees, its body lean from winter’s passing but enough to fill a pot. Amadeus knelt. His bow creaked as he pulled the string, his fingers stiff. The arrow flew, struck true. The deer fell without a sound. Another day survived.

He crouched by the fire as the sky darkened. The meat hissed over the flame. Snow lay curled nearby, ears twitching. But something shifted in the air—a murmur, a soft crunch of boots on frostbitten leaves. Amadeus turned his head slightly.

From the trees emerged villagers—six or seven men, wrapped in worn furs, hands rough from fieldwork. Their eyes held the same look every peasant wore in wartime: tired, wary, and desperate.

“Witcher,” one said, spitting the word like a curse or a prayer, “do you not fear the King of the North?”

Amadeus didn’t look up from the fire.

“Fear him? No. But I’ve learned not to underestimate fools with crowns. Why?”

A younger man stepped forward, his voice cracked from wind and grief.

“Tyrion. They call him the Ice King now. Burned our village to cinders last moon. Took the boys for his mines, killed the women that resisted. Says it’s for taxes… but we know better.”

Amadeus glanced up, one eyebrow raised.

“Sounds like a man with more enemies than friends. Why tell me?”

“Because you kill monsters,” the youth said. “And he is one.”

“I kill beasts,” Amadeus said flatly. “Cursed things. Abominations. Not kings with bad tempers.”

An older man—perhaps their elder—stepped closer, eyes narrowed.

“They say your wife died ten years ago. Burned in her home. A priest took the blame.”

That got Amadeus’ attention. Slowly, he stood. Snow lifted his head, alert.

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying the fire wasn’t an accident. The order didn’t come from the Church. It came from the North. Tyrion was cleansing the land of ‘southern impurity’—his words. Your wife… she was one of the first.”

The fire cracked between them. For a long while, no one spoke.

Amadeus’ voice was low, even.

“If you’re lying, I’ll find you. All of you. I don’t care how far you run.”

“We swear it. On the old gods.”

He turned away.

“Then leave. I have work to do.”

---

The North

The wind grew sharper the farther he traveled. The once fertile land turned to cracked ice and ash. Amadeus rode now, his strength returned enough to endure the saddle. Snow kept pace, ghost-like in the frost.

Villages lay in ruin. Burned-out homes. Unburied dead. Smoke hung low over the hills like mourning veils. The few survivors dared not speak. They simply watched him pass, their faces hollow.

At the foot of the Ice King's stronghold, iron gates loomed. Guards stood with halberds, their armor pieced together from what scraps remained of a dying kingdom.

One stepped forward.

“State your business.”

In the blink of an eye, Amadeus’ dagger found the man’s throat. The body crumpled without a cry. The others froze.

“I’ve no fight with you,” he said calmly. “But stand between me and your king, and your wives will be widows before nightfall.”

The guards backed away. None followed.

---

The castle was cold—literally and in spirit. Its halls echoed with the sounds of nothing. Librarians and scribes remained, old as the stone they walked on. They moved like ghosts, still loyal to a king long lost to madness.

At the end of the hall, beneath a flickering torch, sat Tyrion Cornelius, the Ice King.

He was no tyrant in gold. He wore no crown. His clothes hung loose on a bony frame, and his eyes were red-rimmed and hollow. One hand clutched his side; the other gripped the arm of the iron throne as if it were the only thing keeping him upright.

“So,” he rasped. “Another hero come to kill the mad king.”

“Not a hero,” Amadeus said.

Snow padded silently to the far wall and sat, watching.

“They call me mad because I burned villages,” Tyrion said. “But they don’t remember my son. My only boy. Hung by the same villagers who claimed I taxed them too much. He was ten. I gave them fire in return.”

“You gave them hell,” Amadeus growled. “But that’s not why I’m here.”

He stepped forward, slowly unsheathing his sword.

“You murdered my wife. Burned her alive. Took my child from the cradle and left nothing but ash. You didn’t just raise taxes. You raised the dead in me.”

Tyrion didn’t flinch. His voice came out soft.

“I’ve killed many men. I won’t remember you.”

The sword drove clean through his heart.

Tyrion gasped once, then sagged forward. Blood trickled down the blade and pooled at the foot of the throne.

Amadeus pulled the steel free, wiped it without ceremony, and turned to leave. Snow was already at the door, tail swaying.

“It’s done,” he said.
“Let the North bury its dead.”

---