In Baron Philip's heart, only three things mattered:
Family. Family. And still—family.
How to bring his daughter back. How to bring his wife back.
This middle-aged man had long lost the ambition of his youth. All that remained was this desperate longing.
"Where's Anna?" he asked again.
"You know the Ladies of the Wood?" Harry asked.
The baron's face shifted slightly. "The Crones?"
Harry nodded.
"Ah, of course I've heard of them—peasants talk about them often," the baron frowned. "But aren't they just scary stories to keep kids in line?"
"So are witchers," Harry replied evenly.
Witchers had a terrible reputation. Their inhuman appearance, the reckless deeds of Cat School witchers, and countless rumors spread by villagers—these were the ingredients of fear.
Every child grew up hearing: "Misbehave again, and we'll sell you to the witchers."
The fear of abandonnt turned into fear of the witchers.
"Then how did Anna end up with the Crones?" the baron's frown deepened.
"A bargain," Harry said softly. "Your wife was pregnant and didn't want the child. So she made a pact. The Crones helped her miscarry. The price was her service."
"She made a pact with the Crones?" the baron's voice rose. "Witcher, why didn't you tell earlier? We must get her out—imdiately!"
Hermione narrowed her eyes, displeased at the outburst aid at Harry.
"Calm down," Harry said flatly. "If you can't, I'll calm you down myself."
The baron took a deep breath. "Witcher, I ant—I can't sit by while Anna suffers."
"I've heard of the Crones. They're vile."
Harry nodded. "Which is why we're going to save her now."
The baron clenched his fists, pacing with excitent. "I'll gather my n right now. Where are they?"
"It's too dangerous. Your n won't help," Harry said.
"But she's my wife!" the baron protested.
"Just co with us. We can handle the Crones," Harry said coolly.
The baron froze, then looked at him.
"Witchers are professionals. You pay. I take the job. No need for anyone else."
"Of course," the baron agreed imdiately. "We leave now?"
Harry nodded.
Ciri's eyes widened. "Wait—do you an teleporting again?"
"Of course. It's fastest," Harry said shalessly.
Ciri scowled, grabbed his shoulder, and shut her eyes. "Just do it."
Hermione took Harry's hand.
They all looked at the baron.
"I'm supposed to grab you too?" he asked as he approached. Harry nodded.
Halfway there, the baron paused. "Wait. Let get my sword."
"Philip! I was ntally prepared!" Ciri whined, opening her eyes.
The baron rushed upstairs. Soon, he returned armored, gripping a longsword, and grabbed Harry's shoulder.
Harry swung his wand—
POP.
Ciri staggered into Harry, steadying herself.
The baron, however, collapsed on the ground, vomiting heavily.
"No wonder Ciri reacts like that," he wheezed. "Felt like drinking two mugs of horse piss thinking it was beer."
Ciri, having done it before, recovered faster. She looked around. "This doesn't look like Crookback Bog."
"Of course not," Harry said. "I've never been there. Apparition only works if I've visited the place before."
"This is the closest place I've been."
"So we still have to travel?" the baron asked.
"Harry, you should've told . I'd have fetched so horses—"
Harry waved his wand. Stones twisted and shaped themselves into four fine steeds.
The baron stared, dumbfounded.
"No need for the trouble," Harry said, mounting. "If we hurry, we can get there before dark."
The baron mounted last.
These conjured horses didn't feel any different—and, being magical, they were even more obedient, faster, and tireless.
They reached the swamp's entrance before dusk.
A narrow winding path led to a crude wooden totem, decorated with wilting flowers and long-rotted offerings.
A shrine.
No magic pulsed from it—yet Hermione still felt uneasy.
The sunset dimd.
The trees blood in bright crimson.
"Those aren't flowers, are they?" Hermione frowned.
Harry didn't speak. He lifted his wand.
Protego Totale.
Soft white light flashed, enveloping them.
"The Crones are here already?" Hermione drew her wand, scanning—but nothing moved.
"You felt it too, didn't you?" Harry asked.
She turned back to the shrine. The discomfort vanished. She frowned. "I sensed no magic."
"I've heard stories," the baron offered. "The Ladies live in the swamp and demand ears as tribute. Those ears beco their spies across the bog and Velen."
Hermione looked again.
The red objects in the trees beca clear.
They weren't flowers. Not leaves.
Ears.
Clusters of ears, dangling like cherries.
"So that uneasy feeling earlier—they were eavesdropping?" Hermione scowled.
"They might've sensed strangers, but probably don't know who we are yet," Harry said to Ciri.
"Even if they did, they won't run," she replied. "I'm Elder Blood. They want to catch , eat my flesh, drink my blood."
"They're hoping I show up. Now that I'm here—they won't leave."
Hermione blinked.
Elder Blood... can be used like that?
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