The Divine Hunter

Cold winds blew atop the snowy caps, dancing across the great plains. Eventually, it kissed a beautiful city decked out in gorgeous houses, an incredible palace, a breathtaking lower city, and a lively port.

Beauclair, the capital of Toussaint.

Lytta and the witchers strolled down the lower city’s streets. She was wearing a tight, red dress that showed off all her curves. Delight showed on her face, and she introduced slowly, “Beauclair’s palace is one of the most well-kept buildings of the era of elven rule. Framont, a famous Nilfgaardian architect, used to reconstruct and rebuild part of the palace, and now we’re laying our eyes on his work.”

Lytta turned around, and everyone looked at where she was looking. The palace was located on the top of a hill outside the city area. To be exact, the whole mountain was part of the palace. A meandering path surrounding the palace connected the top and bottom sides. Petite pavilions stood along the path big enough for two carriages to walk together.

The roofs of the palace towers were colored orange, shining warmly under the sun. Some rooftops were conical, while some were prismatic. It was breathtaking.

“Toussaint’s duke and duchess live in the palace.” She looked around them. “And the place we stand in is called the lower city. It’s mostly occupied by the abodes of workers and workshops.”

Roy looked around at the people crossing the streets. These houses all had orange prismatic rooftops, granting the city a sense of uniformity.

“The biggest market in Toussaint is filled with all kinds of stalls. Merchants from all over the world sell their wares here. If you can’t find something you want in Beauclair, you won’t find it anywhere. The port is the trade center of Beauclair and greater Toussaint. It’s astonishingly bustling.”

“More than Novigrad’s port?” Roy asked.

“Beauclair’s location isn’t as strategic as Novigrad’s.” Lytta held his arm, smiling at him. “But it’s more closely connected to the south. The volume of its trade is on par with Novigrad’s port.”

***

“Thank you for the introduction, Lytta, but if the tour gets any longer, it’ll be night before we can do anything.” Letho looked at the people on the streets. Beauclairians looked different from most people in the north. They seemed to be more relaxed, as if they had wine in their blood. They weren’t walking too fast either. “Now can you tell us where Orlémurs Cemetery is?”

“It’s in the southern part of the city. Five-minute walk. We’ll get things done faster than those dolts.”

Auckes, Eskel, and Kiyan refused to portal travel. They were tasked to search the remaining diagrams in Fort Ussar. It wasn’t far from Mont Crane anyway.

***

Across the Gate of Lebioda and a deserted path they went. Orlémurs Cemetery was located beside a gurgling river. It had no clear lines that separated it from the outside world. The weed grew as much as it liked. Nobody had cleaned this place in ages. The wind made the alder trees sway. When night fell, these trees would look like humans waving at someone in the distance. It was creepy.

The cemetery had hundreds of gravestones, most of which were lying on the ground. Graverobbers exhumed the coffins, leaving the remains of the dead exposed to the elements. All they took were the valuables. Unfortunately, not even the infamous Tomas Moreau could escape this fate.

The four of them found his final resting place under a gigantic banyan tree in the center of the cemetery.

“Tomas is part-elf. He doesn’t have the ears, but his teeth are the same as an elf’s. He identifies as an elf.

***

Ten minutes later, the group found the gravestone they wanted in the west side of the cemetery.

‘Lydia Moreau

Born 1070 — Died 1155

‘Just a little longer, child. Hold on. I am coming to save you…

A loving mother, an incredible love.’

***

The writing of this epitaph looked haphazard. Dried drops of blood were smeared on the stone. The carver must have felt agitated when they wrote the epitaph. Weirdly enough, the surroundings of this grave were clean. The weed was cleared, and the coffin was still intact. Obviously, someone cleaned this place often.

The group stood silently at the gravestone, the looks on their faces bizarre.

“So this is the grave of Jerome’s mother?” Coen felt his throat getting dry, and he gulped.

Roy picked up the white carnation beside the grave and held back his suspicion. “This is fresh. Someone left it here about a day ago. At most.”

Sleeping beside the carnation were dark, withered flowers. Coen glanced at it and took a deep breath, but his fingers were trembling uncontrollably. More than a hundred years had passed since Lydia died, but still someone came to pay tribute to her. Which means…

“There’s someone’s scent on this.”

Roy handed the flower to Letho, whose senses were the best. The veteran witcher sniffed the air, and a colorful ribbon appeared. It extended beyond the cemetery, pointing at Hauteville, a village standing on the fringes of Beauclair.

“We’re counting on you. Find the one who paid Lydia tribute.”

***

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