The journey to the Tower of Echoes began at dawn, with the weight of Istredd's warning heavy on Alina's shoulders. The air was crisp and damp as the group left the safety of Novigrad behind, their path cutting through dense forests and winding trails that seemed to coil like serpents around the terrain.
Geralt led the way, his wolf medallion faintly vibrating with each step. Behind him, Yennefer rode in silence, her sharp violet gaze scanning the horizon. Alina followed on foot, the weight of her borrowed sword and dagger pressing against her side. She hated how out of place she felt—like a child tagging along on an adults-only quest—but there was no time to wallow in self-doubt. Not with what lay ahead.
The days blurred together, filled with treacherous terrain and encounters with beasts that seemed pulled straight from her nightmares. At first, Alina clung to Geralt like a shadow, watching his every move and doing her best to stay out of the way. But as time went on, she started to notice things—the subtle ways he shifted his stance, the calm precision with which he readied his blade. Slowly, she began to mimic him, practicing when the others weren't watching.
One night, as they camped beneath the gnarled branches of an ancient oak, Geralt handed her a wooden practice sword. "Show me." he said, his voice gruff but not unkind.
Alina blinked up at him. "Show you what?"
"What you've been practicing." he said, gesturing for her to stand. "You've been watching me for days. Let's see if you've learned anything."
Heat rose to her cheeks, but she nodded and took the sword. She squared her stance, gripping the hilt tightly, and swung with as much focus as she could muster. The weight of the blade felt awkward, her movements clumsy compared to Geralt's effortless grace.
"Not bad." he said after a few minutes, stepping closer. "But your balance is off. If you overextend like that in a fight, you'll leave yourself open." He placed a hand on her shoulder, gently adjusting her posture. "Better. Now try again."
They practiced until her arms ached, and by the time she collapsed onto her bedroll, she felt an unfamiliar sense of accomplishment. Geralt didn't offer her praise, but the faint nod he gave her was enough.
A week into their journey, they reached the foothills of Mount Endral—the towering peak that held the Tower of Echoes at its summit. The air grew colder, the wind howling like a living thing as they climbed higher. The landscape was desolate, a stark contrast to the lush forests they had left behind. Jagged rocks jutted out from the ground, and the only sound was the crunch of their boots on frost-covered stone.
"This place feels... wrong." Alina said, wrapping her cloak tighter around herself. She couldn't shake the sensation that they were being watched.
"It is wrong." Yennefer said, her voice tight. "The veil between worlds is thinner here. Magic seeps through the cracks, twisting the land and everything in it. Stay close."
They set up camp in the shadow of the mountain, the Tower's silhouette looming above them like a dark sentinel. That night, Alina dreamed of the Weavers.
In the dream, she was standing in an endless void, the darkness pressing against her like a living thing. Three figures emerged from the shadows, their forms shifting and indistinct. They had no faces, only swirling masks of light and shadow that seemed to ripple like water.
"Who are you?" Alina asked, her voice echoing in the void.
"We are the Weavers." one of them replied, their voice a chorus of overlapping tones. "The keepers of fate. The architects of worlds."
"Why am I here?" she demanded, fear and defiance warring within her.
"You are a thread out of place." another said. "An anomaly that must be unraveled."
"I didn't ask to be here." Alina said, her fists clenching. "I just want to go home."
"Your desires are irrelevant." the third Weaver said. "The fabric of this world is fraying, and your presence accelerates its decay. You must be undone."
"No." Alina said, her voice trembling but resolute. "I won't let you."
The Weavers tilted their heads in unison, as if amused by her defiance. "We shall see."
She woke with a start, her heart hammering in her chest. The campfire had burned low, casting long shadows across the rocky ground. Geralt was sitting nearby, sharpening his sword. He glanced at her, his golden eyes glinting in the dim light.
"Bad dream?" he asked.
"You could say that," Alina replied, pulling her cloak tighter around herself. She hesitated, then said, "Do you think... Do you think people can fight fate?"
Geralt paused, considering her question. "Fate's a tricky thing," he said finally. "Some say it's unchangeable. Others think we make our own choices. Me? I think it's a bit of both."
Alina nodded, though his answer didn't bring her much comfort. "I saw them," she said softly. "The Weavers. In my dream."
Geralt's gaze sharpened. "What did they say?"
"They said I'm an anomaly." she whispered. "That I'm... unraveling this world."
Geralt's jaw tightened, but he didn't speak. Instead, he reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder—a silent reassurance that, no matter what lay ahead, she wouldn't face it alone.
As they climbed the final stretch to the Tower the next day, the air grew heavier, thick with magic that seemed to pulse in time with Alina's heartbeat. The ground beneath their feet felt unstable, as though the mountain itself were alive.
The Tower loomed closer, its surface slick with obsidian-like stone. Strange symbols glowed faintly along its walls, and a low, resonant hum filled the air. Alina's pulse quickened as they approached the entrance—a massive archway carved into the rock.
"This is it." Yennefer said, her voice low. "The nexus of power. Whatever answers you seek, they're in there."
Alina nodded, gripping the hilt of her dagger tightly. She didn't know what awaited her inside, but one thing was certain: the path she had been thrust onto was nearing its climax, and there was no turning back.