Kaer Morhen's great hall slept under snow and silence. But within its icy heart, steel still rang. Blades still clashed. The forge of discipline burned hotter than ever.
Cain and Callum stood opposite one another in the courtyard, snow falling gently between them, swords drawn. But this was no ordinary sparring session. They were testing something new—a technique born from shared instinct, mutual timing, and countless near-deaths.
They circled.
Callum feinted left. Cain parried right, spinning inward, forcing their swords to cross mid-step—Cain ducked low and swept a foot under Callum's boot. Callum leapt, twisting over Cain's back, landing behind him.
Then they moved together.
As if two bodies shared the same breath.
Cain's blade deflected a strike, opening Callum's path. Callum ducked under a counter, using Cain's shoulder for leverage as he vaulted over a thrust. They separated, turned, and struck in tandem—mirror images with lethal edge.
Watching from the balcony, Geralt and Lambert exchanged glances.
Lambert scoffed. "They're syncing. Like old wolves in a pack."
Geralt nodded once. "Still sloppy. But give them time."
Callum's final blow stopped a hair from Cain's neck. Cain's dagger rested over Callum's ribs.
A draw. Again.
They panted, smiling.
"You think that would work on a Leshen?" Callum asked.
"No," Cain replied. "But it'll work on anything that fights like us."
Later that evening, Cain sat cross-legged in the empty library, a small candle flickering beside him. His breath slowed, body still, as he fell into meditation.
But this time… he didn't descend into silence.
This time, something else met him.
Snow fell in the darkness of his mind. Not cold, not real. Memory. A woman's voice echoed faintly, soft and sorrowful.
"You were not meant to stay buried forever…"
Cain turned. Shapes moved through the white. A tall man with pointed ears. A sword made of frost. A child held in arms wrapped in silver silk.
Then it all melted.
He gasped awake.
[System Alert: Dreamwalker Progress – +1%] Fragment Recovered: "Voice in the Snow"
Cain found Vesemir in the empty alchemy wing later that night, the old Witcher pouring over old scrolls.
"Master Vesemir?"
The old man looked up. "Couldn't sleep either, hmm?"
Cain shook his head. "I wanted to ask… why do you still train us? Why keep making Witchers? It's dying out. The world doesn't even want us anymore."
Vesemir leaned back slowly. The candlelight etched deep lines in his weathered face.
"Because someone has to remember what it costs to be protected."
Cain waited, silent.
"I've buried more boys than I've saved, Cain. But you and Callum… you're different. You're choosing this path with eyes open. Not out of desperation or debt. But purpose."
He stood and placed a hand on Cain's shoulder.
"If even one of you survives long enough to protect someone who needs it—then it was worth it."
Cain nodded, the weight of it settling in his chest.
Another year passed.
The wind screamed louder over the walls of Kaer Morhen. Snow piled high against shuttered windows. But within those stone bones, two young Witchers honed their storm.
Cain and Callum had spent every day refining their twin-style fighting technique. Their synergy—once reactive—was now instinctual. Their strikes weren't planned. They were felt.
They moved like mirrored flames in the courtyard, facing not each other this time—but Geralt and Lambert.
Steel clashed. Sparks danced.
Cain ducked under a horizontal slash from Lambert, parried upward with Aard-enhanced force that sent snow exploding around them. At the same moment, Callum twisted behind Geralt, Igni flickering from his palm to force distance.
Geralt stepped back, reading the formation. "They're forcing isolation," he muttered.
Lambert snarled, "Tactics. Real ones."
Cain and Callum shifted, switching opponents without signaling. Cain caught Lambert's heavy sword against his Sign-enhanced Quen barrier, buying Callum time to slam a Yrden trap at Geralt's feet.
The circle crackled—limiting movement.
Geralt smirked and sidestepped it. "Clever. Almost worked."
He pivoted, slamming Aard toward Callum, who rolled with the blast, using the momentum to fire a crossbow bolt that Cain deflected midair into Lambert's side.
Thunk.
A padded hit. But a point scored.
Lambert groaned. "That's just disrespectful."
Cain grinned. "We're fast learners."
That night, the fire in the great hall cracked and popped as they rested, skin bruised and bodies sore.
Geralt leaned against the hearth, arms crossed.
"You're onto something. That formation of yours—it isn't just a show. It has a function. Pressure. Flow. Force distribution."
Lambert grunted. "You still need to tighten your exits. You overextend to protect each other. Against monsters? That'll get you killed."
Callum nodded, massaging his ribs. "We know. But if we get the timing right..."
"You will," Geralt interrupted. "You're already halfway there."
Cain stared into the fire. His mind drifted back to their spar—the moment he and Callum had redirected one of Geralt's moves into a counter.
[System Notification: Combat Technique Progress – Synergistic Bladework: Tier 2]
You and your bonded partner gain +5% reaction speed when fighting in tandem.
Signs can be layered with +10% effectiveness when cast within 2 seconds of one another.
They were building something new. Something the old world had never seen.
Not just Witchers. Twin Wolves.
And during meditation that night, Cain felt it again.
Not a voice this time.
A vision.
He and Callum—older, armor darkened by blood and time—stood side by side on a battlefield surrounded by monsters, soldiers, and something... ancient.
They weren't afraid. They weren't alone.
Cain opened his eyes. The fire was low. But the embers glowed—soft, crimson gold.
Like eyes.
Watching.
Waiting.