The Forge doors groaned open with the sound of stone grinding on stone. The scent of scorched metal and ancient ash greeted Cain and Callum as they stepped inside, their medallions still warm from the battle.
The chamber was vast—walls arched in blackened stone, etched with runes that pulsed like coals. In the center stood the Forge Tree—a petrified relic of darkwood laced with veins of glowing ore, its branches gnarled and clawing toward the ceiling like the fingers of a long-dead giant.
From those low, twisted limbs hung two medallions, suspended by thick iron chains over a slowly burning forge flame. The light wasn't natural. It shimmered like molten silver and flickered with shapes that didn't belong to this world.
Cain stepped forward, his breath steady despite the burn in his limbs. Callum stood beside him, silent and wide-eyed.
Then, quietly:
"Okay," Callum said, voice hushed but earnest. "Where the hell did all that gear come from?"
Cain glanced at him and smirked. "It's a secret."
Callum blinked. "That's all I get?"
Cain nodded. "For now."
There was a long pause. Then Callum sighed. "We should probably tell them we beat the guardian with Signs alone."
"We should," Cain said. "And we will."
Callum snorted. "I trust you, you know. But one day you're gonna have to explain."
Cain's smirk softened. "One day."
They approached the tree. The medallions—steel wolves snarling mid-howl—glimmered with the firelight, each one forged by hand, cooled in monster blood, and enchanted with ancient runes passed down from the first Witchers of the School of the Wolf.
Cain reached up and closed his fingers around one.
[Wolf Medallion Acquired – Soulbound]
Grants heightened monster sense
Detects magical shifts and cursed presence
Resonates with Cain's Elder Blood during spiritual anomalies
Callum stepped forward and took the second.
[Wolf Medallion Acquired – Callum]
Grants enhanced Sign sensitivity
Increases bond sync rate with Cain in joint combat
They stood for a moment, shoulder to shoulder, medallions warm against their chests.
Cain looked up at the ceiling—at the Forge Tree that had waited a hundred years for someone new to earn its legacy—and whispered to himself:
"We're not boys anymore."
Callum nodded beside him, answering the unspoken thought. "No. We're Wolves."
Later that day, as the sun dipped low, the two returned to Kaer Morhen's courtyard.
The gates opened wide to their approach.
The Witchers waited.
Lambert leaned against the wall, arms crossed, while Eskel polished a blade. Coën stood near the stairs, looking as surprised as he did proud. Vesemir was at the center, his expression unreadable.
Cain and Callum stopped before them, their medallions on full display.
"We faced a guardian," Cain said. "Something corrupted by the Forge's magic. It attacked as soon as we crossed the threshold."
"We used Signs. Combined them. It barely worked," Callum added. "But we survived."
Vesemir's gaze swept across them slowly. Then, for the first time in many seasons, he smiled.
"You retrieved your medallions with nothing but your skills. Just as those before you did." He looked between them. "You are Witchers now. In name, in skill, and in will."
Geralt stepped forward from the shadows with a faint nod. "Tonight… we celebrate."
The feast was modest—by Kaer Morhen standards. Cain, as always, took the lead in the kitchen. From their stores, he drew smoked venison, cured boar, dried herbs, and mushrooms from their last forage. A hearty stew began to take shape, fragrant and earthy, with hints of mountain thyme and fire-roasted root vegetables.
By the time the firepit was glowing and the food was served, even Lambert was impressed. "You keep feeding us like this, I'll call you Chef of the Path instead."
Callum grinned, raising a battered wooden bowl. "To Cain. Who cooks like a bard's dream and fights like a damn dragon."
Cain rolled his eyes but accepted the praise with a quiet thanks.
Geralt returned with a dust-covered bottle. He uncorked it with slow reverence.
"Kaedweni Oak Reserve," he said. "Fifty-five years in the vault. Meant for the best of us."
He poured into small cups and passed them around.
"To the Wolves," Geralt said.
"To the Path," Vesemir added.
Cain and Callum raised their cups, eyes meeting briefly, a lifetime of training and pain behind them—and a future of battle ahead.
They drank.
The burn was sharp. Fierce. Real.
Like the life they had chosen.