Along a dark road in the deep fog, With brittle leaves rustling beneath his feet, A lone rider with silver hair Seeks his way. His faithful horse trots wearily— The journey was long, and the roads—rough; On the horizon, like stars, the city lights Flicker, barely visible. Praise the gods!—he thought involuntarily, Though he had never been faithful to the gods, Having spent many nights in the open field, Dreaming once again of a bed in a tavern... What awaits him beyond the city walls? A new contract or scornful glances, That are inseparable from a witcher’s fate, Like bubbles of mutagen and poison? Hatred, fear, and human scorn— What has the hated witcher done to deserve them? By being chosen—in a mockery of Destiny— To risk his life for a pittance? Or by defying all laws, Choosing to live apart from the community, Swearing allegiance to neither family nor crown? Because he chose different values? There are many answers, each true in its own way— Two swords clang softly behind his back… And as long as there is room for corruption in the world, There will be a need for witchers and heroes.