#witcher crossover

She turned and strolled toward the vineyard’s edge. Her boots made no sound on the path. Somewhere between the neat rows of vines, a lantern flickered—then went out entirely.

Yennefer stilled. Reached for the threads of chaos beneath the surface of the world.

Something moved in response. Not near. But not far, either.

And then the glass in her hand cracked with a soft pop. A hairline fracture sliced through the stem like a lightning bolt. Yennefer hissed under her breath and let it fall.

She returned to the house and called for Triss Merigold.

The redhead arrived an hour later, swirling through a portal near the stables, where Yennefer had traced runes in salt across the flagstone.

“Another midnight summons,” Triss said, brushing dust from her sleeve. “You know, you could just send a letter if you missed me.”

Yennefer arched a brow. “I don’t miss anyone.”

“Liar.” Triss half smiled.

“I didn’t summon you for banter,” Yen replied, kneeling and pressing her hand into the soil. “You need to feel this.”

Triss’s brows furrowed as she watched Yennefer. Kneeling, she pressed her fingers to the soil. Then blinked.

“What in the name of Melitele…”

The pulse rolled through again—stronger now. Triss’s hand jerked back.

“I told you,” Yennefer said softly. “The ground is pulsing.”

Triss rose slowly, green eyes darkening. “It’s more than that. There’s pressure here. Like something’s trying to tear through it.”

“Exactly,” Yennefer murmured.

They moved in tandem after that, silent and purposeful, slipping through moon-wet grass toward the northern edge of the estate. Yennefer had a grove there—she kept it for solitude, meditation, and the kind of spellwork she didn’t want curious nobles sniffing near.

But now the trees leaned strangely.

And the air?

It shimmered too brightly. Like a heat mirage. Like something was bending the weave of the world.

Triss reached out, touching the ground near a tree. “It’s not just Toussaint, Yen. I’ve heard whispers—Aretuza, Oxenfurt, even Skellige. They’re calling it a surge, but this... this is a bleed.”

Yennefer’s eyes narrowed. “You think something’s leaking through from a parallel world?”

“I think something’s trying to.” Triss shook her head. “This isn’t natural. Not even raw chaos behaves like this.”

Yennefer studied the flickering shimmer in the soil.

Then, with a quick step, she headed back toward the house. “We need to get Geralt.”

The fire had burned low. Geralt sat in one of the deep armchairs near the hearth, boots off, a book open but unread in his lap. The pages blurred. Not from wine or weariness—but from the tension that had been building all night.

The medallion at his throat had buzzed softly for hours. Barely audible. Just enough to keep him alert.

He stood and crossed the main room of the villa, pausing by the window. The estate’s vineyards stretched out beneath the moonlight, rows of silver and shadow. It should have been peaceful.

But the land felt… unsettled.

The ground didn’t move. Not exactly. But something beneath it did.

That’s when Yen burst into the room, followed by Triss—making his eyebrows rise in surprise.

“Something is wrong,” she started.

“I know,” he said, then touched the wolf medallion.

“Come to my grove. I want your thoughts.”

“I thought that was our grove,” he said under his breath.

“We’ll have time for your grumblings later.” Then she turned on her heel and headed back out.

The clearing in the grove was faintly lit—glowing runes crawling along the trees, spiraling into the soil. Some were familiar, but others were not. Angular. Slanted. Inked in the syntax of another world.

“Elven,” he muttered.

Yennefer’s eyes were on the center. “Old Elven. And recent.”

Triss stepped into view. “These weren’t here earlier. We didn’t cast them,” she said.

Geralt frowned. “Then who the hell did?”

Yennefer didn’t reply. She only raised a hand, pulling the others up short. In the center of the grove, a portal burst into life.

And then—he stepped out of it.

The elf materialized from light and smoke, tall and too thin, wrapped in ash-stained leathers. His golden hair hung like a veil, and his eyes held no fear.

“Yennefer of Vengerberg,” he said, his voice as hollow as it was certain.

Yennefer’s tone sharpened. “Identify yourself.”

The elf inclined his head. “I no longer use names. But once, I was called Tyel.”

Geralt studied him—familiar, but not. A creature who moved like a soldier and spoke like a priest.

“A worldwalker,” Triss said. “I thought you were all gone.”

“Almost,” Tyel said. “The rift devours many.”

He moved closer to the edge of the runes. They pulsed under his feet.

“My realm is dying. This one is next.”

Geralt folded his arms. “Is this a threat or a warning?”

“A warning. I have come to offer a warning and help. A darkness has taken over our realm. It threatens yours now. Do not be so slow to react as we were. It starts in energies off, then the portals open for the darkness to infect. Your Ciri is from this world, no? It would be a shame for it to fade as ours has.”

The shimmer in the air thickened. A hum rose from the stones and trees.

“You said you’re offering help. What exactly are you offering?” Triss asked cautiously.

“A blade,” Tyel said. “Forged to hold the line. Trained to close the portals,” he added, almost gently. “She comes with blood in her teeth and flame in her soul. If you work together, you can stop the darkness before it steals your light.”

Yennefer’s face was stone. “And you expect us to just accept this?”

“My people are crossing to a new realm before we are extinct in our own. I will check with you before we cross and send her to you if you wish it. You must decide quickly. I will return with the dawn.”

The ground cracked with a flash. The portal split the air, wild and jagged.

Yen let out a jagged sigh. “Shit.”

The portal reappeared just before dawn—earlier than expected, and far less stable.

It split the air with a sound like tearing silk, snarling at the edges with wild magic that flickered between violet, silver, and void-black.

Geralt was already in the grove and drew his sword immediately. Something wasn’t right.

Yennefer stood at his side, palm crackling with controlled chaos. Triss flanked them, her lips mid-chant, ready to stabilize the weave if things spiraled.

They expected a person—Tyel.

What they got was a thing.

It slammed through the portal—a writhing mass of sinew and oil-slick tendrils, eyes like hollow coals blinking in too many directions. The stench hit them first—rot and ozone—and then it screamed. Not a voice, but a pressure. A wave of sound that clawed at the mind.

Geralt moved. Fast. A clean arc of silver aimed at its throat. The creature surged past him.

Yennefer’s ward absorbed its first strike, but her feet slid in the dirt from the force. Triss’s chant shattered mid-spell. The thing lunged for her with a wet, boneless hiss.

And then—

She dropped through the rift.

Steel flashed before her feet touched the ground.

Dyv landed in a low crouch, a curved sword already arcing. The blade caught the beast mid-lunge, slicing through flesh like buttered parchment. Her other sword sliced a tentacle cleanly off.

The creature shrieked, buckling.

She moved before it could retaliate—a blur of black and burnished metal as she pivoted and drove both blades into its skull.

One heartbeat.

Two.

Then silence.

The beast twitched once, spasmed, and stilled. Smoke rose from its ruined form.

Dyv stood slowly.

Her armor was sleek, black, and form-fitting. Her vambraces gleamed faintly, veins of red flickering along their etched lines. A long scar slashed through one brow, and her hazel eyes gleamed in the soft light of dawn.

She looked at each of them in turn, her breath steady.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then she nodded once. “Nice to meet you,” she said. “I’m Dyv.”

Triss blinked.

Geralt lowered his blade a fraction. “Where’s the elf?”

A shadow of something crossed her face. “Tyel didn’t make it. He was killed getting me through the portal. He said I am to help you stop the darkness from taking over this world.”

Yennefer narrowed her eyes. “And we’re supposed to take your word that you’re the blade we were promised?”

Dyv’s lips curled faintly. She glanced back at the dead monster behind her, then back at Yen, raising her eyebrow.

She sheathed both weapons with a clean, practiced motion.

“I’m the one they sent. Actually, I may be the only one left.”

Triss furrowed her brow. “You mean your people are gone?”

“Yes. Some made it through the portal to the new world. Most, like Tyel, weren’t so lucky. He said I was to protect Ciri’s world. So I’m here.”

There’s a distant soft thud, and a hiss that has Gajeel moving. He releases his companion and instead slams his fist into the earth just beside her head. Shock lights her features, as another bolt glances off his armored forearm that would have planted itself somewhere around her face otherwise. A snarl tears from Gajeel, and he whirls to hone in on their attacker. He only needs the one eye to see the bloodied archer he evidently left alive knocking another bolt into his crossbow. He thinks how hard the man’s skull had to be to take the force of an aard and still be left breathing, let alone with an eye to see. Two of them, in fact.

Oh, Gajeel did not do well with one-upmanship.  

The tip of his steel blade drags in the dirt as he raises to his full height, angling himself fully to face the last bandit. Gajeel’s arms hang passively at his sides, his stance wide open. A dare, and a promise. The man’s first shot had hit true, opening up the side of his face enough that he spilled all over his fine new armor, the rain pooling red at his feet. But as he stands there, looking every bit like the Witcher that the bandit now recognized him to be, it’s clear as day that he will not land another.

The archer’s gaze flicks, just for a second, to the dirty mage behind him. There’s an uneasy shift in his stance, and his eyes narrow like trying to work out a problem. Levy tenses under his stare.

Whatever Gajeel had planned for his man would have to wait, because Levy had found her bearings, and was already on her feet. The incantation leaves her lips and with a small flourish of her hand the archer’s entire body locks. The crossbow falls from his grip, and releases its charge uselessly into the distance as soon as it hits the earth.

Gajeel swings his gaze to her, turning farther than necessary to accommodate for the frustrating blind spot, but she’s already striding past him. He opens his mouth to stop her, to caution her, but he notices the way her raised hand strains and falters. Her fingers look like the joints may pop at any moment, her tendons raised and strained against her usually smooth skin. It’s the only part of her that doesn’t resonate an eerie calm, each step falls near soundlessly until Levy finds herself a few feet from the bleeding assailant. She stares up into his strained face, craning her neck to make eye contact, and clicks her tongue. Her hand rotates sharply, and he drops to his knees hard enough to make him hiss.

He intends to struggle, but the only sign of resistance is his gargled breathing, and a contemptuous furrowing of his brow. The mage crouches in front of him and is the picture of serenity as she asks, “Do you know who I am?”

The balding man grits his teeth, glancing between the monster hunter and the mage more than once. He doesn’t answer.

Levy blows out a tired breath, and with it the brown bleeds from her hair. The ruffle of a gentle breeze, and the blue strands catch the grey light, dry only for a few moments before the pelting rain plasters it to her face. There’s a flicker of surprise, of knowing, in the man’s face. With or without words. “Yes, that’s what I thought. Now, question two, how?”

His crooked jaw works as he musters a snarl, but does not answer her. Her eyes flare, the color of her magic whirling just beneath the honey of her irises. She twists her hand again, and he drops forward onto his hands, his elbows shaking violently to keep himself upright. A small hum, and she twists a little more to bring him to his forearms. “I don’t enjoy this any more than you do. It’s important that you know that,” her voice barely sounds like her own.

Gajeel does not recognize the sorceress in front of him. He does not dislike what he sees, but he is struggling to adjust.

“It’s also important that you know there is an easy and a hard way for this conversation to progress,” she tilts her head and leans forward a fraction, her presence a silent command for him to maintain eye contact with her. Her eyes are half lidded, her lashes fan across her cheeks with each blink. “Let’s make the smart choice,” her voice drops an octave. His attention gravitates, held for several hungry heartbeats, before he snaps himself out of it and spits at her. The insult barely hits before her hand moves to hover above him and his already injured face slams downwards. Never really could get that to work for me.

A furious groan shakes him. “Is your fuckin’ guard dog gonna show me the easy way, sweetheart? Laying out your hand a bit heavy don't y’think?” he sneers into the dirt, angling to speak out the side of his mouth. Gajeel inches closer at the mention of his presence; there's an itch under the skin of his palms that distracts him from the throb in his temple. “You don't look like the killin’ type, witch.” Levy’s brows lift a fraction. “I got three more boys in them trees that know who ye are now! Witch hunters will be right pleased, they will!”

The witcher’s eyes flick upwards, but Levy is entirely unphased and doesn’t bother to check. “Look a woman in the eyes when you lie to her,” she croons. A twitch of a finger, and his head crooks unnaturally to the side to reveal more of his face. She lets silence settle just long enough to see the flicker of doubt in the man’s face, and it's all the answer she needs. “And to be clear, this is in fact the easy way,” her tone levels out and she eases back on the balls of her feet. “Can we try again? How do you know me?” she probes again. 

“You mages think the world o’ yourselves, eh? Think they'll never find ye, never set ye to the pyres,” there's a nasally edge to his voice as his broken nose fills with blood. “Fat pouch of coin for you Lodge whores these days.”

Gajeel looks pointedly at her now, and if she’s unsettled by what he tells her, she doesn’t show it. Instead she mocks a look of disingenuous satisfaction. A tilt of her head and a small smile, like thanking someone for buying something. Levy rises to her feet and like the snap of a bowstring, tension releases from her. The bandit falls into a messy coughing fit, the hold on him entirely dissolved. “That’ll do,” she mumbles, sounding far more tired than she should. Her eyes flick up to the Witcher, but she says nothing. She doesn’t need to.

He didn’t realize he was yielding to her permission until she gave it. For some reason, the man being back at Gajeel’s mercy made him acutely aware of how much his face fucking stung. The itching returned to his palms and he sheathed his blade before advancing quickly to the bandit that had rolled over to try and find his feet again. 

The Witcher would not repeat his mistake twice. 

Gajeel swept down to take a fistful of the man’s tunic, anchoring him, as his free hand pressed into his face. The body had nowhere to go as the blast surges from Gajeel’s palm, and their head jerks back at a terrible angle.

Nothing remains but the hiss of the rain as the corpse drops unceremoniously into the mud, and Gajeel finally puts his full attention back onto his companion. 

With the threat finally gone and the two of them left alone, with no mount, in the middle of the road, Levy finally yields to utter frustration. She paces left and right, like she can’t find somewhere to go, as she runs her hands through her wet hair and a string of soft curses fall under her breath.

Gajeel takes a moment to scan their surroundings for any more signs of movement, before leaving her to see to the horse. Or rather, anything worth carrying from the saddlebags. He’d had the mare since Midcopse, and already that felt like an age ago. But at least it wasn’t his horse. Lily would have a fit if he was here, Gajeel thought bitterly, wondering where where his friend was these days.

He grabs whatever he can, and turns to make sure his mage is still where he left her. She’s stopped pacing, and just stares down at the body near her feet. He makes a small hum of disapproval, and rejoins her. “Likely they had a camp nearby, ought to see if anythin’s worth using,” Gajeel offered, his voice a restrained timbre.

Levy starts, like she had forgotten he was with her, and looks up at him fully. Realization lights up in her eyes, and the distant look is gone in an instant. “Your eye,” she breathes, already moving to step much closer to him, her hands raised.

Gajeel instinctively straightens his posture as much as he’s able, and Levy pauses in front of his towering figure. His stare is sharp, half his face covered in deep crimson. There’s no way of knowing how severe the injury is without cleaning up him, but she can only see one yellow iris as it scours over her. The image before her isn’t lost on the mage. His black scalemail and the rivulets of red that paint the spaces between, the entirely wild way his hair has escaped the binds of the ponytail and clings to his face.

There’s an edge to his expression, but he finally speaks again, “Are you hurt?”

Levy deflates a little, “I’ll be a little sore in the morning, but I’m fine.”

Gajeel could not look less satisfied with the answer as he continues to look her over, his gaze finally catching on a tear just below the knee of her trousers. The Witcher didn’t want to give any credit to the bandit’s first shot, but with one bolt he had torn past Gajeel’s face and grazed her clothing into the flesh of the horse. Any small adjustment and the injury could have just as easily been hers instead. Hell, he’d fallen from horses and it hurt like a bitch. 

Had he not caught her. Had the bolt not hit him instead. His gaze flicks quickly to the corpse pooling in the mud and he feels a prickling heat on the back of his neck. The spiral of “what ifs” take root voraciously, and it takes Gajeel a moment to even recognize it and shut it back out. His gaze returns to her briefly then looks off in the direction the men had come from.

“We’ll take what we can and move on. Base isn’t far but looks like we’ll be going on foot,” he finally grumbles, and with a jerk of his chin he heads off into the edge of the tree cover.

Levy nods and follows after, noticing pretty quickly the tense set of his shoulders. He’s upset, she thinks, but the reason why is lost to her. 

Sure enough, they find a ramshackle camp not far up a small hill. As Levy glances back over her shoulder through the thin trees, she notes the clear and far view up the road they had from here. The group would have seen them coming for some time, and when she notes about where she thinks the two of them were when the bandits revealed themselves, she thinks that a set of double swords and a second rider would have been pretty visible. Unclear if they were waiting for them, but they certainly could have acted when they had an idea of who they were. 

The idea that anyone out here knows to look for the Witcher and the mage does not sit well with her. Especially when not but a few weeks ago she knew the comforts of complete obscurity. As far as the world was concerned she was dead. 

Things were significantly easier when she was dead.

Gajeel drops to a knee in front of one of the tents and rifles through their belongings. A pouch jingles, and he pockets it. Very little else sticks out to him, just an assortment of worn down, stolen goods. The entire camp stinks of wet dog.

He bristles when she appears next to him, then calms just as quickly. She has a roll of cloth in her hands, and it’s probably the cleanest thing here. “Looks like they stole some medical supplies, but either ditched or used anything helpful. Let me see,” she reaches out for him and he stiffens, but doesn’t move away.

“I’m fine,” he grumbles.

The mage narrows her eyes and holds out her hand somewhere to the left of his face. “How many fingers?”

Gajeel grits his teeth and tries to turn his head to get some kind of periphery with his good eye, but she takes that same hand and grips him by the chin, keeping his look straight on. “Shut up and give me a minute to look at you, it’s not like it’s the first time.” 

Muscles tense along his jaw as he recalls the much simpler time when she was a no-name herbalist who had hired him to kill a fiend. The effortless conversation in her home, in front of a fire, while she patched him up. When he thought it was one and done, when he thought he left her safer than he found her.

“Gajeel,” she insists.

His resistance is palpable, but he pivots to sit flat on the earth and lets her bring the cloth to his face as she kneels on the ground next to him. Gajeel hisses sharply, but she’s careful. He lets several moments of quiet to stretch between them before he loses his fight to keep his mouth shut. “You were supposed to keep your cover.”

Levy pauses, but doesn’t bother to meet his stare before she resumes dabbing away at the blood. Hells, I forget how much faces bleed, she thinks. As she clears away some of the blood, she sees the laceration that spreads along his temple to the very outer corner of his left eye, and just grazes the bridge of his nose. Another vicious scar to add to his collection. “Yes, well, I needed to adapt.” The Witcher leans back then, away from her touch, and levels a withering stare at her. Ah, very upset then.

“You’re reckless,” he says, “there could have been more of ‘em, like he said, and ya blew your cover.”

Levy drops her hand slightly and gives him a defiant glare. “There weren’t.”

“There could have been.”

Now the sorceress fully pulled back, and her face is the image of tired impatience. “They already had their eyes on me before I dropped my glamor, Gajeel. I thought it was because of, well,” she paused, “But something was off. I needed to know if news of the resurrection of a Lodge sorceress could have made it to the rabble.” She tries again to tend to him, needing to keep her hands busy. In all truth, the revelation that her life was so widely known, that people were looking for her and her peers had her reeling. It was going to take time to adjust to the feeling that the world was against her. The last thing she needs is to feel like he’s against her too.

Gajeel’s eye narrows and his hands work repeatedly into fists in his lap. “You’re paying me to escort ya, presumably because you need the muscle to keep you safe. And when you’re reckless, it doesn’t make it easy on me. You were reckless there, reckless at the windmill, and goddamn complacent at the checkpoint. You’ll end up back in dimeritium fuckin quick at this rate.” There’s a harder edge in his voice than he intends as the list of failures tumbles out, and each one slices at the carefully built composure in her eyes. Regret sinks like a stone immediately after.

Levy sighs, and an exhausted frustration radiates from her. “I didn’t force you to take this contract,” her voice is even, calm as she tries to focus all her attention on the blind half of his injured face. 

Gajeel rears back, and she can’t tell what he’s angry at, but he is absolutely angry. The words are out before he can stop them. “Didn’t you?” 

The mage stills, before pulling her hands back to her lap. This was getting nowhere, but the accusation strikes her more than anything else. “What could you possibly mean by that?”

“You–” he starts, a slew of words on his tongue, but he cuts himself short. What was he going to tell her? That the shittier, impulsive side of him nearly blamed her for his lack of sleep? For haunting his dreams, like she had put some kind of hex on him? That kind of thinking was for the same common folk that made rumors about his own kind. It was ignorant, unkind, and didn’t have a shred of truth. He didn’t know her well, but well enough to know that isn’t her way. And it is unfair beyond words to put that on her. He knows, he knows she doesn't deserve that.

But whether he likes it or not he’s already said it, by hardly saying anything at all.

His silence is enough for Levy, and disappointment darkens her features. “My apologies,” she reaches out to take his hand suddenly, shocking him so sharply that he can barely react before she shoves the cloth into it and lets go, “for being such an inconvenience. I'll keep that in mind the next time a Kingdom wants me dead. It’s not much farther until you can drop me off, yeah?” she glances at the cloth in his hand, “Keep pressure on that.”

She’s on her feet before Gajeel can try to hash together an apology. The words fail him spectacularly as she goes to sift through some tents she’s absolutely already searched. Way to fucking go you absolute twit.

Gajeel quells the urge to punch something and instead presses the cloth into his wound a lot harder than necessary. The anger coils sickeningly in his gut, and for a man who survives by his discipline, his ability to keep things like that locked away, it’s an embarrassment. What reason does he have to take it out on her? 

Just because there were a few short moments that he wasn’t in control, where he had let his hold on her safety slip. All to some worthless criminal that he left alive. It was his failure, not hers.

This was why he dealt with monsters.

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