CHAPTER 59: 59: DREAM INTERFERES

Geralt stood still, the ragged sound of his breathing drowned beneath the crackle of residual lightning dancing along his arms. In his left hand, held as if it were a sacred trophy, was the heart of Isobel. It pulsed faintly, its final beats slowing in his grip, and a glimmer of triumph curved the old warrior’s lips. He had done it. He had won—or so he thought.

The strategy had been clever. Using his mastery over lightning, he had split himself into two forms—one real, one a crackling clone born of pure current. To a predator like Isobel, whose senses relied on scent, the illusion was perfect. She could not smell the difference between flesh and lightning, and in that blind moment, Geralt had slipped behind her, arm lancing forward to tear the life from her chest. It had been a clean, calculated strike, the kind that only worked once—the kind that depended entirely on surprise.

"Are you going to eat it or what?"

The voice, sharp and casual, came from behind him. "I’m beginning to feel freaked out by your actions, old man."

Geralt’s spine stiffened. Slowly, as if afraid the movement might prove the voice real, he turned his head.

"You... how?" His words were low, almost strangled, and his face twisted into a mask of sudden displeasure.

His lightning form flickered, its bright arcs growing thinner, weaker. It wouldn’t last much longer—he could feel it. When it faded, so would his advantage. He made his choice in that instant: no drawn-out games, no risky gambles. He would finish her now, take her head cleanly and end this before she had the chance to recover.

But Isobel was already watching him, her crimson eyes glowing—an unnatural, molten hue laced with streaks of gold. Her lips curved into a slow, deliberate smirk.

"Don’t give me that stare," she murmured, voice carrying a dangerous calm. "I won’t be unfortunate next time."

The air thickened as she called the blood to her will. In a heartbeat, a rippling wall of dark crimson rose around them, sealing the two of them inside a narrow, suffocating sphere.

"This way," she said, smiling faintly, "you won’t be able to trick me. And I’ll be strong enough to deal with you."

From the living walls of blood, spikes began to form—jagged lances bristling in every direction, their tips quivering before launching at him.

Geralt dodged, but it was not the effortless movement it should have been. His body, once blinding with electricity, now felt sluggish, his cells screaming from the overexertion of his earlier excitement. Lightning mode had left him spent; his limbs carried weight they hadn’t moments ago, and every reaction came a fraction too late.

It didn’t take a tactician to see who now held the upper hand.

"Urghhh!" The grunt tore from his throat as one crimson spike punched through his shoulder before he could twist away.

"This is going to be a long night," Isobel said softly, her voice devoid of hurry as she studied him—a man now riddled with fresh wounds.

She closed the distance in two smooth steps, her pale fingers wrapping around his throat. Victory was so close she could almost taste it... and then she did.

Her fangs elongated, gleaming wet in the dim light before sinking deep into the side of his neck. Hot, divine blood surged into her mouth, rich and intoxicating. The blood of a demigod was unlike anything else—pure euphoria, a high that gripped every nerve, a sweetness that threatened to unravel her control. Her strength swelled with each pull, her senses sharpening, her body vibrating with raw power.

"I will have to interfere. Forgive me, child."

The calm voice came with a force like the shifting of the heavens. In a single moment, the blood barrier shattered, collapsing into harmless crimson mist, and Geralt was wrenched from her grasp before she could so much as blink.

Isobel froze. Every cell in her body screamed danger. She turned her gaze upward—only to meet the eyes of a woman whose beauty seemed untethered from time. Her face was smooth, eternal, and yet in it was a weight that no mortal could bear.

"I didn’t expect you to show up," Isobel said, crossing her arms. Her tone was steady, but her mind raced. She wanted revenge, not a suicide mission. And fighting Dream—the First Demigod of the Blue Star—was a suicide mission in its purest form. She knew how this would end. She’d been told, many times, by her parents, of Dream’s ridiculous power. And now she saw it again, for herself.

"I’m not supposed to interfere," Dream said evenly, "but I owe him a favor. I’m simply returning it now." Her gaze on Isobel was tinged with pity, but her voice carried no warmth.

"Sure, go ahead. I’ll come for him again sooner or later." Isobel’s smile was thin, dangerous. She would not rest until she had her revenge. That was her promise—to her brother, and to herself.

"Dream," Geralt rasped, blood still sliding down his neck. "What are you doing? Kill her! She is a threat to humanity."

"I have interfered enough, Geralt. I will not do more. Consider our old debt settled." Dream turned her back on them, as if the conversation was already finished.

"You speak like a noblewoman," Isobel’s voice cracked into a yell, "but you did nothing to help my parents when they were set up and left to fight to their deaths!" Her hands clenched so tightly her nails bit into her palms.

She knew the truth of their deaths—the schemes, the betrayal, the names of those who had stood by. Dream had been among them, watching from the sidelines in the name of neutrality while the other demigods plotted against her parents.

"This situation is different," Dream said, voice steady as stone. "I do not interfere in the affairs of demigods—especially not when it is one against another. But this is not that. This is me repaying a debt." She didn’t expect Isobel to understand, but she offered the explanation nonetheless.

"I have the strength of a demigod," Isobel countered. "You shouldn’t have interfered in my battle."

"You have the strength," Dream agreed, "but you are not a demigod. The will of the universe has not recognized you as such. The oath binding me has not been triggered. So, my dear, you are not a demigod in the eyes that matter."

"What sort of debt can you possibly owe that man to make you do this?!" Isobel’s scream cracked the air. The sight of Geralt recovering—his wounds slowly closing—burned her with rage.

"The debt," Geralt cut in, "was keeping you and your brother alive! She made me agree not to kill you outright, in return for saving my life once." His voice was weary, frayed at the edges. "Can we go now? I need my rest."

"Yes," Dream said simply. "I have placed a barrier around this city—one that will prevent anyone stronger than a demigod from entering or leaving, including you. Consider it my last gift to you, and an apology for my failure to save your parents." Her eyes, however, were on Geralt.

Before he could speak, she raised a hand. The air shimmered, and in the blink of an eye, both she and Geralt were gone.

Isobel stood in the silence that followed, jaw tight, before finally turning back toward the city.

In the days that followed, she reshaped it under her rule. The once-chaotic streets bent to her order; she declared herself queen. Blood donations became compulsory, collected in careful batches from those healthy enough to give. Her vampires patrolled the nights, their keen senses and predatory speed ensuring the city’s safety, while the few remaining human guards handled daylight affairs.

She sought strength, always strength. And she knew now the surest path to it—fresh blood, and plenty of it. But she would not rule through terror alone; she needed a city that did not fear her to its core, a city that would follow her willingly.

For now, that would be enough.