A soft knock echoed through the room, breaking the stillness of early morning. Geralt's eyes snapped open, immediately alert, his hand instinctively moving to his sword lying on the side table. Beside him, Vesemir's eyes had also opened, his body tense and poised, as though he might spring into action at any moment. Years of battle and training had made them light sleepers, alert to the faintest disturbances.

But this was no haphazard inn, no drafty stable they'd bedded down in out of necessity. As their senses sharpened, they became keenly aware of the soft warmth of the room, the comfort of the beds beneath them—firm, yet yielding in a way they'd rarely experienced. A bed fit for a king, Vesemir thought, though he'd never admit it aloud. The warmth of the blankets, the softness of the pillows—he was almost annoyed at how good it all felt, like a temptation away from the alertness a Witcher's life demanded.

The two Witchers shared a glance, each assessing the room and the mysterious knock with the same suspicion. Vesemir, catching the faintest scent of freshly cooked food, shifted his gaze to a silver tray on a nearby table. There was a neatly arranged breakfast, still steaming. Bread, meats, some ripe fruits, and two mugs of coffee, the aroma rich and inviting.

"Feel that?" Vesemir murmured, his voice low and gravelly, glancing back at Geralt. "Didn't hear anyone come in."

Geralt's gaze flicked from the tray to the door, then back again, his senses heightened. "Neither did I," he replied, his tone wary. "But it's here all the same." He paused, sniffing the air cautiously, his Witcher senses scanning for anything amiss.

"No poison I can smell," he added, his brow furrowing. "It's clean."

"Could be a trick," Vesemir muttered, eyeing the food suspiciously. "People who treat you well out of nowhere? That's usually trouble in my book."

Geralt gave a small shrug, one corner of his mouth lifting in a faint smirk. "Maybe. But after last night, I'm hungry enough to take my chances."

Vesemir raised an eyebrow, taking one more look at the tray before he reached for a slice of bread, tearing off a small piece and tossing it into his mouth. He chewed slowly, his gaze still sweeping the room, alert for anything unusual. When no immediate danger appeared, he nodded in grudging approval. "Damn. Fresh as it gets."

With that, Geralt moved to the table, his wariness not quite gone but softened by the scent of roasted meat and freshly baked bread. He sat down, tearing a piece of bread and biting into it, his expression turning from suspicious to satisfied.

"Whoever's running this place knows how to cook," he muttered, glancing back at Vesemir. "Better than most inns. Hell, better than some palaces I've seen."

Vesemir grunted as he helped himself to a slice of meat, tasting it with a small, approving nod. "And a damn sight better bed than those hard planks we're used to." He paused, shaking his head slightly. "Almost feels like a trap. A place like this, feeding us, giving us beds fit for a lord… Strange way to treat a couple of Witchers."

Geralt smirked, sipping from his coffee and savoring the warmth that spread through him. "If it is a trap, it's the best-dressed one I've ever seen."

They ate in relative silence, each savoring the meal, their bodies relaxing by degrees in the comfort of the room. Yet, neither of them let down their guard entirely; old habits lingered, even here, and their eyes remained watchful, flicking toward the door every now and then, listening for any sound.

Finally, Vesemir set his empty mug down with a satisfied sigh, leaning back and crossing his arms. "So… what do you think of this Avalon?" he asked, his tone measured, though curiosity laced his words. "Doesn't strike me as an ordinary place."

Geralt glanced around, his expression contemplative. "It isn't," he replied, his voice low. "Feels like magic woven into every corner of this room. And something else…" He trailed off, his gaze lingering on the faint shimmer in the air, a hum of energy that seemed to pulse with life.

Vesemir grunted in agreement. "Whoever's behind it, they know their craft." He chuckled dryly, running a hand over his beard. "Can't say I'm used to being treated like a guest in a noble's house, though. Might take some getting used to."

"Or getting out of," Geralt replied, his tone serious but his eyes glinting with a hint of humor. "You ever heard of anything like this? A place that pulls you in, then treats you like royalty?"

Vesemir thought for a moment, his expression thoughtful. "Not exactly. But there are stories, legends. Places between places, the kind that live outside of time." He shrugged. "But most are just tales. This, though… This feels different. More real."

They both fell silent, finishing the last bites of their breakfast as they processed the strange hospitality they'd been offered. Geralt leaned back, eyeing the polished tray that had held their food, his fingers drumming lightly on the table.

"Well," he said finally, "if they keep feeding us like this, I won't be complaining."

Vesemir chuckled, his eyes glinting with dry amusement. "Don't get too comfortable, lad. We're still in someone else's territory. And until we know why, we keep our wits sharp."

"Fair enough," Geralt replied, though he couldn't help the small smile that tugged at his mouth as he glanced around the luxurious room. "But for now… I could get used to breakfasts like this."

After breakfast, Geralt and Vesemir turned their attention to the rest of the room, exchanging glances as they took in the quiet luxury surrounding them. Across the room, a doorway led to a lavish bathroom, the tiles polished to a gleaming shine. Curious but cautious, they stepped inside.

The bathroom was unlike anything they'd seen—large, elegant, with a marble basin and fixtures that looked hand-forged. The soap rested in a delicate stone dish, its scent earthy and fresh, laced with rare herbs they both recognized.

Geralt picked up a bar, sniffing it thoughtfully. "That's… wolf's willow. Expensive stuff."

Vesemir nodded, inspecting the other items on the countertop. "And this… roots of the white hornflower. The nobles of Kovir use it for their high-end tonics. Strange place we've found ourselves in, Geralt." He glanced around, his face a mix of suspicion and admiration. "Can't say this is what I'd expect after being chased down by a basilisk."

They washed up quickly, still keeping an ear out for any unexpected sounds. Each of them remained alert, the comfort of the place unable to fully mask their suspicions. Finally, ready to leave, they slipped on their armor and stepped back out into the hallway, eyeing their surroundings as they tried to recall their path from the night before.

The hall was as silent and well-kept as their room, but as they neared the end of the corridor, they spotted an elevator with polished doors and a faint glow from within.

They stepped closer, and just as they reached the elevator, a calm, gentle voice filled the air, coming from nowhere and everywhere at once. "Good morning, guests. Where might I guide you today?"

Both Witchers tensed, hands brushing instinctively over their weapons as they scanned the empty hall.

Vesemir cleared his throat, keeping his tone steady. "Take us to… the main floor," he replied gruffly, choosing his words carefully. "The place we came from last night."

The elevator doors slid open in smooth silence, revealing a warmly lit interior. They exchanged a quick glance before stepping in, their muscles still coiled and ready. As soon as they were inside, the doors closed with a soft click, and the elevator began its descent.

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Neither man spoke as the elevator moved, but both held themselves with the alertness of warriors who knew better than to relax in unfamiliar surroundings, no matter how luxurious.

As the elevator doors slid open, Geralt and Vesemir took in the sight of the lobby, which seemed even more refined than they remembered. Near the polished reception desk, a young man with a stack of books was reading intently. The lobby's new decor glowed warmly in the morning light, a space both elegant and subtly enchanted. But neither Witcher's gaze lingered long on the surroundings; they were searching for familiar faces—Taliesin and Hecate—the only people in this strange place they knew.

Arthur looked up, noticing the two Witchers stepping out of the elevator. He set his book aside, greeting them with an easy smile.

"Ah, good morning, sirs," he said, voice warm and courteous. "I trust you had a pleasant rest?"

Geralt's expression remained impassive, his eyes narrowing as he appraised the stranger. "Pardon, but… I don't believe we've met."

Arthur straightened, a spark of realization in his eyes as he sensed the Witchers' cautiousness. "Ah, of course. Allow me to introduce myself." He inclined his head politely. "My name is Arthur Pennington, manager of Avalon."

Arthur's choice of words was careful and formal, fitting seamlessly with the Witcher world's manner of speech. "Pennington" would likely sound fitting, evoking a name of both nobility and mystery, subtle enough for Avalon's enigmatic steward.

Arthur continued, "It's an honor to have guests of your caliber here. My role is to ensure all within Avalon receive any assistance they require." He offered a small, reassuring smile. "You might think of me as Avalon's… custodian."

Geralt and Vesemir exchanged a glance, silently weighing the situation. Their curiosity was evident, but so was their caution. This place—this Avalon—was unlike anything they had encountered in all their travels, and neither man was keen to drop his guard without understanding more.

"So, Avalon," Vesemir began, his gaze steady as he studied Arthur. "You said you're its custodian. But this place… it's not just any inn or castle, is it?"

Arthur smiled, a slight glint of amusement in his eyes. "No, not quite. Avalon is a sanctuary, a realm between realms, you might say. It exists to provide respite and resources to those in need of them… or those who are summoned here."

Geralt's gaze sharpened. "Summoned? By whom? And for what purpose?"

Arthur inclined his head, clearly expecting the question. "Avalon's call isn't random, I can assure you," he replied. "It's selective, drawing in individuals who may have a need that only this place can fulfill. As for its purpose…" He paused, a hint of mystery in his smile. "Let's say Avalon has a way of showing its visitors precisely what they need to grow stronger, if they're willing."

Vesemir's eyes narrowed slightly. "So, it has a mind of its own, then. An entity that knows our needs? I've known plenty of enchanted places, but nothing quite… aware like this."

Arthur nodded, maintaining a respectful air of secrecy. "Avalon's workings are… intricate. It has a presence, one could say, but its intentions aren't something it shares so easily." He gestured to the lobby around them. "Suffice to say, you are welcome here for as long as you need to be. Avalon will make sure of that."

Geralt's expression softened just a fraction, his curiosity piqued. "And what of its resources? This place has magic woven into it. I can feel it, even if it's… subtle."

"Very perceptive, Geralt," Arthur replied, his smile growing. "Magic is indeed a part of Avalon's essence. While you're here, you might consider exploring the possibilities it offers. Perhaps in the Arcane Training Room—it's designed to deepen knowledge of magic and enhance the abilities of those open to learning."

Vesemir gave a low chuckle, though his interest was clear. "Magic training, you say? That's not exactly a Witcher's way."

Arthur nodded, understanding. "True enough. But it could be a valuable addition to your arsenal, should you ever wish to expand your knowledge beyond signs and alchemy." He gestured down a nearby corridor, his tone encouraging but respectful. "Taliesin and Hecate, both skilled in the arcane arts, oversee the Arcane Training Room. Either of them would be more than willing to guide you if you're curious. Or, if you prefer, you can go at your own pace, exploring on your own and trying your hand at simpler spells."

Geralt crossed his arms, frowning thoughtfully. "So, we can just… go there and practice, like some kind of training ground?"

"Precisely," Arthur replied. "There are books, enchanted artifacts, and exercises suited to any level. You could start with something simple, perhaps a conjuring spell, and build up from there." He paused, noting the glimmer of interest in Geralt's eyes. "Think of it as part of your training regimen. Witchers are always honing their skills, after all."

Vesemir exchanged a glance with Geralt, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "Training regiment, huh? I've heard worse ideas. And if magic's going to be part of this place, we might as well see if it can add anything useful to what we know."

Arthur inclined his head. "Avalon's doors are open to those who are willing to explore. Should you wish to visit the Arcane Training Room, you only need to go back to the elevator, and there will be button that lead you to the room." He nodded once more, his gaze steady. "And remember, Avalon's magic adjusts to its guests. What you find may surprise you."

Geralt and Vesemir exchanged a silent look, both intrigued but wary. The mysteries of Avalon stretched before them, vast and layered, but for now, the Arcane Training Room called, and both Witchers had begun to wonder just what might lie within. Their cautious curiosity turning to resolve. While collecting the bounty from their last hunt was pressing, the chance to gain new abilities—to master magic beyond what they knew—was tempting. Any edge in combat, especially against the ever-evolving threats they faced, was worth considering.

"All right," Geralt murmured, a slight smirk touching his lips. "Let's see what this Arcane Training Room has to offer."

They turned back toward the elevator, stepping inside and pressing the button as Arthur had instructed. The doors slid shut, and as the lift descended, they felt a subtle hum in the air—a pulse of energy that seemed to increase the closer they came to their destination.

When the doors opened, Geralt and Vesemir stepped out into a space that was alive with magical energy. Unlike any training grounds they'd seen, this room didn't resemble an arena or a workshop. Instead, it felt almost like stepping into another realm. The air itself seemed to shimmer, tinged with soft hues of blue and violet, and strange symbols floated just above the floor, shifting and pulsing like living runes.

The room was vast, filled with alcoves lined with bookshelves, cabinets stocked with ancient scrolls, and tables covered in alchemical equipment. At various points, glowing sigils on the walls provided soft illumination, casting dancing shadows across the room. The unmistakable scent of herbs and freshly ground minerals filled the air, along with something distinctly magical, something ancient and potent.

Vesemir took a deep breath, his eyes scanning the surroundings. "Huh. Definitely not like Kaer Morhen's lab," he muttered. "Feels like… magic in the air itself."

Geralt nodded, his senses on high alert as he tried to gauge the room's strange aura. "Every bit of it is designed for magic," he said, feeling the energy course through him like an invitation.

Their attention was drawn to a figure seated in the corner, perched on a low stone bench. Taliesin sat with his harp resting in his lap, plucking its strings with graceful precision. Each note he played hung in the air, vibrating with an intensity beyond music alone. As he strummed, the atmosphere around him grew dense, charged with an invigorating energy.

The Witchers watched, their eyes narrowing in appraisal. They could feel the power Taliesin conjured, and though they weren't accustomed to sensing magic in such a way, they instinctively recognized it: the energy he was generating carried a quality they knew well—the bracing effect of a strength potion. It was subtle yet unmistakable, a boost that a Witcher would appreciate in battle.

Vesemir's gaze lingered on Taliesin, his expression both skeptical and impressed. "Didn't think you could make a potion with a harp."

Taliesin looked up, a friendly smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Who says magic has to be bottled or brewed? Here, energy can be conjured, molded… if one knows how." His voice was calm, but there was a spark of amusement in his gaze, as though he enjoyed watching their reactions to this new kind of magic.

Geralt nodded slowly, folding his arms as he watched the bard continue to play, each note strengthening the room's already potent energy. "So, all of this… it's set up to make magic. To train it. Any kind of magic, I assume?"

"Exactly," Taliesin replied, his fingers dancing over the strings. "This room is a sanctuary for the arcane arts. Whether you wish to explore spells, try your hand at enchantments, or simply understand magic's nature, it's all at your disposal here."

Vesemir raised an eyebrow, intrigued despite himself. "And you can just… conjure energy? Strength, speed, clarity? All without a drop of potion?"

Taliesin nodded, letting his hand rest on the harp strings. "The Arcane Training Room is designed to unlock the possibilities of magic for those who are willing to learn. Some of us use music; others use spells or tools. But the result is the same: a refinement of magic in all its forms. And for a Witcher… there's a world of possibilities waiting."

Geralt glanced around the room, taking in the vast resources lining every corner. "And we're free to use all this? No restrictions?"

"None," Taliesin replied, his tone encouraging. "Avalon is here to equip its guests. As Witchers, you already have some grasp of magic through signs. But here, you can go beyond that—expand your skills, shape the energy, even learn to conjure spells."

Vesemir exchanged a look with Geralt, a glint of excitement in his eyes. "Sounds like there's more to Avalon than I thought. Magic without potions, energy at our fingertips…" He grinned, his voice filled with a rugged enthusiasm. "Might just be worth sticking around a little longer."

Geralt's mouth curved into a slight smile as he looked back at Taliesin. "So, where do we start?"