Long before the harshest northern winds had carved the continent's mountain ranges, the stone walls of Kaer Morhen were already rooted in boulders and ice. It was not a castle, but an ark built by Witchers with bone and blood—the School of the Wolf was born on this forgotten island, creations of magic and steel. Mages tore their flesh with chaotic power, then stitched them back together with spells, giving them eyes that could pierce the mist and claws that could rend curses.

Yet when these "monsters" emerged from the Tower of Trials, they were met not with glory, but with the torches and fear of humans. Thus, Kaer Morhen became their only sanctuary: between its stone cracks congealed the sweat of the first Witchers, in its ice cellars slept cursed swords, and within the hearth's ashes lay centuries of silence.

Now, whenever winter snow cloaks the mountains, a few figures always trudge through the snowdrifts back to Kaer Morhen. They gather around the hearth, stroking the blades left by their predecessors with scarred fingers, silently passing a flask of spirits—this is the epic of the School of the Wolf. It needs no ballads to sing its praise, no stone tablets to etch its memory. So long as silver swords can still be drawn, so long as the wind still howls through Kaer Morhen, the bloodline of the Wolf will forever surge through the shadows of the continent.