webAppInput

SceneIdQuery

myProfile

scene

query SceneIdQuery(
  $id: ID!
  $webAppInput: WebAppInput
) {
  myProfile(webAppInput: $webAppInput) {
    ...MyProfile_myProfile
    id
  }
  scene(id: $id) {
    ...Scene_scene
    ...SceneMedias_scene_16LRdq
    id
    order
    rating
    title
    seoTitle
    seoDescription
    isPublished
    isScheduled
    publishedAt
    content
    embeddedMedia {
      mediaId
      state
    }
    story {
      ...Story_story
      id
      isMine
      commentsAccess
    }
    prevScene {
      id
    }
    nextScene {
      id
    }
  }
}

fragment JobInfo_job on AiGenerationJob {
  id
  type
  status
  currentStage
  attemptCount
  maxAttempts
  lastErrorCode
  scheduledAt
}

fragment MediaStatusFields_media on Media {
  id
  status
  generationError
  activeGenerationJob {
    ...JobInfo_job
    currentStage
    id
  }
}

fragment MyProfile_myProfile on User {
  id
  name
  email
  isAdmin
  hasEverPaid
  isEmailConfirmed
  isEmailNotificationEnabled
  isTelegramNotificationEnabled
  isTempPassword
  avatar
  cover
  about
  contacts
  support
  telegramId
  vkId
  availableLimits
  frozenLimits
  urlSlug
  topUpPackages {
    id
    price
    currency
    toBalanceLimits
    bonusLimits
    totalCreditedLimits
    USD
  }
  availablePaymentProviders
  aiGenerationCosts {
    plan {
      size
      cost
    }
    characterSuggest
    ideaExpand
    sceneWrite {
      length
      cost
    }
    mediaGenerate
    animate {
      baseCost
      audioSurcharge
    }
  }
  activeGenerationJobs {
    id
    type
    status
    limitCost
    story {
      id
      authorTitle
    }
  }
}

fragment SceneMedias_scene_16LRdq on Scene {
  id
  story {
    id
  }
  mediaAttachments(viewMode: READ) {
    id
    media {
      ...MediaStatusFields_media
      id
      type
      origin
      previewSrc
      mediaSrc512: mediaSrc(size: 512)
      mediaSrc1024: mediaSrc(size: 1024)
      videoPosterSrc(size: 1024)
      userPrompt
      finalPrompt
      rawPrompt
      mediaAttachments {
        id
        story {
          id
        }
        scene {
          id
        }
        character {
          id
        }
      }
      embeddedInScenes {
        id
      }
    }
  }
  embeddedMedia {
    mediaId
    state
  }
  sceneCharacterStates {
    id
    character {
      id
      name
    }
  }
}

fragment Scene_scene on Scene {
  id
  order
  displayOrder
  title
  rating
  isPublished
  isScheduled
  publishedAt
  minWaitersToPublish
  waitersCount
  readCount
  content
  story {
    id
    isMine
  }
}

fragment Story_story on Story {
  id
  title
  createdAt
  publicDescription
  type
  size
  narrativeType
  rating
  hasCharacters
  status
  isPublished
  isMine
  publishedAt
  likesCount
  favoritesCount
  displayDirection
  plotGenres
  settingGenres
  moods
  tropes
  displayContentWarnings
  sceneAtmospheres
  publishedStats {
    scenesCount
    wordsCount
  }
  author {
    id
    name
    urlSlug
    avatar
  }
  characters {
    id
    name
  }
  fandoms {
    id
    urlSlug
    translation {
      canonicalName
      id
    }
  }
  myState {
    isLiked
    isFavorited
    isWaiting
    id
  }
  lastPublishedScene {
    id
  }
}


The oppressive silence of the subterranean archive weighed heavily upon the narrow stone chamber, a stark contrast to the chaotic momentum of the hours that had passed since the incident in the cellar. Dust motes danced in the pale, flickering light of the candles Philippa had summoned, their golden flames casting long, jittery shadows against the towering shelves that groaned under the weight of centuries-old knowledge. The air tasted of dry papyrus, stagnant mold, and the faint, metallic tang of residual conjuration, leaving a bitter dryness at the back of her throat. Philippa stood near the center of the cramped room, her elegant red and gold robe catching the candlelight, the intricate elven embroidery seeming to shift in the gloom as she moved with poised, feline grace.

She looked down at Dirk, her amber eyes narrowed, the predatory flicker of amusement she often wore replaced by a sharp, clinical irritation. The boy looked utterly misplaced, his oversized apprentice robes bunching awkwardly at his shoulders, his face smudged with soot and confusion as he attempted to navigate the sprawling labyrinth of scrolls. Do stop fidgeting, Dirk, Philippa remarked, her voice smooth but carrying the edge of an unsheathed blade. Efficiency is the only currency of value in a place decaying into oblivion. Sort the chronologies first. I want every reference to the Usurper's War systematically organized. If you miss a shred of relevant lineage, I shall consider your apprenticeship concluded in the most permanent fashion.

Dirk swallowed hard, the Adam's apple in his throat bobbing visibly, his freckled face paling under her scrutiny. He fumbled with his hands, his fingers trembling as he brushed against the brittle, yellowed edges of a scrollcase. Yes, Mistress Eilhart, I understand completely, he stammered, his voice cracking slightly before he regained a fragile composure. I will search for the specific registers. The records might be fragmented, given the devastation during that period, but I shall be thorough. I swear it.

Philippa turned away, her attention shifting back to the shelves. She felt the weight of the task, the necessity of cataloging the chaos. Her own focus was locked on the essence of the spirit they had trapped; she could feel its restless, rhythmic thrumming in the air, a heartbeat trapped in a cage of history. She ignored the way her own pulse throbbed against her skin, choosing instead to channel her impatience into a disciplined, magical grid that held the dust and shadows in check. The room felt tight, the walls closing in as she reached out with her senses, feeling for the faint, lingering resonance of blood and betrayal that marked the wraith’s origins.

Dirk moved between the stacks, his movements frantic and hesitant. He dragged a heavy, iron-bound ledger from the base shelf, the wood scraping harshly against the stone floor. I found something, maybe, he called out, his excitement warring with his terror as he began to pry open a scroll secured with a seal that glowed with a faint, sickly pulse of violet luminescence. Here, in the campaign summaries near the northern watchtower. It mentions an entity of grief, something lingering near the barracks just before the final siege.

Philippa drifted toward him, her footsteps silent on the cold flagstones. Read, boy. Do not summarize for my benefit unless you wish to invite the scrutiny of my displeasure.

Dirk’s hands shook as he unrolled the parchment. His eyes darted across the faded, cramped script, his breathing growing shallow. It says... it mentions a healer from the borderlands. A woman who was betrayed by her own kin, left to perish amidst the burning ruins of the infirmary while the usurper’s vanguard slaughtered her wards. She refused to flee, binding her spirit to the very walls to protect the dying—

He stopped, his eyes widening as he touched a specific rune etched into the lower margin. The air around him suddenly turned frigid, the candle flames bowing low in a silent, violent wind. A sharp, stinging odor of ozone and burnt ink filled the small chamber as the scroll reacted to his touch, the protective ward shrieking as its latent, dormant energy erupted. A sudden, violet-black explosion of pressurized ink burst from the parchment, coating Dirk’s chest and arms, splashing like black blood across his simple grey tunic.

Dirk gasped, stumbling back into a stack of scrolls, his hands clawing at his soot-stained eyes as the sudden magical backdraft sent sheets of rotting paper flying like startled moths into the air. Help! It-it burns! he cried out, his voice thin and panicked as the magical energy surged unchecked, causing the very shelves to shudder and grind against the limestone masonry.

Philippa did not flinch, though a spark of genuine anger flashed through her eyes. She moved with fluid, lethal precision, slapping her palms together to form a complex geometric barrier that hummed with intense, localized power. The room flickered as she stabilized the atmospheric pressure, her magic weaving through the loose pages and the volatile ink, knitting the reality of the room back into a cohesive, obedient state. Stand still, you clumsy fool! she hissed, her concentration fractured into a dozen golden threads of tethered force. She clamped down on the leaking energy, forcing it to recede into the floor, the crackling noise fading into a dull, rhythmic thudding that mirrored a dying heart.

When the silence returned, it was heavy, suffocating. Dirk was huddled on the floor, his face white, ink dripping from his hair onto the flagstones. Philippa loomed over him, her silhouette casting a wide, distorted shape against the back wall. She did not reach out to comfort him; instead, her gaze fell upon the scroll he had dropped, now splayed open and stained, revealing a previously hidden seal of a broken rose caught in a circle of iron.

She leaned down, her fingers ghosting over the script as she deciphered the frantic, faded handwriting of a scribe long dead. The healer, she murmured, her voice losing its edge, descending into a thoughtful, cold clinical observation. She was not a mere casualty. She was a sacrifice, bound through her own desperate magic to maintain the ward long after her physical vessel collapsed. This is the source, Dirk. The spirit is bound to the relic not by accident, but by a ritual of lingering agony.

Dirk wiped his face, his trembling hands leaving streaks of viscous, dark ink across his forehead. He looked up at her, catching the cold reflection of the candles in her amber eyes. So... it’s not just a spirit of rage, he whispered, his voice trembling as he began to comprehend the weight of their discovery. It’s a prisoner, acting out a cycle of protection that has curdled into hate.

Philippa stepped back, her expression unreadable, her mind already navigating the path forward. She looked down at the specific, jagged runes identifying the ritual of binding, the script glowing with a faint, residual light as the ink pooled into shapes of ancient, cruel efficiency. Precisely. And we now possess the key to undoing it. Here, look at the alignment of the symbols. The ritual required to bind her—the very thing she is chained to—is listed here, etched in the blood-oath index. To sever the spirit, one must perform a counter-binding that forces the entity to acknowledge its own death. It is poetic, in a terrible way.

She looked down, her finger tracing the final paragraph of the text, her heart settling into a rhythm of dark, intellectual satisfaction. The name of the wraith was finally visible among the lines of the ledger, a name that tasted like copper and old tears: Elanora of the Vale. With the name and the precise ritual of dissolution recorded, Philippa felt the final pieces of the puzzle lock into place, her gaze fixated on the specific, complex series of verbal components and somatic gestures required to fully bind the wraith to her final, silent rest.

The oppressive silence of the subterranean archive weighed heavily upon the narrow stone chamber, a stark contrast to the chaotic momentum of the hours that had passed since the incident in the cellar. Dust motes danced in the pale, flickering light of the candles Philippa had summoned, their golden flames casting long, jittery shadows against the towering shelves that groaned under the weight of centuries-old knowledge. The air tasted of dry papyrus, stagnant mold, and the faint, metallic tang of residual conjuration, leaving a bitter dryness at the back of her throat. Philippa stood near the center of the cramped room, her elegant red and gold robe catching the candlelight, the intricate elven embroidery seeming to shift in the gloom as she moved with poised, feline grace.

She looked down at Dirk, her amber eyes narrowed, the predatory flicker of amusement she often wore replaced by a sharp, clinical irritation. The boy looked utterly misplaced, his oversized apprentice robes bunching awkwardly at his shoulders, his face smudged with soot and confusion as he attempted to navigate the sprawling labyrinth of scrolls. Do stop fidgeting, Dirk, Philippa remarked, her voice smooth but carrying the edge of an unsheathed blade. Efficiency is the only currency of value in a place decaying into oblivion. Sort the chronologies first. I want every reference to the Usurper's War systematically organized. If you miss a shred of relevant lineage, I shall consider your apprenticeship concluded in the most permanent fashion.

Dirk swallowed hard, the Adam's apple in his throat bobbing visibly, his freckled face paling under her scrutiny. He fumbled with his hands, his fingers trembling as he brushed against the brittle, yellowed edges of a scrollcase. Yes, Mistress Eilhart, I understand completely, he stammered, his voice cracking slightly before he regained a fragile composure. I will search for the specific registers. The records might be fragmented, given the devastation during that period, but I shall be thorough. I swear it.

Philippa turned away, her attention shifting back to the shelves. She felt the weight of the task, the necessity of cataloging the chaos. Her own focus was locked on the essence of the spirit they had trapped; she could feel its restless, rhythmic thrumming in the air, a heartbeat trapped in a cage of history. She ignored the way her own pulse throbbed against her skin, choosing instead to channel her impatience into a disciplined, magical grid that held the dust and shadows in check. The room felt tight, the walls closing in as she reached out with her senses, feeling for the faint, lingering resonance of blood and betrayal that marked the wraith’s origins.

Dirk moved between the stacks, his movements frantic and hesitant. He dragged a heavy, iron-bound ledger from the base shelf, the wood scraping harshly against the stone floor. I found something, maybe, he called out, his excitement warring with his terror as he began to pry open a scroll secured with a seal that glowed with a faint, sickly pulse of violet luminescence. Here, in the campaign summaries near the northern watchtower. It mentions an entity of grief, something lingering near the barracks just before the final siege.

Philippa drifted toward him, her footsteps silent on the cold flagstones. Read, boy. Do not summarize for my benefit unless you wish to invite the scrutiny of my displeasure.

Dirk’s hands shook as he unrolled the parchment. His eyes darted across the faded, cramped script, his breathing growing shallow. It says... it mentions a healer from the borderlands. A woman who was betrayed by her own kin, left to perish amidst the burning ruins of the infirmary while the usurper’s vanguard slaughtered her wards. She refused to flee, binding her spirit to the very walls to protect the dying—

He stopped, his eyes widening as he touched a specific rune etched into the lower margin. The air around him suddenly turned frigid, the candle flames bowing low in a silent, violent wind. A sharp, stinging odor of ozone and burnt ink filled the small chamber as the scroll reacted to his touch, the protective ward shrieking as its latent, dormant energy erupted. A sudden, violet-black explosion of pressurized ink burst from the parchment, coating Dirk’s chest and arms, splashing like black blood across his simple grey tunic.

Dirk gasped, stumbling back into a stack of scrolls, his hands clawing at his soot-stained eyes as the sudden magical backdraft sent sheets of rotting paper flying like startled moths into the air. Help! It-it burns! he cried out, his voice thin and panicked as the magical energy surged unchecked, causing the very shelves to shudder and grind against the limestone masonry.

Philippa did not flinch, though a spark of genuine anger flashed through her eyes. She moved with fluid, lethal precision, slapping her palms together to form a complex geometric barrier that hummed with intense, localized power. The room flickered as she stabilized the atmospheric pressure, her magic weaving through the loose pages and the volatile ink, knitting the reality of the room back into a cohesive, obedient state. Stand still, you clumsy fool! she hissed, her concentration fractured into a dozen golden threads of tethered force. She clamped down on the leaking energy, forcing it to recede into the floor, the crackling noise fading into a dull, rhythmic thudding that mirrored a dying heart.

When the silence returned, it was heavy, suffocating. Dirk was huddled on the floor, his face white, ink dripping from his hair onto the flagstones. Philippa loomed over him, her silhouette casting a wide, distorted shape against the back wall. She did not reach out to comfort him; instead, her gaze fell upon the scroll he had dropped, now splayed open and stained, revealing a previously hidden seal of a broken rose caught in a circle of iron.

She leaned down, her fingers ghosting over the script as she deciphered the frantic, faded handwriting of a scribe long dead. The healer, she murmured, her voice losing its edge, descending into a thoughtful, cold clinical observation. She was not a mere casualty. She was a sacrifice, bound through her own desperate magic to maintain the ward long after her physical vessel collapsed. This is the source, Dirk. The spirit is bound to the relic not by accident, but by a ritual of lingering agony.

Dirk wiped his face, his trembling hands leaving streaks of viscous, dark ink across his forehead. He looked up at her, catching the cold reflection of the candles in her amber eyes. So... it’s not just a spirit of rage, he whispered, his voice trembling as he began to comprehend the weight of their discovery. It’s a prisoner, acting out a cycle of protection that has curdled into hate.

Philippa stepped back, her expression unreadable, her mind already navigating the path forward. She looked down at the specific, jagged runes identifying the ritual of binding, the script glowing with a faint, residual light as the ink pooled into shapes of ancient, cruel efficiency. Precisely. And we now possess the key to undoing it. Here, look at the alignment of the symbols. The ritual required to bind her—the very thing she is chained to—is listed here, etched in the blood-oath index. To sever the spirit, one must perform a counter-binding that forces the entity to acknowledge its own death. It is poetic, in a terrible way.

She looked down, her finger tracing the final paragraph of the text, her heart settling into a rhythm of dark, intellectual satisfaction. The name of the wraith was finally visible among the lines of the ledger, a name that tasted like copper and old tears: Elanora of the Vale. With the name and the precise ritual of dissolution recorded, Philippa felt the final pieces of the puzzle lock into place, her gaze fixated on the specific, complex series of verbal components and somatic gestures required to fully bind the wraith to her final, silent rest. «The Whispering Relic», part 4. Fanfiction — The Witcher.

Deciphering the Echoes. The Whispering Relic — The Witcher fanfiction | Fanfica

Deciphering the Echoes

Toss a Coin

When Yennefer stumbles upon an ancient elven artifact hidden in her chambers, its whispers revive the forgotten battle cries of the Usurper's War. Forced to ally with her bitter rival Philippa Eilhart, she must decipher the relic's magic before it summons a vengeful wraith that threatens to tear the Northern Kingdoms apart. But can the two sorceresses trust each other long enough to stop the coming storm?

The Whispering Relic — Deciphering the Echoes

Part 4: Deciphering the Echoes