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
  }
}


Lambert stood in the absolute center of the cavern, his boots sinking slightly into a thick layer of fine, grey dust that felt like pulverized stone and ancient death. The air here was heavy, saturated with a cloying scent he recognized all too well from decades on the Path: the musky, copper-tang of dried blood mixed with the damp, earthy rot of a place where sunlight had never dared to penetrate.

His chest rose and fell in a slow, rhythmic cadence, his senses tuned to the subtle vibrations of the earth beneath his feet. A flicker of bioluminescent moss clung to the jagged ceiling far above, casting a faint, sickly greenish hue that did little to cut through the oppressive gloom. He shifted his weight, and the leather of his blackened armor creaked in the silence, a sharp, artificial noise that seemed disproportionately loud in the vast, hollow space.

He squinted, his cat-like pupils expanding to catch every stray photon as he surveyed the perimeter of the cave. Debris lay scattered everywhere: jagged splinters of shale, shattered stalactites that looked like the teeth of a dying giant, and the bleached, broken remains of bones that had long since surrendered their secrets to the passage of time.

He was a creature of habit, and his habit was survival. He did not believe in ghosts, but he believed in the lingering malice of monsters, and this place felt like the throat of something that enjoyed swallowing travelers whole. His gaze swept over a pile of ribs that were the size of ox-horns, half-buried under a landslide of gravel near the northern wall.

They were shaped wrong, distorted by the cruel mutations of creatures that had not seen natural light in centuries. He walked forward, his heartbeat steady, his hands resting naturally near the grips of the swords strapped across his back. Every fiber of his being was alert. He scanned the floor, not for beauty or landmarks, but for anything that defied the natural order of the decay around him.

Something caught the faint light—an unnatural refraction that did not belong amidst the matte surfaces of stone and bone. He moved closer, the grit crunching under his boots with a dry, rhythmic protest. As he drew near, the smell shifted, losing its earthy acidity and gaining a metallic, ozone-heavy pungency that made the fine hairs on his arms stand up.

His fingers, calloused from countless battles, hovered instinctively over the base of the pile. He knelt. His knees hit the hard, uneven ground with a dull thud, and he shifted his center of gravity to keep his balance. There, wedged firmly between the interlocking, serrated ribs of a creature whose kind he could not name, sat the source of the anomaly.

It was small, no larger than his fist, buried so deeply within the skeletal cage that it looked almost like it had been grown there, integrated into the anatomy of the beast. Lambert reached out, his gloved thumb brushing against a rib that felt smooth as porcelain, cold enough to draw heat from his skin.

The artifact was dense, its surface wrought in an intricate, non-Euclidean geometry that made his eyes ache if he focused on it for too long. He gripped the edges, his fingers finding purchase on grooves that felt suspiciously like etched runes of a forgotten, subterranean dialect. He pulled.

At first, the object resisted, anchored by the pressure of the bone, but then it gave with a shrill, grinding moan of metal against marrow. As he pried it free, a ripple of something like phantom lightning surged through his palm. He gasped, his shoulders tensing as he pulled his hand back, staring at the prize now resting in his palm.

It was metallic, yet it possessed a weight that defied its size, heavy as solid lead but finished in a dark, shifting alloy that seemed to swallow the dim light surrounding it. He felt the hum. It started as a vibration in his marrow, a low, subsonic pulsing that synced perfectly with the rhythm of his own erratic heartbeat. It carried the sensation of a distant storm, static and contained energy that pulsed with a desperate, hungry life of its own.

Lambert took a ragged, uneven breath. This was not merely looting; this was trespassing on something that had been lost for a reason. He brushed the crust of long-dried gore and stone dust from the object, though the movement was more of a reflex than a conscious attempt at cleaning. Under his thumb, the surface pattern shifted, revealing spirals of silver inlay that glowed with a faint, dying ember of energy each time his skin made direct contact.

He watched the light flicker and die, then ripple again as if acknowledging his presence. The hum intensified, a physical pressure manifesting against his eardrums, and he felt a cold, sharp sensation bloom in the center of his chest. His memories of the Witcher trials surfaced, the sharp, stinging recollection of alchemy experiments and the constant, dull ache of his own mutations, all of which seemed called upon by the artifact's eerie resonance.

He did not drop it. Instead, he gripped it tighter, his pulse beginning to climb as he realized the magnitude of what he had disturbed. He knelt there for a prolonged moment, listening to the silence of the cave, waiting for something to respond to the artifact's renewed activity. Nothing happened. The shadows remained static, the tomb remained empty, and the only sound was the frantic ticking of his own watch, the steady pumping of his own blood, and the deepening, hypnotic drone of the metal toy in his grip.

He closed his fingers around it, shielding the faint pulse from the eyes of whatever predators might have been watching from the crevices. He did not trust it. He did not even like the way it felt against his pulse, but he knew its value—not just in coin, but in the leverage it might afford him when the right buyer presented themselves.

With a sharp, practiced motion, he opened the lock of his belt pouch. The leather was soft, scarred by a hundred close calls, and it gave way easily to his touch. He dropped the object inside and tightened the cinch until it was secure and flat against his hip. The weight vanished, the hum muffled by the layers of thick hide, but he could still feel it—a ghost of a sound echoing in his fingertips.

He stood up, his spine popping in protest after the long crouch. His legs felt stiff, but he forced a fluid stability back into his stride, rotating his shoulders to shake off the momentary weakness. He looked back at the skeletal remains, the empty socket of the ribcage exposed to the dark air, and felt an inexplicable sense of satisfaction mixed with an urgent, itching desire to be anywhere else but here.

He turned toward the cave exit, his eyes narrowing as he fixed his sight on the distant, jagged crack of grey light that marked the opening of the mountain corridor. He moved forward, his movements silent and measured, his hand coming to rest on the pommel of his silver sword as he prepared to step out into the unpredictable world of the sun-drenched crags.

Lambert stood in the absolute center of the cavern, his boots sinking slightly into a thick layer of fine, grey dust that felt like pulverized stone and ancient death. The air here was heavy, saturated with a cloying scent he recognized all too well from decades on the Path: the musky, copper-tang of dried blood mixed with the damp, earthy rot of a place where sunlight had never dared to penetrate.

His chest rose and fell in a slow, rhythmic cadence, his senses tuned to the subtle vibrations of the earth beneath his feet. A flicker of bioluminescent moss clung to the jagged ceiling far above, casting a faint, sickly greenish hue that did little to cut through the oppressive gloom. He shifted his weight, and the leather of his blackened armor creaked in the silence, a sharp, artificial noise that seemed disproportionately loud in the vast, hollow space.

He squinted, his cat-like pupils expanding to catch every stray photon as he surveyed the perimeter of the cave. Debris lay scattered everywhere: jagged splinters of shale, shattered stalactites that looked like the teeth of a dying giant, and the bleached, broken remains of bones that had long since surrendered their secrets to the passage of time.

He was a creature of habit, and his habit was survival. He did not believe in ghosts, but he believed in the lingering malice of monsters, and this place felt like the throat of something that enjoyed swallowing travelers whole. His gaze swept over a pile of ribs that were the size of ox-horns, half-buried under a landslide of gravel near the northern wall.

They were shaped wrong, distorted by the cruel mutations of creatures that had not seen natural light in centuries. He walked forward, his heartbeat steady, his hands resting naturally near the grips of the swords strapped across his back. Every fiber of his being was alert. He scanned the floor, not for beauty or landmarks, but for anything that defied the natural order of the decay around him.

Something caught the faint light—an unnatural refraction that did not belong amidst the matte surfaces of stone and bone. He moved closer, the grit crunching under his boots with a dry, rhythmic protest. As he drew near, the smell shifted, losing its earthy acidity and gaining a metallic, ozone-heavy pungency that made the fine hairs on his arms stand up.

His fingers, calloused from countless battles, hovered instinctively over the base of the pile. He knelt. His knees hit the hard, uneven ground with a dull thud, and he shifted his center of gravity to keep his balance. There, wedged firmly between the interlocking, serrated ribs of a creature whose kind he could not name, sat the source of the anomaly.

It was small, no larger than his fist, buried so deeply within the skeletal cage that it looked almost like it had been grown there, integrated into the anatomy of the beast. Lambert reached out, his gloved thumb brushing against a rib that felt smooth as porcelain, cold enough to draw heat from his skin.

The artifact was dense, its surface wrought in an intricate, non-Euclidean geometry that made his eyes ache if he focused on it for too long. He gripped the edges, his fingers finding purchase on grooves that felt suspiciously like etched runes of a forgotten, subterranean dialect. He pulled.

At first, the object resisted, anchored by the pressure of the bone, but then it gave with a shrill, grinding moan of metal against marrow. As he pried it free, a ripple of something like phantom lightning surged through his palm. He gasped, his shoulders tensing as he pulled his hand back, staring at the prize now resting in his palm.

It was metallic, yet it possessed a weight that defied its size, heavy as solid lead but finished in a dark, shifting alloy that seemed to swallow the dim light surrounding it. He felt the hum. It started as a vibration in his marrow, a low, subsonic pulsing that synced perfectly with the rhythm of his own erratic heartbeat. It carried the sensation of a distant storm, static and contained energy that pulsed with a desperate, hungry life of its own.

Lambert took a ragged, uneven breath. This was not merely looting; this was trespassing on something that had been lost for a reason. He brushed the crust of long-dried gore and stone dust from the object, though the movement was more of a reflex than a conscious attempt at cleaning. Under his thumb, the surface pattern shifted, revealing spirals of silver inlay that glowed with a faint, dying ember of energy each time his skin made direct contact.

He watched the light flicker and die, then ripple again as if acknowledging his presence. The hum intensified, a physical pressure manifesting against his eardrums, and he felt a cold, sharp sensation bloom in the center of his chest. His memories of the Witcher trials surfaced, the sharp, stinging recollection of alchemy experiments and the constant, dull ache of his own mutations, all of which seemed called upon by the artifact's eerie resonance.

He did not drop it. Instead, he gripped it tighter, his pulse beginning to climb as he realized the magnitude of what he had disturbed. He knelt there for a prolonged moment, listening to the silence of the cave, waiting for something to respond to the artifact's renewed activity. Nothing happened. The shadows remained static, the tomb remained empty, and the only sound was the frantic ticking of his own watch, the steady pumping of his own blood, and the deepening, hypnotic drone of the metal toy in his grip.

He closed his fingers around it, shielding the faint pulse from the eyes of whatever predators might have been watching from the crevices. He did not trust it. He did not even like the way it felt against his pulse, but he knew its value—not just in coin, but in the leverage it might afford him when the right buyer presented themselves.

With a sharp, practiced motion, he opened the lock of his belt pouch. The leather was soft, scarred by a hundred close calls, and it gave way easily to his touch. He dropped the object inside and tightened the cinch until it was secure and flat against his hip. The weight vanished, the hum muffled by the layers of thick hide, but he could still feel it—a ghost of a sound echoing in his fingertips.

He stood up, his spine popping in protest after the long crouch. His legs felt stiff, but he forced a fluid stability back into his stride, rotating his shoulders to shake off the momentary weakness. He looked back at the skeletal remains, the empty socket of the ribcage exposed to the dark air, and felt an inexplicable sense of satisfaction mixed with an urgent, itching desire to be anywhere else but here.

He turned toward the cave exit, his eyes narrowing as he fixed his sight on the distant, jagged crack of grey light that marked the opening of the mountain corridor. He moved forward, his movements silent and measured, his hand coming to rest on the pommel of his silver sword as he prepared to step out into the unpredictable world of the sun-drenched crags. «The Truth in Gnomish Amber», part 1. Fanfiction — The Witcher.

The Discovery of the Artifact. The Truth in Gnomish Amber — The Witcher fanfiction | Fanfica

The Discovery of the Artifact

Toss a Coin

After a routine contract, Lambert finds a gnomish artifact that replays memories. It shows Vesemir, decades ago, betraying a fellow witcher to save a child. Now Lambert must decide: expose the truth and risk tearing Kaer Morhen apart, or bury a secret that could destroy everything he believes in. What price does loyalty demand?

The Truth in Gnomish Amber — The Discovery of the Artifact

Part 1: The Discovery of the Artifact