The Sword of Destiny

For a very natural limit of possibilities prevents it.’

‘What limit is that?’

‘Mutants,’ the muscles in Geralt’s jaw twitched violently, ‘mutants are sterile, Borch. Only in fables survives what cannot survive in nature. Only myths and fables do not know the limits of possibility.’

there are no limits to possibility; or at least nature doesn’t know any

But golden dragons are mythical creatures. Fabled. Like the phoenix, let’s say. There are no phoenixes or golden dragons.’

Véa, leaning on her elbows, looked at him curiously.

‘You must know what you’re talking about, you’re a witcher,’ Borch ladled beer from the keg, ‘but I think that every myth, every fable, must have some roots. Something lies among those roots.’

‘It does,’ Geralt confirmed. ‘Most often a dream, a wish, a desire, a yearning. Faith that there are no limits to possibility. And occasionally chance.’

‘Precisely, chance. Perhaps there once was a golden dragon, an accidental, unique mutation?’

‘If there were, it met the fate of all mutants.’ The Witcher turned his head away. ‘It differed too much to endure.’