The secret is holy weapons.

Apparently the plagues of Festar hit Nova Regnus harder than we believed, and it was only with a healing amulet that their spread was controlled after Festar’s death. A pair of holy weapons were used in the battle against Festar, allegedly the weakest of Orzalon’s lieutenants on the battlefield. One belongs to a warrior from Grimfrost by the name of Uldren. Where the other lies, I am unsure. A third-the one I wielded for a moment-was discovered by Siegfried in the Illithid’s shelter.

I should be relieved. They can be killed as I suspected, and the power to do so lies with the people of Osterra. And yet, this brings me neither peace nor joy. I still see him when I shut my eyes. Sleep remains elusive and I often wake in shakes, clutching whatever weapon lay within my reach. So long as he lives, the scars he gave me open in my nightmares. I dare not think long on what Luima experiences now.

Poor sister.

As the feast drew to a close, I did find one additional possibility. The lore keeper of Black Sky, Artorias, is not the man he seems. He is a mutant, a monster hunter in his old world. He told me that witchers, as they are known, are mutated by alchemic formulae to better slay their quarry. They have enhanced strength and speed as well as heightened senses. Should he acquiesce, I hope to undergo the same mutation as he and his fellows. He insists that the process is too dangerous, but Osterra is not his home. I will die as many times as I must to kill Orzalon. No risk is so great I would avoid it in my pursuit of his punishment.