Chapter Text
The air in White Orchard felt alive, pulsing with the warmth of the setting sun. The sky blazed with hues of orange and yellow, its brilliance washing over the fields and village alike, casting long shadows and gilding the worn edges of wooden roofs. The scent of sun-warmed grass mingled with the earthiness of the creek nearby, but even in the beauty of the moment, tension hung heavy.
Geralt and Vesemir approached the gathered crowd with the measured steps of men who had seen too many situations like this to be rushed. The villagers stood in a loose semicircle at the edge of the shallow creek, their murmurs carrying equal parts curiosity and fear. Some crossed themselves against evil, others whispered fragments of prayer. They had heard too many tales of griffins tearing apart livestock, of sudden screams on lonely roads. Few of them believed such a beast could be anything but death in feathers and claws.
Geralt’s gaze moved past them, settling on the source of their attention.
The griffin lay in the mud, its brown feathers dulled by blood and filth, its massive body trembling with each labored breath. One wing stretched awkwardly across the ground, clearly broken, while the other fluttered weakly against its side. Its golden eyes burned with defiance even through the haze of pain, watching its onlookers with the sharpness of a predator unwilling to surrender. Around it, the villagers hovered like scavengers, unsure whether to help, flee, or claim it as their prize.
“That’s Elyndra,” one villager whispered, clutching a charm at his throat. “Fool woman, laying hands on a beast. She’ll bring doom on us all.”
And then there was her.
Geralt’s gaze lingered, not out of indulgence but because the figure before him demanded attention in a way that defied his usual indifference. She knelt beside the griffin, her posture calm yet deliberate, as though she belonged there as much as the setting sun belonged to the sky. Her hands glowed faintly with threads of green light, her fingers moving in careful, precise gestures over the creature’s mangled wing. The scene was surreal: a woman, unarmed, fearless, tending to a beast most would run from without hesitation.
She stood - or knelt - with an unintentional grace, the kind born of confidence rather than affectation. Her skin, pale as polished ivory, caught the sunlight and refracted it softly, like snow under the first rays of dawn. A faint blush warmed her cheeks, not a deliberate touch of vanity but the natural flush of someone deeply alive in the moment.
Her features were sharp yet inviting - a high, aristocratic brow and a jawline that seemed carved by a master’s hand. And her eyes… Geralt paused. They were dark, nearly black in the waning light, but as she shifted, a warmth emerged - a honeyed gleam, subtle but unmissable. They weren’t simply eyes to look into; they were eyes that demanded reckoning. Eyes that offered curiosity but no easy answers.
Her lips, painted a shade that hovered between defiance and elegance, curved faintly - not quite a smile, but something that rested on the edge of quiet amusement and careful assessment. Her ashen hair, with deeper shadows woven through, spilled from beneath a black velvet band, framing her face with an effortless refinement. Not the polished perfection of a noblewoman, but the deliberate choice of someone who understood who she was and offered no apologies for it.
And then there was her scent. Chamomile, lavender, frankincense, and a whisper of lemongrass. It wasn’t a scent meant to seduce or overwhelm. No, it lingered like a memory—gentle, persistent, and far too easy to inhale deeply before realizing how it had settled in the senses. Geralt resisted the urge to breathe it in again, knowing already it would be a mistake.
She was beautiful, Geralt admitted to himself, but it wasn’t the kind of beauty that struck like lightning. Hers was a beauty that grew slowly, like roots, embedding itself before one even noticed the weight of it. It wasn’t about perfection - it was about singularity. A beauty that refused to be compared.
But there was more to her than that. It was in the way she carried herself, shoulders back, chin high, as though daring anyone to challenge her resolve. Strength clung to her like armor, but beneath it, Geralt saw something softer, something guarded fiercely. Not weakness, but depth. An openness that remained hers alone, offered only on her terms.
His lips pressed into a thin line, and he forced himself to look away. She was a complication, he decided. A beautiful, maddening, intoxicating complication. One who smelled like chamomile, frankincense, and trouble.
“You two look like you know what you’re doing,” she said suddenly, her voice carrying over the murmurs of the crowd. Her gaze shifted to him, sharp and unwavering. “Care to help? Or would you rather stand there and let me get mauled?”
Vesemir snorted, his arms crossing as he watched her. “Saving a griffin, are we? Bold.”
“It’s not a threat,” she replied curtly, her hands glowing faintly as the green light from her magic pulsed. “It’s scared. Hurt. If left to die here, it’ll turn feral from pain before the end and lash out at anything it sees—livestock, children, you. Better to heal it now and spare the village bloodshed later. And if you’re not here to help, don’t waste my time.”
Geralt stepped closer, his amber eyes narrowing as he studied the scene. The griffin’s golden gaze flicked to his, a brief moment of mutual understanding. He noted the angle of the wing, the gash along its flank, the faint tremor of its body. The creature was clinging to life with a ferocity that deserved acknowledgment.
“You’re a healer?” Geralt asked, his voice low, measured.
“Something like that,” she replied without looking at him. “Midwife, wise woman, call it what you like. I’ve patched up men, beasts, and worse. But I know my limits. That’s why you’re here.”
Geralt tilted his head slightly. Her tone carried no awe, no hesitation. And yet he saw the glimmer in her eyes - a flicker of recognition. She knew who he was. Of course she did. Dandelion’s songs had wandered farther than their author ever dared, and villagers whispered of the White Wolf with as much fear as fascination. That she stood before him unfazed was either courage or folly.
His lips quirked faintly as he drew his silver sword in one fluid motion. The blade caught the golden light of the setting sun, gleaming like an unspoken promise. Elyndra stepped back, her hands lowering but her presence undiminished.
The work unfolded in a tense, fragile silence. Geralt stood just beyond the griffin’s reach, his silver sword gleaming faintly in the setting sun, held loose but ready in his hand. His amber eyes stayed fixed on the creature, watching every shiver of its mangled wing, every twitch of its bloodied claws. He didn’t move - didn’t need to. His mere presence was enough to hold the balance, a silent warning to the beast and reassurance to the crowd.
Elyndra knelt beside the griffin, her hands glowing with steady green light. The magic flowed in deliberate waves, wrapping the creature in a cocoon of calm. The griffin’s labored breaths deepened, its trembling easing as the tension ebbed from its broken body. Her murmured incantations were barely audible over the shallow rush of the creek, but there was a weight to her words, a focus that demanded obedience from both beast and magic alike.
Geralt’s sword didn’t waver. He stood like a sentinel, unmoving but unmistakably present, his blade a silver thread of certainty amid the uncertainty. The crowd hovered behind him, their fear thick in the air, but his stillness held them back. He didn’t speak, didn’t shift, didn’t so much as glance away. This was his role, his purpose: not to intervene, not yet, but to be ready should the fragile peace shatter.
The griffin stirred, its golden eyes flickering toward him for a brief, tense moment. Geralt didn’t react. He held its gaze, calm and unyielding, until it turned back to Elyndra, its pain momentarily subdued. The tension in the air eased, just slightly, but Geralt’s grip on his sword remained firm. Peace, he knew, was a fleeting thing, and even the calmest of moments had teeth.
Elyndra’s magic followed in steady pulses, wrapping the griffin in calm as the beast’s labored breaths deepened. When the creature finally stirred, rising on shaky legs, it let out a low rumble—a sound that carried no malice. Its golden eyes lingered on Geralt briefly before it spread its wings and took to the sky, disappearing into the burnished horizon.
Elyndra stood, dusting her hands off as the murmurs of the crowd swelled. “It wasn’t looking for a fight,” she said softly, more to herself than anyone. “It just wanted to live.”
Geralt sheathed his sword, his gaze lingering on her. “You take a lot of risks for someone unarmed.”
She met his eyes, her expression calm, unreadable. “I know what I’m doing,” she replied simply. “And I know when to ask for help.”
For a moment, they held each other’s gaze, the weight of unspoken understanding settling between them. Then Geralt spoke, his voice casual but deliberate. “We’re looking for someone. A sorceress. Black hair, black and white clothing. Goes by Yennefer.”
Elyndra tilted her head slightly, her dark eyes narrowing in thought. “No,” she said after a pause. “But I’ve heard soldiers mention a woman heading toward Vizima. Might be her.”
Geralt nodded. “Thanks.”
As they turned to leave, Vesemir muttered under his breath. “Witchers playing nursemaid to griffins. What’s next?”
Geralt didn’t answer. His thoughts lingered on Elyndra - the strength in her hands, the calm in her voice, and the scent that refused to leave his mind. Chamomile, frankincense, and trouble.