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Chapter Text

That night, the surface of the lake was smooth, the moon reflecting on it without a ripple. Feainn had already woken up twice, overcome by the most vivid dreams she had ever had. Nimue's black tea, with its hints of orange and spices, must have had its effect. The small sorceress insisted on imbue her with substances, considering her previous dreams to be unreliable. But that night had been different. That night Feainn knew she had gained access to the truth, to a small fragment of the past that no one had ever reported. Yet the girl hesitated to run and wake her teacher. She gazed at the dark sky, the faint glimmers of the stars, as she thought back to the pages of Half a Century of Poetry they had read the night before. She had imagined dreaming of Toussaint, Jaskier and Anna Henrietta, or even Geralt and Fringilla Vigo. Instead, her dreams had delved into an obscure part of the witcher's story. She sighed and gathered her courage. Armed with a candle, she ventured down the dark tower's stairs, her black silk robe rustling with every step.

She did not find the sorceress in her room, so she climbed further up to the terrace where they used to sit and talk after the most engaging readings. Nimue was there, like her, gazing thoughtfully at the horizon.

«Anything good tonight, Feainn?», asked the sorceress, without even turning to look at her.

«Yes, lady Nimue.»

«Then tell me.»

Nimue had remained respectfully silent throughout the story. She had not reacted to any part of it until the very end.

The first thing she said when the apprentice finished the story was, «Have you drunk your teas, Feainn?»

«Yes, ma'am. And I can assure you that they worked: I could find my way around Stygga Castle and point out every cave and tree under which Hansa rested during the crossing of the Malheur.»

«The Stygga castle was destroyed years ago. And for the other things, no one could contradict you,» interrupted the sorceress, «because that part of the story fell into oblivion years ago, when the witcher and his companions died.»

«That's not true. I understand when my dreams are just dreams and when they are something more. And the ones I've had since I've been here are all of the second kind. Ma’am, I—»

«Feainn Ullwen, you are relieved of your duties as assistant and oneiromant. I will call the Fisher King. Tomorrow you may leave the island.»

Feainn stiffened, suppressing a surge of anger. Trying to remain calm, she said only, «As you wish, Lady Nimue.»

«When the mind fixates on something, it is difficult to bring it back to reason,» explained the sorceress. «This is now your truth. But I don't need it: the writings and paintings you have seen in this palace tell a different story: the true story of Ciri and the witcher.»

«They tell the official story. Which has gaps. I am filling them.»

«Don't be presumptuous, little girl,» Nimue admonished her harshly.

«Then explain to me why Ciri didn't use her powers to go back and save Geralt and Yennefer,» Feainn heated up. «She could have, according to your sources. She certainly would have wanted to. Yet she didn't.»

The small sorceress sighed, turning back toward the lake. «We're done here. Go pack your bags.»

Feainn went down to her room with quick, determined steps. She gathered her things and carelessly stuffed them into the two bags she had arrived with. She held the jar of tea leaves in her hand and considered it. After hesitating for a moment, she slipped it into her bag.

Chapter Text

Some roads lead to your destiny rather than your destination.

Jules Verne

Life and dreams are pages of the same book. To read them in order is to live, to glance through them is to dream.

Arthur Schopenhauer

For five days, the Hansa—now one member short, who had stayed warm in Toussaint's fairytale castle—had seen nothing but snow. Geralt felt as if he were losing his perception of color, since all that surrounded him was the white of the snow, the gray of the rocks, and the black of their cloaks. Even the trees, cloaked in white, appeared dark and ghostly even during the day, and the sky never cleared of those thick layers of leaden clouds that seemed never-ending. The company was now traveling slowly, their nerves on edge since they had encountered those horse tracks that seemed to have disappeared into thin air.

During rest breaks, almost no one had the energy to talk, having to shout over the howling wind. The group limited themselves to warming up around the fire, if they managed to light one with wet and frozen wood. They used to eat in silence, if Milva had managed to hit some poor animal that, like them, had not been able to find shelter. Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy, who did not suffer from the cold as much as the group of humans, contributed by preparing tonics to warm them up a little on the coldest nights. Milva and Angoulême silently shared their bed, taking advantage of the double blankets and each other's warmth.

Geralt, with a clear goal in mind, was determined to continue at any cost and led the company firmly during the day. However, every break from the journey, especially those forced by violent storms, made him gloomy. Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach was the only one who seemed not only to maintain unshakeable faith in Geralt's leadership, but also to still be intrigued by the horse tracks they had seen days earlier. In fact, every night before bed, much to the witcher's disappointment, he would bring up the subject again.

That evening, he beat around the bush: «I had a dream last night.»

The witcher snorted: «I've been dreaming about freezing for almost a week, but I don't see any reason to tell anyone about it.»

«I'm telling you it wasn't a normal dream, Geralt, it was one of those dreams. I promised you I would dream for both of us, and here I am. Ciri was on horseback chasing a unicorn, they were being hunted. They were crossing absurd landscapes, as if they could appear and disappear at will.»

«Cold delirium,» declared the Witcher, «you sleep too far from the fire. There's not much space, but Regis and I can move. We need less heat.»

«What if it's not?» replied the distraught Nilfgaardian. «What if Ciri really is able to move from place to place on that horse? That would explain why the tracks disappeared and why you felt so drawn to them that you diverted us onto a path that was already impassable.»

Geralt weighed the knight's words. Then he shrugged: «You have to stop putting so much faith in me. It was probably a mouflon, and I just misread it.»

Cahir tried to protest, but soon realized it was a waste of breath and lay down on his bed.

«Come closer to the fire,» Geralt reminded him, moving his bedding aside to make room for his. The Nilfgaardian obediently dragged his blankets closer to the flames and lay down. He fell into a dreamless sleep.

In the morning, Cahir and Geralt were always the slowest to get going again. Old wounds, poorly healed or not yet fully healed, made themselves felt after the night's frost. «Uncles, do you need a stick by any chance?» the blonde teased them good-naturedly.

«Shut up, Angoulême,» the two said almost in unison. The witcher's knee, which had never fully healed, struggled to regain function after a night in the open, especially when the temperature dropped so low. And Cahir, despite his young age, had also suffered many injuries.

«Tonight you won't give up your place in the warmth,» declared the Nilfgaardian, holding out a hand to the witcher, who gave him a dirty look but accepted the support without responding. Milva spoke up: «You wouldn't have all these problems if you did as Angoulême and I do. See?» She did a little hop to demonstrate. «Fresh as roses in the middle of May.»

«Milva,» Geralt admonished her, annoyed.

Regis intervened in defense of the archer: «Yet the girl is not wrong, despite the mutations, those bones need to stay warm, and another human body is the second warmest thing we have available.»

The witcher snorted, and a cloud of steam escaped from his lips, recondensing partly on his own nose.

The Malheur Pass was living up to their expectations: it was impassable and constantly swept by the icy wind that crept under their clothes, the snowstorm making everything gray except for a few inches in front of their noses. Even the horses had difficulty continuing in those conditions, despite proceeding in single file close to the side of the mountain. Even Geralt's enhanced vision, leading the way, was of little help in those conditions, where the icy gusts made it painful to keep his eyes open.

«Regis,» shouted the witcher, drowning out the howling wind, «if you can see anything beyond the wall of fog, come up with me and leave Cahir in the rear.»

The vampire joined Geralt and assessed the situation: «Although I can easily keep my eyes open, I have nothing that can help us with this fog,» then he lowered his voice and continued, «Milva and Angoulême are visibly shivering despite my remedies, I'm not sure they can go much further.»

The witcher sighed, feeling defeated, and spoke to the whole company: «Keep an eye on the mountainside, we're looking for a cave to take shelter in.»

It was past noon when Angoulême, her teeth chattering, pointed to a small ravine hidden behind two withered trees laden with snow. It was downwind, on the most sheltered side of the rock face and therefore presumably free of snow. Geralt diverted his horse, followed by the others, who had suddenly regained some of their good mood. Reaching the mouth of the cave, the witcher stopped under the trees and dismounted. Angoulême and Cahir started to pass him, but he blocked them: «I'm going in. Alone.»

«I'm coming with you,» offered the Nilfgaardian.

«It's too dangerous,» said the witcher, shaking his head. «It's not the animals that worry me in an environment like this.»

Cahir protested again: «At least take Regis with you. I don't think he's in any danger, whatever monster is hiding in this cave.»

The witcher agreed, albeit reluctantly. «Gather some wood for the fire and dry it. We'll be out soon.»

The cave was dark, but larger and less damp than Geralt had expected. Regis followed calmly, looking around. A faint stench of rot and decay, which grew stronger as they ventured deeper into the rock, reached their nostrils. The witcher's mind reexamined the worst-case scenarios and possible tactics to apply. If it was an ice troll, with his bad knee and Fringilla's medallion of dubious functionality, they would be better off finding another shelter. For this reason, the witcher had not yet lit the torch.

«Regis, have you ever encountered a vendigo?» Geralt asked in a low voice.

The vampire shook his head. «Everything I know about them, I know from books.» 

They moved cautiously until they began to see traces of guano and small bones scattered here and there. The witcher spotted a small shiny coin wedged between two rocks, and some feathers.

He breathed a small sigh of relief, without losing his concentration: «There should only be harpies.»

He quickly grabbed the torch, lit it, and passed it to Regis, then took the Sihil, preparing to cast the Igni spell as soon as the harpies attacked. They didn't have to wait long. The fire had signaled their presence, and the monsters realized they had the numerical advantage, so they began to swoop down on them with their claws out. The spell was effective: the first three attackers caught fire and began to scream shrill cries as they spun in the air. Untill they fell to the ground with a thud, they illuminated the cave, revealing the presence of another fifteen or so individuals to the witcher. Regis, with the torch in one hand and his blade in the other, struck down two more. With adrenaline pumping through his veins, Geralt pirouetted with newfound lightness, dodging sharp beaks and claws and sinking his blade into the monsters' fibrous flesh. Two harpies were skewered, a third fell with a wing cut clean off and was finished off by the vampire. When Regis' torch was extinguished, struck by a harpy more cunning than the others, the vampire decided to take advantage of his invisibility and began to attack them by surprise as they targeted the witcher. When enough beasts pounced on him, Geralt reused the sign to set them on fire. In the confusion, one of the heavier harpies managed to get close to the witcher and sink its claws into his face, dangerously close to his right eye. However, it was unable to finish its attack, let out a cry, and fell to the ground dead, impaled by the invisible vampire. Geralt wiped the blood that had dripped into his eye and leapt out of reach of the next two creatures, offering them the edge of his blade in a wide circular motion. If the witcher's count was correct, there should be few left. He sensed movement behind him and, with a spin, managed to strike the first with an uppercut, then twisted the blade and decapitated the next. As soon as he had finished off his two opponents, Regis became visible again.

«Regis, could you start getting rid of the corpses while I check that there's nothing else alive in this stinking nest?» asked Geralt, then suggested, «If you and Cahir could cover them with snow, they shouldn't start to stink before we leave.»

With surprising strength for his physical appearance, the vampire hoisted three of the monsters onto his shoulders and left the cave. Geralt made his reconnaissance rounds and checked every nook and cranny before coming out and calling Milva and Angoulême to light a fire and warm up a bit.

«You're hurt,» the archer said worriedly.

«It's just a scratch, don't worry. I'm helping the others bury the carcasses.»

When he arrived at Regis and Cahir, his wound still dripping blood and the last four harpies to be buried on his shoulders, the Nilfgaardian looked at him uneasily. «Geralt...» he began, but the witcher didn't let him finish. «Not a word,» he warned.

They quickly finished the job, and the witcher began to clean the wound with his shirt sleeve, cursing under his breath. «Use some fresh snow, it'll help reduce the bleeding,» Regis suggested before heading towards the cave.

«Let me see,» Cahir muttered when the witcher seemed to be satisfied he was clean. He took a cloth out of his pocket and wet it a little in the snow, finishing cleaning the uneven edges of the wound. «It doesn't look like you need stitches,» he commented, then picked up a handful of snow and wrapped it in the cloth. «Hold it on the wound for a while, maybe it won't swell.»

«Why are you all worrying about me?» Geralt asked wearily. «I'm the one dragging you to your death. I'm responsible for you, including your health. Not the other way around.»

«Geralt, if we lose you, the mission fails,» the soldier's blue eyes darkened, «It's awful to say, but the rest of us are expendable. We're here so you can return to Ciri and Yennefer.»

The witcher did not reply, struggling to hold Cahir's gaze for a few seconds before turning away with a sigh. When they returned silently to camp, Milva had recovered and was preparing for a small hunt. Geralt and Cahir offered to accompany her, but she refused their help: «You're too noisy, you'll scare my prey away.»

Angoulême, once she had regained enough warmth, wandered around the cave and inspected the harpies' nest. Among the piles of guano and feathers, she had found some jewelry and shiny coins. «Geralt, what do you think, would aunty like this pendant? Or would she prefer this brooch?» In her hand she held two large golden jewels, studded with colored stones, roughly cleaned of harpy excrement. Geralt stifled a laugh: «I think Milva would rather use them as darts than wear them. Probably at you.»

Angoulême snorted. «Ugh, then I'll keep these for the girls at the brothel we're opening in Toussaint.» She opened her other hand, revealing three small rings and a more delicate pendant. «I wanted to keep these for myself, but I can give one to aunty.» The witcher smiled when he saw that the pendant was shaped like an arrow.

Milva returned with three partridges and a squirrel shortly before sunset. It couldn't be considered a hearty meal, but compared to what they had been used to in recent days, it seemed like a feast. As night fell, the storm seemed to subside. They fell asleep with the hope of seeing the sun again.

The next morning, they woke up to brighter than usual light coming through the cave entrance. The rocky shelter had allowed them to rest longer and better, and Geralt's rheumatism seemed to be less intense. Although the sky was not clear, the shade of gray of the clouds was lighter, allowing them to resume their journey with greater optimism. They moved faster, the wind giving them enough respite to ride without being shaken by shivers, and it was not necessary for them to ride in single file. Milva was playing with her new pendant, Angoulême was twirling the ring she wore on her thumb.

They had covered a good distance, but at the point where they had arrived, the mountain no longer provided any shelter. As sunset approached and the wind picked up, the first snowflakes of the day began to fall. They began to look around for a place sheltered by at least a few trees or bushes. By the time they found one, it was already dark, so they hurried to light a small fire and cook the hares Milva had caught.

After dinner, Geralt spoke up: «If I remember Reynart's directions correctly, once we pass Malheur, we'll find two more passes, Sansmerci and Mortblanc. The next stage should be downhill, and then in a couple of days of travel, we should be able to cross the other two passes as well.» The whole group nodded silently, without comment. The journey to Malheur had seemed endless, and the thought of having two more passes to cross worried them greatly, even though they tried to convince themselves that nothing could be worse than what they were crossing at that moment.

Angoulême and Milva lay down together near the fire, Cahir prepared his bed on the opposite side, and saw Geralt walking away to make his own. He quickly got up and stopped him by grabbing his right shoulder: «You're sleeping with me tonight.» It wasn't a request. «It's cold, we need your knee to work tomorrow morning.»

It wasn't the thought of sharing a bed with a man that troubled the witcher. He was a traveler, and he had slept with Jaskier many times before, because the bard was always scantily clad and too delicate. Nor was it the thought that he used to be a Nilfgaardian soldier, or that he had traumatized Ciri so much that he was one of her recurring nightmares. It was the realization that this strong boy, so young that he could have had his whole life ahead of him if he wanted, was choosing to give it up for his mission. A mission that would never see him victorious. The best fate awaiting him was an honorable death in battle. The worst was difficult to choose.

Geralt wanted to protest, but he knew it would only make things stranger. In fact, because of his hesitation, Angoulême decided to fill the silence: «Is the White Wolf afraid to get his buttocks close to the Nilfgaardian?»

Milva chuckled, Regis maintained his usual neutral expression. Geralt carefully avoided checking Cahir's reaction, but hurried to join him. After a brief squabble, the witcher managed to get the side furthest from the fire and, spreading all the blankets over the Nilfgaardian, made room for himself and lay down beside him. Despite the cold, in a few moments the bed became first warm and then hotter than it had been since they left Toussaint.

The witcher woke suddenly in the night. Cahir was trembling slightly beside him and talking—or rather, muttering—in his sleep. During the night, they had drifted apart, and the fire was now almost out. Only a faint warmth emanated from the embers, although Regis seemed to have added a few small firewoods to prolong its life. Among the Nilfgaardian's seemingly rambling words, the witcher picked out one: Ciri. He knew in his heart that those dreams were not just dreams, even though he still found it hard to believe that this boy had a bond with Ciri so similar to his own—perhaps even deeper at this moment, since Geralt could no longer dream of her. He felt the shivers shaking Cahir's body slightly, but more and more frequently. But the boy had to finish that dream, he had to give Geralt a new source of hope. He couldn't let him wake up from the cold. The witcher turned toward him and pressed his chest against his back, wrapping an arm around him until his hand rested on his chest. Slowly, the shivers stopped shaking the young man's body, and Geralt also fell back into a deep sleep.

When he woke up the next morning, Cahir was surprised to find himself in the warm embrace of the witcher. «You were talking in your sleep,» Geralt informed him, letting him slip out of his grasp. «It was one of those dreams, wasn't it?»

«Yes, one of the most vivid since...,» the Nilfgaardian hesitated for a moment.

«Since the equinox,» Geralt finished, gloomily.

Cahir nodded. «Ciri is being hunted, Geralt, you must believe me, I saw her,» he sighed. «It's the Wild Hunt.»

«Where is she?» the other asked almost feverishly.

«Where? When?» His sad gaze met that of the witcher. «Who knows, Geralt, I didn't recognize any of the landscapes. They didn't even seem to be of this world.»

When they set off again, Geralt seemed to lead the company at a faster pace. Despite the bad weather, his direction was decisive and no one questioned him, so much so that, despite the inclement weather, they had already reached the Sansmerci Pass. They found a cave to shelter in, this time inhabited only by bats.

«Regis, please intercede for us. We won't be a bother,» Milva joked.

That night, Cahir didn't dream. Nor did he the following night. «Caves seem to prevent me from dreaming,» the boy commented when Geralt, as usual, approached him with a hopeful look. The Nilfgaardian sensed the witcher's disappointment and felt he was entirely responsible for it.

The following night they slept in the open, under a small group of bare fir trees, because during their descent from Mortblanc they had found no shelter on the mountainside. Geralt spontaneously lay down next to the Nilfgaardian, immediately pulling him close to his chest.

When Cahir stiffened, Geralt explained, «Last time you were about to wake up from the cold. And this way my knee is more protected.»

The girls grumbled in their beds: «Aunty, why don't you hug me like the witcher is hugging the Nilfgaardian?»

«I'm not Nilf—»

«Shut up,» Geralt interrupted, hearing Angoulême snicker, «or they'll never stop.»

In his short life, Cahir had not yet had the pleasure of falling asleep with someone like this. He didn't think the first would be Geralt of Rivia.

As if to confirm the Nilfgaardian's hypothesis, the dreams returned. As soon as he opened his eyes, Cahir sat up with a start and turned to Geralt, whispering, «She's arrived from Vilgefortz, Geralt, she's outside the castle.» The witcher also sat up quickly and fixed his gaze on the soldier's blue eyes, which were now slightly glazed over.

«Let's hurry,» he ordered the company.

That day, they left the snow behind, and with it the Nilfgaardian's dreams, even though the mild climate of Sudduth meant they didn't need to sleep in caves.

«Maybe it really was cold delirium, witcher,» Cahir said bitterly.

«Maybe you should stop looking for logic in something that has none,» said Geralt.

«I'm just scared. What if they captured and killed her? What if that's why I haven't seen anything since?»

Geralt placed a hand on his shoulder: «I'm scared too, Cahir.»

Regis, who had remained respectfully silent during their exchange, spoke up this time: «The predestination with which you say you are bound to the girl is not a science, of course, but it is magic, and as such it has its rules. It is not entirely wrong to look for logic in it. For example, I cannot help but notice that both times you lay down together, the dreams occurred and, from what I could hear, were amplified.»

«Regis, please, don't you start too,» Geralt complained.

«I'm just analyzing the facts,» replied the calm vampire. «Not that other similar cases have been documented, but it's no secret that two nearby magical sources can interact and feed off each other.»

«I suggest we try it out tonight,» Angoulême smirked. «We'll arrive in Forgeham by sunset, and the witcher has scraped together enough money to pay for everyone to spend the night in a tavern. You could try out a real bed with all the privacy of a locked room.»

«Angoulême!» the two concerned parties scolded her.

«Geralt, think about it, it's not such a bad idea, a night of rest and real food,» Milva interjected.

The witcher resigned himself: «So be it.»

The tavern they chose was The Golden Serpent, a dive that pretended to be classier than it really was. Jaskier would have loved it. The food was edible and reasonably priced, the place reeked of beer and offered various forms of entertainment, from gambling to prostitutes. Geralt had his eye on a girl with long black hair and blue eyes, but he wasn't quite in the mood. He was in a hurry, preoccupied. But even if he hadn't been, he had a commitment that night. Almost immediately after eating, they vacated the long wooden table where they had been sitting and retired to their rooms, Geralt and Cahir to the same one to test the vampire hypothesis.

Once locked in their room, they took the opportunity to take a hot bath. The Nilfgaardian washed first, deciding he needed less time for his bath because he did not have the witcher's long hair.

Meanwhile, the witcher put out the healing ointments out of the bag, and started to comb his hair. Together they discussed the possibility of the dreams returning: «But do you really believe Regis's idea? I don't, not even a little,» said the Nilfgaardian.

«I have known many sorceresses in my long life. Regis's words are no stranger than many things that have been explained to me and later proved to be true. Don't think too much about it, I hope it's not a big problem for you to share a bed with me for another night.»

«It's not.»

When Cahir got out of the tub, Geralt also took advantage of the hot water. As soon as the witcher finished washing his hair, the Nilfgaardian brought him clean water to wash the wound and the ointment.

«Let me help you.»

The witcher grumbled in disapproval, but did not shy away from the soldier's care. Once cleaned, disinfected, and dried, they lay down together in bed. Finally warm, with sheets and a roof over their heads, they fell asleep in an instant.

As if by magic, the dreams returned. Geralt noticed this because he was once again awakened by Cahir's moans. Although it wasn't cold and the boy wasn't shivering, the witcher pulled him close. He didn't have time to fall back asleep, however, before the Nilfgaardian woke up shouting his daughter's name.

«What happened?» Geralt asked excitedly, but the boy seemed unable to answer.

The witcher shook him gently by the arm: «Cahir. Cahir, talk to me. Is Ciri alive?»

When the Nilfgaardian came to his senses, he turned to Geralt. As soon as he began to speak, barely managing to string two or three words together, tears began to streak his face.

«Ciri is alive,» he saw the witcher breathe a sigh of relief, «but they've taken her, Geralt,» he sobbed violently. «Vilgefortz. He wants to use her for his experiments.»

The witcher's face grew even paler, and he swallowed hard because his mouth had become as dry as the Korath desert.

«Geralt, I'm so sorry.»

The Nilfgaardian, a proud soldier and fighter, was still shaking and sobbing, tears streaming from his blue eyes. He slumped toward the witcher, resting his forehead on his shoulder seeking for comfort. That gesture suddenly unblocked Geralt, who brought a hand to the back of his neck, gently stroking his black hair.

«She's alive,» was all he could say as he hugged and caressed the Nilfgaardian crying on his shoulder. «She's alive.»

Chapter Text

If you give up your power to attract me, then I won't have any power to follow you.

A Midnight Summer Dream, William Shakespeare

That I'm glad, must not be

Who loves me shrinks thereby

What I love, that will spoil

What I love, that must also die

What I Love, Theodoricus var Maidellach^[1]

Desire is not merely a clear and transparent urge that, through our body, tends toward a certain object. Desire is defined as disturbance. […] Turbid water is still water; it has not lost its fluidity and essential characteristics, but its transparency is “disturbed” by an imperceptible presence that is one with it, that is everywhere and nowhere, and that manifests itself as a clouding of the water caused by itself. […].

[…] It is appropriate to compare sexual desire with another form of desire, for example hunger. [...] In sexual desire, of course, we can find this structure common to all appetites: a state of the body. [...] Now everyone knows that an abyss separates sexual desire from other appetites. [...] Desire compromises me; I am complicit in my desire. [...]  

But desire is consent to desire. [...]

Being and Nothingness, Jean-Paul Sartre

At dawn, they went down to saddle their horses. They hadn't been able to sleep much since the dream woke them, so they decided to get a head start in order to leave as soon as the rest of the company woke up. They found Regis walking outside the tavern, near the stables. They told him what had happened, and the vampire was sympathetic to the two men's state of mind.

He sighed and said, «It wasn't a good suggestion, then.»

«On the contrary,» Geralt replied, «if Cahir feels up to continuing, we'll have a way to monitor the situation. It seems that Vilgefortz, at least for the moment, needs Ciri alive for his devilry, which gives us time to intervene.»

A few minutes later, Milva and Angoulême also came down. The latter, as soon as she saw the tired faces of the two men, was about to comment, but the words never left her lips: Regis had stopped her before she could utter a sound, with an expression that was serious even by his standards. The girl fell silent and blushed a little.

Milva spoke for her: «It looks serious. What happened?»

«Get on your horses, we'll talk about it on the way,» ordered the witcher.

While crossing the snow-covered mountains, they had almost forgotten the risk they were running, with Vilgefortz's men hunting them down. Once back in civilization, this awareness resurfaced in the group, but despite everything, they decided to take one of the best-known secondary roads. Passing through woods and untracked roads as they had done until then would have lengthened the journey too much; they were in too much of a hurry to be cautious.

The attack came head-on near Gelosia, eluding both Geralt's heightened senses, clouded by other thoughts, and those of Regis, who was traveling in the rear. Surprisingly, it was Cahir who reacted first, interposing his body and sword between the witcher and the halberd-wielding assailant. With the reflexes of a cat, Milva nocked an arrow and fired. One by one, the mercenaries fell, some struck by the archer's arrows, some slaughtered by Regis, one even stabbed by Angoulême. Cahir and Geralt continued to fight the captain, preventing Milva from getting a clear shot. The mercenary continued to work on Cahir's left shoulder, which had been hit during the first assault.

«Damn it, Cahir, leave him to me!» Geralt shouted. But the Nilfgaardian did not give up, fighting with the ferocity of a wounded tiger and continuing to parry even the blows intended for the witcher. Regis joined the trio in combat. Even the best mercenary in the group was powerless against a superior vampire.

«What the hell were you thinking? You could have died, you Nilfgaardian madman,» Geralt yelled at him with a rage he hadn't felt in a long time, resisting the urge to push him away just because the boy was wounded.

As soon as they had set up camp near the river separating Gelosia from Malhoun, they had moved aside to argue, to avoid involving the rest of the Hansa, who were probably hearing almost everything anyway.

Cahir stood bare-chested with the bandage Regis had made clearly visible, and like a good soldier, he kept his eyes down during the scolding, even though he had no regrets about his behavior.

Geralt continued, «How could you risk your life for mine? I'm a fucking mutant, a monster. Everything I touch dies. Everything I love dies. I'm not meant to be happy, why do you insist on—» His voice cracked.

Cahir took the opportunity to reply, «No one is destined to be happy, witcher. And my life is no more valuable than yours just because I'm human.»

«But look at yourself. You could have everything. You're young, strong, attractive. You could have a family, children, a woman who loves you.»

Cahir laughed bitterly, looking up and fixing his gaze on the witcher's dark eyes: «What if that's not what I want?»

«What else could you want, eh, Nilfgaardian? Wealth? You won't find that with me.»

Geralt had now moved dangerously close to the young man, his massive frame towering over him, not so much because of his physical size as because of his dominant attitude. Cahir still held his gaze, a bitter grin on his lips and breathing heavily.

«None of that, witcher.»

«I've always said you're not normal,» Geralt was no longer shouting. He shook his head, a few strands of white hair falling over his face. «I regret taking you with—»

He couldn't finish the sentence because Cahir put his hands on him. Finally, thought the witcher for a second, thinking they were going to start a fight. He let himself be pushed against a tree trunk, one of Cahir's hands on his face and the other moving up from his shoulder to his neck. In an instant, the Nilfgaardian's lips collided with his.

At first, Geralt thought he was delirious. Perhaps he had sustained serious injuries during the skirmish with Vilgefortz's mercenaries, and his brain was playing tricks on him. Then he felt Cahir's hand move up his neck to the back of his head, where it grabbed his hair. It was a wrong kiss, clumsy, full of too much fear and too much desire at the same time. Geralt did not push him away immediately. Nor did he kiss him back. When he had had enough, he put his hand on Cahir's chest and pushed him away with a sharp jerk.

«You're wrong,» said the witcher, calmly. «This isn't what you want.»

«No,» Cahir hissed. «You don't understand. I want—»

«Not me,» Geralt cut him off. The Nilfgaardian didn't want him. He wanted an idea. A symbol. A mission. Redemption to cling to with his nails and teeth. Geralt saw it. But he also saw the tremors, the fire in his eyes, the hunger. Quickly, he grabbed him by the neck and reversed their positions, urgently pressing his lips to his in a rough, hungry kiss. When he slid his tongue into his mouth, the Nilfgaardian moaned.

«Turn around,» Geralt ordered, now speaking softly into the other man's ear, his voice hoarse and warm from the kisses. Cahir hesitated for a second.

The witcher gave him one last warning: «If this isn't what you want, now is the time to back out.»

«Gabhme, Vatt'ghern.»^[2]

Geralt turned him around, pushing him against the tree trunk with cold determination. Not brutally, but urgently. With an expert hand, he unfastened the Nilfgaardian's belt and uncovered him just enough to sink his hand between his thighs. The boy was muscular, his body well-built, but softer than he would have expected from a soldier.

«Have you ever done it this way?» the witcher asked him.

The Nilfgaardian shook his head.

Geralt took care to wet his fingers with saliva before sinking them inside him. Cahir groaned but did not pull away, even when the witcher pushed his way into his body, thrust after thrust, until they fit together perfectly. At that point, Geralt paused for a moment, not so much out of consideration as to catch his breath. His hands still sought the warm skin beneath the leather straps of the other man's breeches, his breath breaking against his neck, exposed almost provocatively to the witcher's bites. No more words were exchanged: from that moment on, only moans, whimpers, and a few growls from the witcher could be heard. For the first time since he had mutated, Geralt gave himself over to pleasure, allowing himself to lose control, knowing that the Nilfgaardian's body—a soldier's physique, hardened by years of war and combat—would withstand anything he wanted to do to him.

When they were done, Cahir's body was covered in bruises. On his neck and shoulders, where Geralt had bitten and sucked at the height of pleasure. On his thighs, where the witcher's fingers had dug in to guide his movements. If looked closely, those bruises revealed the exact position of Geralt's hands during the act.

«I'm going to see what's going on,» Milva said, her patience at an end, and stood up. They had heard the witcher's cries clearly and were worried because the last time Geralt had behaved like this with Cahir, the archer had had to intervene with her belt to prevent the two from tearing each other apart. Regis stopped her, strangely calm: «Milva, I assure you they're fine.»

«Aunty won't trust it until she sees them all in one piece with her own eyes,» commented Angoulême, «why don't you let her go and check?»

The vampire sighed, taking his time to measure his words carefully: «It seems to be a very personal matter. But they're not arguing anymore.»

The archer sat down nervously in front of the fire: «I'll start cooking the meat.»

When Geralt and Cahir reappeared, dinner was cooked to perfection. Although the Nilfgaardian had hurried to cover himself, everyone had managed to see the small reddish-purple spots scattered across his back. A few still showed on his neck, uncovered by his tunic. It didn't look serious; the boy's face was intact, though a little reddened.

«Since when does the White Wolf strike from behind? Have you taken up corporal punishment, Geralt? I wouldn't expect that from you,» Milva remarked irritably.

«I'm fine,» Cahir replied in place of the witcher, suppressing a grimace as he sat down in front of the fire, opposite Geralt.

«Don't excuse him! This is the second time...»

«Milva, really, I'm fine,» the Nilfgaardian calmed her. «Nothing happened that I didn't want to happen.»

The archer quickly shifted her eyes from one to the other, as if to check their reactions. Geralt was as inscrutable as ever, but Cahir seemed almost satisfied. Milva shook her head as if to physically dispel the thoughts crowding her mind, and in a silence a little more tense than usual, they began to eat.

After the events of the day, no one expected Geralt to lie down next to the Nilfgaardian. He himself seemed surprised, and somewhat embarrassed.

«If you don't feel up to it anymore, I understand,» Geralt said as he approached him. Cahir responded by shifting aside to make room for him.

«She's still alive,» was the first thing Cahir said as soon as he opened his eyes, knowing that the witcher at his side was listening. «There's a bounty hunter in the castle with Vilgefortz. Ciri is afraid of him; she knows him. I saw him wearing medallions, one of which was like the one you had, Geralt. If he's a witcher killer...»

«That would explain why Ciri is afraid of him,» Geralt concluded pragmatically, «as far as I'm concerned, he could have found them on a corpse.»

«We need to think this through. Let's make a plan of attack and set clear objectives. For example, Bonhart could—»

«No way,» interrupted the witcher. «Too dangerous, too stupid. In combat, your abilities aren't that different from mine, and I have more experience.»

Cahir was about to reply, but Regis, who as always listened silently, interjected: «The bounty hunter is mine. I don't think he's ever faced anyone of my kind.»

They pushed their horses to the limit. Stygga must have been close by now, as at sunset they had begun to skirt the western side of the mountain range on which the castle was perched. They soon stopped for their last night of camping.

Geralt broke the tense silence of the company: «Tomorrow we will arrive at the castle, try to eat and rest well, because it could be the last night we spend in this world.» He paused, as if waiting for a joke from Angoulême. It didn't come; the girl was extremely serious.

«If any of you want to withdraw, do so before crossing the threshold, because after that it will be too late.»

At this, a murmur of dissent rose from the whole company, but Geralt continued, raising his voice slightly: «I will respect your choice, whatever it may be. Thanks to Cahir, we know who our enemies will be, and we can prepare to face them as best we can.» He took a deep breath and fixed his eyes on the Nilfgaardian's dark blue ones. «Don't take any suicidal initiatives. Let's stick to the plan. If I fall, Cahir will finish my part.»

Cahir looked away. He didn't want to—he couldn't—think about that possibility. The witcher began to outline the various stages of the assault, allowing time for the others to discuss them and, in some cases, improve them. It took them a couple of hours, but when they were done, the plan seemed simple and solid.

 «Let's recap: Regis will take out the guards at the entrance with Milva's help and open the doors for us. Then he'll fly off to free Ciri.»

He addressed the vampire directly: «Under no circumstances are you to lose sight of her before you bring her back to me or Cahir, understood? Your second target is Bonhart. I hope Cahir's description is enough to identify him.» Regis nodded.

The witcher continued: «The rest of us will try to find Yennefer before Vilgefortz finds us—she may be imprisoned, in chains: in that case, Angoulême will be tasked with freeing her while we cover her. Milva will take care of the shooters. No one stays behind. Let's try to stay together until the mage arrives. If you see Vilgefortz, run.»

Cahir, Milva, and Angoulême protested.

«You will have the most important task: get Ciri to safety. Take her out of the castle. Yen, Regis, and I, if he feels up to staying, will try to defeat Vilgefortz. Don't look back. Follow Ciri to Kaer Morhen. If I survive, I will join you there.»

«You know better than I that Ciri won't abandon you so easily,» Cahir replied. «She'll want to stay.»

«You'll find a way,» the witcher cut him off. He hesitated for a moment before continuing, «Angoulême, if you still want to open that brothel in Toussaint... go ahead. Tell Jaskier.»

A heavy silence fell over the group, along with the stark realization that the next day would most likely be their last dawn.

«Cahir, a word,» Geralt said to him. «In private.»

They walked away silently, away from prying eyes and ears; in the darkness, only the moon lightly illuminated their steps. They arrived at a small clearing, near which a stream flowed peacefully between the rocks.

«I know, it was a mistake,» sighed Cahir. «It won't happen again, and we won't talk about it anymore. I won't breathe a word of it to a soul.»

Geralt looked confused, his eyebrows furrowed in a questioning expression. After a few moments, his face lit up, and he smiled briefly—Cahir wasn't sure he had ever seen that expression on his face before.

«Sex is hardly a mistake if it is freely chosen,» commented the witcher lucidly. «No, that's not what I wanted to talk to you about. Knowing this will put you in danger. I didn't want to do it, but... well, it's unlikely that he will survive, and one of you should know.»

«Speak, witcher.»

«I have reason to believe that Emhyr var Emreis is Ciri's father.»

The Nilfgaardian remained silent for a moment, stunned and disturbed by the revelation, then spoke again: «That's why he wanted her alive at all costs! But—» He saw Geralt nod, a look of disgust on his face. «He wanted to marry his own daughter. That's disgusting.»

«But Ciri...?» the Nilfgaardian continued after a moment of silence.

Geralt didn't let him finish: «She knows nothing and must not find out. In the unfortunate event that everything goes wrong, I want her to have the opportunity to be happy. Even with him. You said you loved her, so I guess you'll understand.»

«I care about her,» Cahir corrected him, contradicting his own words from a few months earlier, «if I said I loved her after what happened between us, I would be no better than Emhyr.»

«Even if it was a mistake?»

«Not for me,» a crooked smile appeared on the Nilfgaardian's face. «I thought it was for you.»

Cahir knew that if everything went well the next day, there would be no place for him in Geralt's life anymore. He had accepted that, and even though it was a little harder knowing that the witcher had no regrets, he would respect the obvious decision that would come. But he was still determined to enjoy their last night together. Perceiving the witcher's silence as a closing of the discussion, Cahir started to return to the camp.

«Are you in a hurry to get back to camp?»

The Nilfgaardian turned, shaking his head. Geralt had approached him without a sound and was looking at him with an eloquent half-smile.

«I haven't thanked you yet for saving my life yesterday.»

«You did,» Cahir replied, raising an eyebrow, «Not with words.»

«Allow me to reiterate the point, then,» the witcher's hoarse voice was now just a whisper against the Nilfgaardian's skin. «Again, not with words.»

Despite the apparent calmness of the exchange, the kiss was overwhelming. There was no hesitation in the hands that tore off their worn clothes, nor in the bites that sought each other's lips. There was no caution in the moans and groans that escaped them loudly. They sought each other, clung to each other, kissed each other, and breathed each other in as if their lives depended on it. As if the future did not exist. Because it did not exist. At least, not for them.

Cahir caressed Geralt's back, following the slightly raised contours of the numerous scars that marked his skin, then moved up and sank his hand into his snow-white hair, assertively tilting his head back and descending with his lips to his neck. He bit him, and the witcher hissed through his teeth. Then he went down more, and more, his fingers sliding to undo the belt and find the skin beneath the breeches. And then it was Geralt who grabbed him by his dark hair, pulling him toward him.

«Damn...» the witcher growled between moans, his eyes fixed on the other's, «You're good.» He let him continue until he felt he was close. Too close.

«I should be the one thanking you,» Geralt commented breathlessly, just before reclaiming his lips for a long kiss. The witcher's rough hands caressed Cahir's back with measured slowness.

«Do you prefer rock or grass?» he asked as he unfastened his pants.

«Rock, Vatt'ghern. Your knee needs to be in shape for tomorrow.»

They reached the rock—two steps away—embracing in what, between caresses, pushes, scratches, kisses, and bites, almost seemed like a struggle. The rock was smooth and fairly flat, as if made for Cahir to bend over it.

The Nilfgaardian started to turn away, but Geralt held him back by the arm: «Tonight I want to look into your eyes.»

He pushed him onto the stone, and the shiver of cold that ran up Cahir's spine was soon accompanied by shivers of pleasure caused by Geralt, who had buried his face between his thighs. The Nilfgaardian moaned the witcher's name and invoked the gods he had long since ceased to believe in, writhing beneath his lips and expert fingers and arching his back as if that could increase the contact between their bodies.

Between gasps, Cahir begged, «Not yet, Geralt, please.»

The witcher paused and lifted himself, giving the boy a moment's respite, who raised himself on his elbows to reach his lips. Then he clasped his left hand on his hip, and with a couple of thrusts he was completely inside him. All the sounds, the boy's moans, poured over his tongue and cascaded down to his lower abdomen.

When their lips parted, the witcher's eyes sought out the Nilfgaardian's, which were particularly bright blue at that moment due to the cold reflection of the moon.

The marks of his passage the previous evening were neat on his neck. During that night, numerous new marks were added to the collection and, having lost all sense of reason, even the witcher's snow-white skin was marked.

It is well known that witchers heal faster than normal humans, but not that fast. When the two returned to the fire, the bruises on both of them were clearly visible above the collars of their tunics. Angoulême and Milva exchanged a meaningful glance.

A short time earlier, the archer had seized the excuse of needing to empty her bladder to leave the camp in the same direction as the two, who were late in returning that evening. She didn't have to go far, just away from the crackling of the wood on the fire, for her ears, trained by years of hunting with the dryads, to pick up sounds that were difficult to mistake. When she returned to Regis and Angoulême, her face was still red.

«Well?» asked the girl, who was aware of the plan. Milva smiled awkwardly. «Ah, I was right!» exclaimed Angoulême jubilantly. «Pay me those five crowns.»

That evening, no one seemed to have the courage to lie down and sleep. They knew very well that they should rest, but the moon was now high in the sky and no one seemed sleepy. Geralt sharpened his blade in silence, Milva obsessively checked the fletching of her arrows, and Cahir polished his armor. Angoulême couldn't sit still and played with the coins she had won from the archer.

«So,» the blonde cleared her throat to get the group's attention, «since I can't stand sitting here in silence thinking about death any longer, I propose a game.»

Geralt snorted, Regis looked up from his book.

Milva protested, «This doesn't seem like the right time, brat.»

«Just because you always lose,» Angoulême teased her, «I promise you won't have to interrupt your battle rituals to play.»

«Explain the game to us,» said Cahir, looking up from his now gleaming armor.

«It's simply heads or tails. But whoever loses has to answer a question from the winner. The person who was challenged continues with the next throw.»

«No way,» said the witcher. He turned to Milva for support but found nothing but a sly little smile. «If that's all there is to it, I'm fine with it,» agreed the archer.

Cahir shrugged and accepted. Regis had already placed the book at his side. Geralt rolled his eyes and sighed, tacitly agreeing.

«Good, I'll go first!» exclaimed Angoulême, satisfied. «Aunty, heads or tails?»

«Heads.»

Angoulême tossed the coin. Milva won, and with a smile asked her, «How many men have you slept with?»

Geralt sighed, realizing that the game was about to take a nasty turn. The blonde laughed loudly: «I stopped counting when I was sixteen, but if only the ones I was in a real bed with count, maybe fifty.»

Milva grumbled something, but couldn't hold back a smile, and snatched the coin from Angoulême's hands.

«Regis,» she called, and tossed the coin. The archer won again. «Have you ever thought about eating at least one of us?»

«No,» replied the vampire in his usual mellifluous tone, «and if I did slip up, I wouldn't choose one of you anyway. There are people around who smell better.»

Some time ago, they would have found this joke disturbing, but at that moment they all burst out laughing. Regis challenged Geralt and lost again.

«How do you kill a superior vampire?» asked the witcher curtly.

Angoulême snorted, «Here he goes with the job questions.»

Regis chuckled: «Don't you remember the Bestiary? Page 143. A superior vampire can only be killed by another superior vampire. Only a witcher who is mad, ignorant, or has nothing to lose would think of facing one. His only hope is to tear the vampire to pieces and separate the fragments enough to slow down its regeneration. A side note: we know all this because Alethon Othis van der Luufen, an old acquaintance of mine, decided to lend himself to this experiment by a... um... friend of his, a witcher. It took him eight months to come back in one piece, but the pieces were large and not too far apart.»

The group was horrified by the story. The witcher, on the other hand, seemed quite satisfied with the answer. He looked at Angoulême and tossed the coin. The girl chose heads, but it landed on tails, and Geralt won again.

«Since you complain so much about my questions, here's one you'll like: which one of us would you spend a night with?»

«Can I only choose one person?»

The witcher glared at her, nodding.

«You, of course, witcher. Boring, you already knew that. Nilfgaardian, heads or tails?»

«Tails.»

«Oops, head,» the girl smiled mischievously, «Who gave you those bruises on your neck? And how?»

Cahir blushed. Geralt quickly intervened: «That's two questions, you only have to answer one.»

«It was him,» admitted the Nilfgaardian, nodding toward the witcher, «now give me the coin.» Angoulême snorted. Cahir challenged Geralt and won.

«Since we met, how many times have you wanted to stab me in the back, witcher?»

A bitter smile appeared on Geralt's face, and he let out a quick breath that sounded like the hint of a laugh: «Perhaps more times than you can imagine. Certainly more than you deserved.» He took the coin from his hand: «I challenge you again.» It came up heads, and the Nilfgaardian won again.

«Who in the group angers you the most?»

«That's an easy one. You, of course. Angoulême and Jaskier are just annoying.»

«I accept that,» Cahir replied, «know that the feeling is mutual. And give me the coin, I'll challenge you again.»

Angoulême protested loudly to Milva: «Look at that, these two are talking to each other as if the rest of the world doesn't exist.»

The two ignored her, and the Nilfgaardian tossed the coin. It came up heads, and the witcher won. He asked him, «What do you plan to do in the future, if we get out of the castle alive tomorrow?»

A deep silence fell over the whole group. The question had brought to mind scenarios they had managed not to think about for a few minutes.

«What you told us,» Cahir replied simply. «Take Ciri to Kaer Morhen and wait for you there.»

«I meant after that,» replied the witcher.

«Ah...» the Nilfgaardian hesitated, «I haven't thought about it much. I'd like to stay at Kaer Morhen, with you. Train, perhaps. So I can help people, like you always have.»

Geralt was taken aback: «You want to be a witcher? You know I'll never let you take the herb test, right? You're too old, you wouldn't pass.»

«I don't want to do it, even if your enhancements are... tempting.»

«Cahir...» the witcher admonished him.

«Enough, you two!» Milva interrupted. «You're doing everything yourselves. Last question, but you have to challenge someone who isn't Nilfgaardian.»

«Then I challenge you. Tails.»

The coin clinked on the ground, showing heads.

«Which of us would you trust with your life?» asked the archer, much to the disappointment of Angoulême, who had hoped to see the witcher cornered by a more succulent question. «You can only choose one person.»

Geralt sighed: «Cahir.» Hearing his name, the boy turned around, surprised and slightly embarrassed.

«Would you like to elaborate?» asked Milva, raising an eyebrow. The witcher grumbled, but explained: «He's still here, despite my attempts to drive him away, even kill him, several times. He pursues his mission, stubborn as the worst mule you could find on the Continent. And evidently, his mission is me, so he wouldn't let me die even if I asked him to. Satisfied?»

«Yes, thank you, Geralt,» Milva smiled. «Now everyone to bed, tomorrow is the big day.»

One by one, they lay down around the fire. The Nilfgaardian turned to Geralt, finding him lying on his back with his hands behind his head. Spontaneously, the witcher stretched out his arm closest to Cahir, wrapping it around his back and pulling him closer, until the Nilfgaardian's head rested in the crook of his neck, his breath breaking against his warm skin. From that position, the Nilfgaardian could smell the witcher's unexpectedly delicate scent: it was animalic, but mixed with leather, metal, and earth, along with a hint of smoke lingering in his hair. It was a warm and, in its own way, reassuring smell. Sheltered from prying eyes, under the thick blankets, Cahir slid his hand under the witcher's tunic, caressing the hot skin stretched over his defined abdomen, before resting it on the curve of his hip.

Chapter Text

I'm not upset that you lied to me, I'm upset that from now on I can't believe you

Friederich Nietzsche

A wise man does not expose himself to danger without cause, because there are few things he cares enough about; but he is willing, in great trials, even to give his life, knowing that under certain conditions it is not worth living

Aristotele

Djinns are insidious and dangerous creatures, but they follow very specific rules. In primis, a djinn can only grant its master three wishes before being automatically freed. In secundis, the creature cannot directly harm its master. Finally, wishes are irreversible unless the djinn is eliminated. Some sources speculate that, with a carefully worded request, a wish can be canceled by expressing another to a djinn of equal or higher rank.

The Witcher Bestiary

Some rare spells have the power to bind two souls together forever. They should not be used half-heartedly, because from that moment on, the destinies of the people involved will be connected at such a deep level that a sharp separation could cause physical damage, even death. All those who have dared to try this type of spell on themselves have ended up dying of a broken heart, or being followed to the grave by the soul to which they were bound. There is only one exception to this inexorable end: a magic even greater and more powerful than the one mentioned above, called sacrifice. Sacrifice is the highest form of altruism, whereby one soul can protect another even from its own destiny.

Natural Magic, Geoffrey Monck and Ivo Richert

Geralt woke up first, his limbs still entwined with those of the Nilfgaardian, who slept with his head resting on his chest. The girls were still asleep in their beds, and Regis was lying in his, enjoying one of the rare moments of rest he allowed himself.

The witcher kept his eyes open, but his gaze was fixed on nothing in particular. He was thinking. Distractedly, he ran his fingertips or the back of his hand along the Nilfgaardian's arm. He mentally reviewed the plan, then recalled the fight with Vilgefortz in Aretuza. The mistakes he had made. The wizard's obvious technical superiority. The ease with which he had been crippled. A feeling of gloom began to creep into his stomach, but he had to keep his cold-heartedness, identify the flaws in his own fighting style and in that of the wizard. For Ciri, for Yen. For his traveling companions.

Milva called him softly. Geralt snapped out of his reverie and withdrew his hand as if the Nilfgaardian's skin were burning.

The archer smiled sympathetically. «Wake Cahir up, we're leaving soon.» Angoulême had a mischievous grin on her lips. The witcher shook him gently by the shoulder. Cahir opened his eyes and stretched. For a moment, he didn't seem to realize what day it was. Geralt saw awareness descend like a veil over his eyes.

«We must hurry,» said the Nilfgaardian, rising quickly from their warm bed, «they are preparing Ciri for... the experiment.»

Geralt smothered the embers with earth, biting into one of the last pieces of dry bread left from the supplies they had bought at the inn. In no time at all, they repacked their bundles and set off, urging their horses into a gallop. In the sunlight, the witcher could see the castle in the distance.

When they reached the castle grounds, they left their horses in a clearing.

«When you’ll escape with Ciri, let her take my horse,» said Geralt, tying up Roach.

«Mine will be free to use too,» added Regis, «I can move quickly even without a mount.»

Geralt thanked him, then they set off, covered by the vegetation, until they reached the narrow bridge connecting the mountain to the rock on which the castle stood. They arrived at the edge of the greenery, where the small new leaves still managed to conceal their presence. With a nod, the witcher signaled to Regis and Milva to begin their part of the plan. The archer had climbed one of the tallest and most luxuriant trees, from which she could get a good view of the guards on the bridge and the walls immediately in front of her. She struck the first ones with ease, while Regis, in the form of a bat, checked that there were no others. Before the guards on the walls could raise the alarm, the vampire was upon them. They fell asleep one after the other. The unluckiest ones with an arrow in their chest.

When she saw that Regis had managed to open the gate closing off the ramparts, Milva told her companions that, for the moment, the way was clear. They moved quickly, Geralt in the lead, Cahir close behind, and Angoulême bringing up the rear. Milva remained in the tree to cover the group's movements, and she did well because four guards on patrol emerged from the vegetation and began to pursue them. They were shot down before they could set foot on the stone bridge.

When the witcher and his companions disappeared inside the walls, the archer leapt down from her hiding place and hurried to join them. She found them finishing off the vampire's work: their blades made a faint rustling sound as they pierced the jugular veins of the unsuspecting soldiers. They all died without a gurgle. Without further delay, Regis set about opening the main gate. In the form of a bat, he entered through one of the guardhouse's slits, and after a few minutes, the wood began to creak in front of them, revealing the vampire's pale face. They slipped inside, one after the other.

«Regis, go find Ciri,» Geralt ordered. «See you at Yen's.»

With a soft flutter of wings, the vampire disappeared into the darkness of the castle. The witcher heard footsteps approaching from the upper floors and hurried to gather the group. Shoulder to shoulder with the Nilfgaardian, he opened the door behind which Regis had disappeared. They found themselves in front of a narrow, damp corridor, more suited to a kikimora than a wizard, however revolting that might be.

The group moved quickly, remaining alert, as the castle seemed unusually empty, but the footsteps were inexorably approaching. After a few turns, the corridor seemed to end in nothingness. Not a door, not a trapdoor, not even a slit through which to try to get their bearings. Cahir sought the witcher's gaze, but he advanced as if nothing had happened toward the end of the corridor. When he seemed to be about to bump into the stone wall, the illusion faltered.

They spent what seemed like an hour, but was actually only a few minutes, passing through large rooms, filled with stills and strange machinery, closed by heavy iron doors, and stone staircases made slippery by dampness and moss growing on them. In some areas, the air was so thick with the stench of mold that it made their heads spin.

When they came to a brighter, slightly wider corridor that ended in a wide staircase leading upstairs, they realized that they were most likely entering the central area of the castle. Cahir lowered the visor of his helmet, Milva gripped her bow so tightly that her knuckles turned white.

They entered the circular room aware that they were easy targets.

Milva's death took them by surprise. Not now. Not so soon, thought Geralt. They were all used to the sight and smell of blood. Each of them had lost at least one friend in battle. Every time, however, it was like the first. Cahir held Angoulême back from throwing herself on the archer's lifeless body. He pulled her close, his stomach churning. As he dragged her away, she was still shaking and crying.

They caught their breath in the corridor they found on the opposite side from the entryway they used. Milva had sacrificed herself to eliminate every last archer, allowing them to continue unharmed to that point.

«This looks like the central tower,» Geralt appeared calm, but a tremor in his voice betrayed his true feelings. «If I had to guess, Ciri would be on one of the upper floors and Yen in the dungeons. Let's look for a staircase leading down to the basement.»

They continued down the corridor, and as soon as they reached the lower floor, more guards were upon them. Geralt and Cahir fought shoulder to shoulder, striking blows as precise as scalpels, severing arteries and entire heads, taking advantage of every small opening offered by their opponents' armor. Angoulême, still blinded by tears but flooded with blind fury, contributed as best she could with her small blade. They pressed on relentlessly, leaving a trail of corpses behind them and breaking down every door in their path.

«I recognize this place,» Cahir said, panting, once he had cleared yet another room of Vilgefortz's guards. He pointed to one of the three doors, seemingly identical to the others: «That way leads down to the cells where... where the mercenary threatened Ciri.»

Geralt nodded and, together with the Nilfgaardian, approached the door. They kicked it down. Behind it, the guards lying in wait to take them by surprise were struck by the heavy wood. The white wolf and the black hawk danced to the macabre sound of whistling blades and the gurgling of slit throats. Cahir, with his military bearing, was straight and deadly, brutal in his blows that broke through his opponents' defenses with force. Geralt pirouetted around him, the Sihil glinting just before sinking into the guards' flesh, elegant and efficient as only a witcher could be. Splashes of blood stained the walls of the tunnel.

They broke through into the prisons, easily taking down the last guard. Geralt was about to throw himself towards the bars when Cahir drew his attention to the mass of soldiers rushing down the other side of the corridor. With a nod, the witcher left Angoulême to free the sorceress and followed the Nilfgaardian to defend their only way out.

Ciri had already experienced too many absurd things to be surprised that a vampire that a vampire —and a Geralt friend, no less— appeared out of nowhere to save her. She looked at him with more curiosity than concern as he drank from the neck of one of the men who had been holding her prisoner.

«I have to go save my mother,» said the girl, heading for the door with one of the guards' blades in her hand.

«I'm coming with you,» replied Regis, then, before the young woman could refuse his help, he continued, «We should find Geralt and the others there too.»

Ciri hurried along the corridors: even though she had only walked through them blindfolded, the way to the prisons was familiar to her. Regis fluttered above her head, following her like a shadow. They encountered some guards, whom the witcheress had no trouble neutralizing with a few moves. During the last fight, Regis returned to human form to help her.

They passed yet another turn, Ciri's heart seemed to beat faster as the prisons grew closer, but suddenly it stopped. In front of her stood Bonhart's small, evil black eyes. She knew she couldn't beat him. Her instinct was to run, she focused on her power but only managed to teleport a few steps. The castle's defenses were still active. Regis recognized at a glance the bounty hunter Cahir had described to him. He stood between him and the girl, ordering her to stay close.

Bonhart laughed: «Are you letting an old man defend you?»

Regis smiled and lunged at him. Bonhart didn't see the blow coming, which left him with a deep gash on his face.

«What the hell...» he cursed, then his gaze changed to curiosity, his small fish eyes scrutinizing his new prey with interest: «And what are you?»

Regis's fangs peeked out from his lips, and the bounty hunter paled and turned to flee. The vampire turned briefly to motion to Ciri to follow him, but it wasn't necessary: the girl, seeing a crack in the bounty hunter's armor, had already rushed headlong toward him.

Thanks to that momentary advantage, Bonhart disappeared from Ciri and Regis's sight long enough to take one of the two possible roads at a fork.

«I'm going to the prisons,» said Ciri, spotting a dead body in that direction. After a moment's hesitation, she continued, «You go the other way. If you don't find him, come back and meet me. I can hold him off until you get here.»

Geralt and Cahir had managed to withstand yet another wave of guards in the narrow corridor leading to the cells. The corpses were piling up quickly. Taking advantage of the apparently quiet moment, the young man removed his helmet to catch his breath. Angoulême had evidently not yet managed to find the keys or the right cell—only the gods knew how far the dungeons of that castle extended, and how many people had fallen into Vilgefortz's clutches.

«Let's go help Angoulême,» said the witcher, turning around, worried since the girl was not returning with Yennefer. Before they could set off, a figure leaped toward Geralt with a drawn sword. Cahir, who had lagged behind, reluctant to leave their only escape route uncovered, saw him coming a little earlier and stepped between his blade and the witcher's body. By the time he recognized him, it was too late to run.

«Bonhart,» sighed the Nilfgaardian.

«My reputation precedes me, I see,» sneered the bounty hunter, «but your face, boy, doesn't ring a bell. Get out of the way, I want the White Wolf.»

Geralt stepped forward, but Cahir didn't budge. Bonhart struck suddenly, surprising even the witcher with a blow aimed at the Nilfgaardian. Cahir parried, but the blow was so powerful that it nearly broke through his defense. Geralt came to his aid, striking the mercenary from the right, but he deflected with agility. Bonhart responded with a low blow and a kick to the witcher's already injured right knee. Taken by surprise and focused on parrying the blow, he fell to the ground. In a second, Cahir pounced on the bounty hunter, pushing him away from Geralt and attacking him with rapid blows. As he deftly parried every single blow, Bonhart's eyes lit up: «All this rage to protect that monster? He doesn't deserve it.»

Cahir shouted and lunged again. And again. Bonhart laughed and, looking at Geralt still on the ground, pressed on: «Crawl, witcher, crawl. By the time you get here, the boy will already be cold.»

Seeing red, the Nilfgaardian made a risky move and charged with a wide uppercut. When he saw Bonhart's sword heading for his neck, it was too late. He closed his eyes.

Instead of the sword, he felt a blow to his shoulder that knocked him off balance. Then he felt the sword on his face, and then nothing.

«Impressive, witcher. You care about this critter,» Bonhart said with a laugh, kicking the Nilfgaardian's lifeless body. Geralt growled but refrained from rash moves: his knee was sending him waves of pain, and he wouldn't last a minute in a duel with him. Bonhart grinned maliciously: «Is he your protégé? Or something more? Hmm, if you chose him for his pretty face, I’m sor—»

«Geralt!» Ciri shouted, appearing breathless from the end of the corridor.

«What a lovely reunion,» Bonhart commented sarcastically, drawing Zirael from its scabbard and handing it to the witcheress: «Let's see what you can do.»

The girl wasted no time talking and, taking the sword, lunged at the bounty hunter. Geralt pressed him further from his side. Meanwhile, the witcher watched Ciri, who had clearly needed to fight during the time they had been separated: she had become very skilled, perhaps a little too angry in her movements, but given her past with that man, it was understandable. Bonhart, despite being outnumbered, managed to hold his own, and in a couple of exchanges came dangerously close to injuring the girl. Fortunately, it didn't take long for Regis to arrive, and, from behind, the witcher slowly heard the footsteps of Yennefer and Angoulême approaching.

«Regis, he's all yours,» Geralt shouted, limping away to make room for the vampire, while also trying to drag Cahir's unconscious body away.

The vampire's arrival took the bounty hunter by surprise: he couldn't avoid being bitten on the neck, but despite everything, he continued to struggle, trying to wrest the vampire from his neck and dodge Ciri's blows. Regis managed to block the arm wielding the weapon for a moment. It was enough for Ciri to stab him in the chest. Quickly, the evil light in Bonhart's fishy eyes went out.

«Mother!» Ciri exclaimed as soon as Yennefer's raven hair appeared at the top of the stairs leading up from the dungeons. She rushed to embrace her.

Geralt had managed to make Cahir recover his senses. The cut across his eyebrow was deep but clean, and if sutured properly, it would heal quickly.

«Can you walk?» Geralt asked him, worried, as the Nilfgaardian struggled to get back on his feet and retrieve his helmet. Cahir nodded, pressing the piece of fabric the witcher had torn from his sleeve to staunch the wound.

«Ciri, Angoulême, take him away and get as far away as possible. Stitch him up, you should find a needle and thread and some alcohol on Roach,» Geralt ordered them.

Angoulême prepared to support the wounded Nilfgaardian, while Geralt gently embraced his long-lost daughter. Ciri protested, «I'm not leaving you. I don't want to be separated from you two anymore.»

Yennefer joined the embrace: «My child,» she said, «you must leave this place. Out there, no one can take you, no one can defeat you. Geralt's friends will help you, and we... we'll try to join you soon. Fly, my child.»

Ciri was convinced. Outside the castle, she could go wherever she wanted. She could go whenever she wanted. Space and time were in her hands.

Before turning and running away, she turned to the vampire: «Thank you for everything. Protect them too, if you can.»

Regis nodded: «That's what I'm here for.»

Angoulême headed for the basement: «While I was looking for Yennefer, I found a passage,» she explained to Ciri, «I hope it leads out of here.»

«That's where everyone disappeared to when they said they were going for a piss!» replied the younger girl.

Cahir turned to Geralt: «See you in Kaer Morhen, witcher.»

As soon as the trio disappeared from view, Geralt embraced Yennefer, looked into her eyes, and kissed her. Regis flew away in the form of a bat to give them some privacy.

«Did you go with other women while I was away?»

«No,» lied the witcher.

Yennefer gave him a dirty look.

«All of them had your face.»

This time it wasn't a lie. Yennefer kissed him again, her scent of lilac and gooseberry still there even after months of imprisonment.

«Now let's go get Vilgefortz,» said the sorceress, then she glanced at Bonhart: «But first, take the witcher medallions from that bastard's body.»

Angoulême led Ciri and Cahir, who was still leaning on her, to the cells on the floor below. Next to the guardhouse was a small stone door, practically invisible to the naked eye.

«Good thing you're traveling with an expert on prisons and jailers,» the girl boasted, quickly opening the door with one of the keys she had taken from the guard's corpse. The corridor behind the door was just as cramped and damp, and it stank of piss.

«They didn't have to go far to empty their bladders,» Ciri remarked with disgust.

Despite the foul smell, this was their only hope of getting out without too many fights. Ciri went first, sword drawn.

They found nothing but rats until the corridor opened into one of the castle's inner courtyards. There, three guards patrolled the perimeter and two stood guard near the well on the northwest side.

Cahir's bleeding had almost stopped, but the soldier was still not feeling well enough to face a fight while outnumbered. Ciri acted cunningly. She remained hidden in the shadows of the tunnel until one of the guards came close enough, then attacked him from behind, dragging him into the passageway while covering his mouth. She managed to take down two of them before the others became alert and began to move more cautiously.

They remained hidden until two of the men came close enough, then confronted them. The surprise was enough for Ciri to get the better of her opponent, but Cahir, weakened by his wound, needed Angoulême's help to take down his. They attacked the last one together, managing to neutralize him quickly.

«Unless they're extracting gold from that well, there must be a reason for all this attention on an empty, dilapidated courtyard,» Angoulême observed. While Ciri kept watch, the girl went to check the area patrolled by the two guards around the well.

«Found it!» she exclaimed with satisfaction after a few moments. She pointed to a trapdoor, well hidden at the base of the stone well by a group of rose bushes. «I'd bet my ass that this tunnel will take us outside the walls.»

They climbed down quickly, using the rickety ladder that was already in place. They found themselves in a low tunnel, where the girls had to bend their heads completely to pass through, while Cahir had to bend almost in half. The only positive thing was that, whatever encounter they might have in there, Ciri and Angoulême would have greater freedom of movement than their opponent: they traveled one in front and the other behind.

The passage often had further descents, some vertical, with stairs so worn that they had to cling to the rocks protruding from the ground. In some places, the passage narrowed even further, forcing them to crawl. It was not a tiled tunnel; it was clearly not used often, and nature had taken over. Taking longer than they would have hoped, they managed to reach the end, exhausted and covered in dirt and rat excrements, but alive. They emerged near a stream, the entrance to the tunnel hidden among the rocks and weeds that surrounded it. The rock on which the castle stood towered above them.

It was easy for Cahir to get his bearings: they must be on the same side where they had left the horses, but many meters below. A steep climb awaited them.

Ciri made them stay hidden and took out Kelpie's call, which she had concealed on her person before entering the castle. After a few minutes, they began to hear the sound of hooves, and then the black mare arrived, as always, as light as snow. Cahir and Angoulême were speechless.

«You can carry all three of us at a walking pace, can't you, Kelpie? Let's go and get their horses and make a run for it!»

They rode slowly, hidden by the vegetation, heading towards the clearing.

Vilgefortz's head fell to the ground. Geralt didn't hesitate for a second before going to help Yennefer, who had fallen a little further away. There was nothing more to be done for Regis: perhaps the world would see him again in a few decades, or even a few hundred years.

Supporting each other, the two survivors made their way to the main exit. Seeing the witcher and the sorceress emerge alive, albeit weakened, the mercenaries lurking in the room where Milva had fallen quickly dispersed. They continued along the same way the company had traveled a short time before.

Once outside in the open air, the witcher saw none other than Emperor Emhyr var Emreis himself standing before him. Behind him, as far as the eye could see, his army was lined up. Geralt instinctively reached for his blade. The emperor laughed: «What do you think you can do with that, witcher? Be a good boy and hand over Ciri, and your life will be spared. Yours, hers, and even Yennefer's.»

Without moving his fingers from the hilt of the Sihil, Geralt smiled: «Long time no see, Duny. I never thought I'd meet you again like this.»

Emhyr was taken aback, and for a moment he didn't know how to respond. Then he hissed, «What are you babbling about, witcher? Do you want me to kill you right now?»

«Go ahead,» Geralt challenged him, «but your secret will not die with me.»

A light breeze began to flow from behind the witcher, carrying his voice even further. Yennefer had her eyes closed and was drawing on the first magical sources she could find to move the air towards the army.

«Cirilla, the lion cub of Cintra, is the daughter of your emperor, Emhyr var Emreis.»

The emperor did not even let him finish the first sentence: he lunged at him with all his strength. Geralt parried, and the breeze increased so much that it pushed Emhyr away.

The witcher was able to continue: «He conspired with Vilgefortz to disappear with Ciri and Pavetta, and return to his true identity to claim the throne. Did you kill Pavetta on purpose, or was it a tragic accident?»

The emperor, blinded by rage, ordered the army to attack. The earth shook to the rhythm of the Nilfgaardians' march.

Kelpie was not yet exhausted, despite the climb and the considerable weight she had to carry, and she continued on her way calmly.

In the silence, Cahir found the words: «Ciri...» He paused, as if deciding how to continue. «I know you've had nightmares. About me, about what I did to you. I wanted to apologize, even if it won't change anything. I want you to know that I always wanted you to be safe, I never wanted to hurt you.»

«Apology accepted. Cahir, right?» The girl turned, and out of the corner of her eye she saw the Nilfgaardian nod. «If Geralt considers you his friend, I trust you. We've all done horrible things. It's war.»

Cahir was amazed by the young woman's wisdom, by her detachment in assessing the situation she was waist-deep in. He understood why the witcher was so proud of her.

«I've been dreaming about you too, you know? A lot, lately.» Ciri blushed, and the Nilfgaardian paused briefly to decide what to tell her. He opted for simplicity: «We clung to that hope during the journey.»

They slowly managed to climb back up the hill they had come from. They must have been not far from the clearing when they began to hear noises coming from the main road, a few hundred meters away. Angoulême, with the excuse of needing to empty her bladder, offered to go and check. Ciri and Cahir remained well hidden in the thick vegetation. The girl returned after a few minutes, breathless. «It's Nilfgaard. The army is lined up in front of the castle entrance, they're attacking.»

Ciri panicked. Even if Geralt and Yen were lucky enough to defeat Vilgefortz, they would be powerless against such a deployment of forces. She had to go and warn them, she had to go and save them. She moved quickly: «Let's hurry and get your horses. Lead the way.»

Cahir showed her the way, and Kelpie obediently led them to the clearing in a few minutes. Angoulême took a needle, thread, and alcohol from the saddlebag under Roach's saddle and mounted her horse. Cahir, despite his occasional dizziness, also managed to mount his.

«Let's get away, head north and stay well away from the road,» ordered the Nilfgaardian.

Ciri hesitated, then followed them. She was sorry she couldn't keep the promise she had made to her mother, but she couldn't run away when she could save them. As Kelpie trotted behind the other horses, the girl concentrated. She thought of the castle, she thought of Geralt and Yennefer. But nothing happened. Perhaps, she thought, the barriers are still up. Then she conceived an alternative plan. She could also travel through time and intercept Geralt before he reached the castle. She could show him the secret passage to enter, free Yennefer, and leave without being noticed. She thought of the clearing, of Geralt tying up Roach, of Cahir and Angoulême leaving their horses. But nothing. Nothing she did seemed to work. She felt the air leave her chest and, not wanting to attract attention, she took a sharp breath, but she let out a hiss that even the Nilfgaardian at the head of the company heard.

He turned around, concerned: «Ciri, was that you? What's going on?»

«My powers,» the girl stammered as Cahir turned his horse to approach her, «I can't... I can't control them. I can't come and warn you. Before. I can't get into the castle.»

He placed a hand on her shoulder, trying to calm her ravings: «They'll be fine,» he said, trying to convince himself as well, «your life is the priority now, we can't stop.»

A rumble behind them interrupted their conversation. Without further ado, they spurred their horses into a gallop.

Despite her exhaustion, Yennefer drew on her willpower, on the underground water sources, on the fires still burning inside the castle. The rock began to crack with ominous pops. Geralt understood what the sorceress was trying to do. It was a superhuman effort that would drain her. As he continued to parry and thrust against Emhyr and his guards, he shouted desperately, «No! Yen, stop, it will kill you.»

Suddenly, a rock larger than a house broke away from the mountainside. Moments later, with a boom, it crashed onto the narrow bridge the army was crossing. The emperor turned to see what had happened, and the witcher was quick to slit his throat. After a moment of confusion, the five guards returned to attack him. Geralt no longer felt pain, no longer felt fatigue, no longer even felt fear. He felt only anger and despair. Clinging to them as if they were the only things keeping him alive, the wolf, wounded in soul and body, lashed out with a frenzy of blows at the men surrounding him. He was struck on the arms, the side, and grazed on the face, but he did not fall. Not while they were still standing.

When he was surrounded only by corpses, he fell to his knees. He was afraid to turn around and acknowledge what he already knew had happened. With tears already streaming down his cheeks, he crawled toward Yennefer's body, slumped on the ground. She looked smaller, lighter, more innocent than he remembered. She was still breathing, albeit with difficulty.

«Yen,» he stammered.

«Ge-Geralt, come here,» the sorceress's voice was just a whisper, «Hold me.»

Yennefer of Vengerberg breathed her last in the witcher's arms, where she would have liked to remain forever.

Chapter Text

The witcher medallion is not only an insignia of our profession, it is also one of its tools. It has numerous useful capabilities that are accessible, of course, only to one who possesses the necessary knowledge and training. First of all, it reacts to the presence of sorcerous auras in the immediate surroundings, making us aware of nearby spellcasting, active illusions, or magical creatures. It also warns the owner of sudden dangers, thus providing an additional moment to react. Keep in mind, though, that the medallion is not infallible. A very strong magical aura, such as those found in Places of Power or during the solstices, can provoke aberrant reactions. In large cities, where people widely use simple magical amulets or sorcerous alarm systems to protect their homes, coin, or ruttish wives, the medallion can also behave abnormally.

Vesemir

A poet cannot live without love, and on the other hand, love could not truly live without a poet to recite it. It was for this reason—you will agree, extremely altruistic—and no other that I found myself having to reciprocate the affection of Baroness Nique.  

I met her during one of the court parties, and she seemed very interested in my poems; but at that moment I only had eyes for my sweetheart. Some time later, I was hired as a troubadour by the baroness herself for a small private party on her estate. Annarietta was unable to attend, and the baroness's court became ruthless. She passed by my station several times, looking at me with those doe eyes and intoxicating me with her scent of roses and currants. And when love knocks on the door, who am I not to open it? Despite her aloof appearance, the baroness was the most affectionate of lovers, her kisses as sweet as ripe strawberries.  

We met again several times, and Annarietta, alas, began to suspect. A bard's heart is big enough to hold love for two, or even three or four girls at the same time, but his time is limited, like everyone else's. Feeling neglected, my little weasel had me followed, but she did not choose one of her guards, she chose a new servant girl whom I had not yet had the pleasure of meeting. My Annarietta is clever, she knows very well that even if I had realized someone was following me, seeing such a young and rosy girl, I would have thought it was one of my many admirers and would not have paid any attention. 

My little weasel is a woman of impetuous but fleeting passions. When she confronted me that night, I thought she would forgive me in no time if she gave me time to court her again, but, in complete frenzy, she put me to death that very morning.

Half a Century of Poetry, Jaskier

They had been traveling for three days now. At every stop they made, Ciri tried hard not to cry. Every now and then she tested her powers to see if they had returned. Outside the castle and its magical barriers, she could move through space just fine, but something seemed to prevent her from going back in time. She hadn't attempted to move to other worlds, or to go forward. She didn't see the point.

Cahir had been stitched up and disinfected, and the cut didn't seem to be infected. It would leave a scar, but probably not as large and jagged as Ciri's.

Angoulême was slowly recovering from the trauma of Milva's death and was gradually returning to her usual boisterous self. She had discovered she had a lot in common with Ciri, who, like her, had spent time in a gang of delinquents. Flanking Forgeham, Angoulême had suggested stopping by to buy some fisstech. Cahir had immediately warned her that they would not enter any city before Toussaint, let alone to buy drugs. However, he had recognized the look of interest Ciri had given her. Geralt would not have liked it at all.

As the days passed, the two Hansa members began to get to know the young woman better. She sometimes opened up to them about some of her past adventures. Cahir in particular seemed fascinated by the unicorn, which he had seen in a dream and couldn't believe was real. Rather, the world where the streets were gray and hard and the sky foggy and streaked with plumes of smoke seemed more realistic to him.

They carefully avoided to talk about the witcher until Ciri herself brought it up during one of their campfires.

«So, how did you meet Geralt?» asked the girl, her eyes veiled with sadness, but curious to know how a lone wolf like him had managed to gather such a close-knit company.

Angoulême answered first, enthusiastically telling how the witcher had saved her from the gallows.

«That sounds just like Geralt,» Ciri commented, sighing.

The girl elaborated on the story, peppering it with her usual vulgarities, which at least had the merit of amusing Ciri.

«When I joined, those two were still fighting,» said Angoulême, giving the Nilfgaardian a mischievous look. «Just think, once aunty... um, Milva had to separate them with a belt because they wouldn't stop fighting.»

«Also that sounds just like Geralt,» Ciri laughed again, then continued, «And you, Cahir? How did you go from the Nilfgaardian army to this motley crew of hopeless vagabonds?»

«On the night of the Thanedd Coup, you weren't the only one who spared me. Geralt also had the chance to kill me, but he showed mercy. Something clearly unknown to the emperor and his army. I was condemned, bound, and traded in a coffin. I don't know by what twist of fate, but it was Geralt who found me and freed me once again.»

Ciri frowned: «I don't understand, why would he free you?»

«I have no idea. I don't think he knows either,» replied the Nilfgaardian. «I followed them from afar. Ever since you disappeared, I kept having dreams about your escapades with the Rats. I realized what my true mission was: to find you. To save you. I even convinced myself that I loved you, you know?»

Ciri blushed, and Cahir hastened to clarify: «I later realized that what binds me to you is not love, but only an illusion. Predestination, perhaps. I don't know why it happened to me, Ciri, but I couldn't help it.»

The girl nodded understandingly and let him continue where he had left off.

«I tried to talk to Geralt, to make him understand that I wanted nothing more than to help him find you. Not for myself. Not for the emperor. But of course he didn't believe me—how could he? He threatened me, he drove me away, but I always followed them like a shadow. When I could, I helped. Milva was the first to believe in me, when Geralt thought I was crazy. But at that moment there were more important things, bigger than me: Jaskier was wounded, and Geralt had just realized that Regis, who was treating him, was a superior vampire. A much greater threat than a soldier like me.»

Ciri and Angoulême listened with fascination, as the latter had not yet had the opportunity to hear the whole story either.

«For quite some time, Geralt thought I was spying for Nilfgaard, because we were being hunted and it seemed they knew our movements. That's why we fought,» he smiled wistfully, as if remembering those moments with nostalgia, «luckily Milva and Regis were there, otherwise we would have killed each other.»

«And then?» Ciri pressed, curious.

«And then he forgave me. More or less. He saved me from certain death, stitched me up, and carried me in his arms when the horses were exhausted. He believed in my dreams and allowed me to ride by his side.»

«It sounds like a happy ending,» commented the girl, «but he's not here.»

«He'll come. If something had happened, you would have sensed it,» the Nilfgaardian reassured her.

The foothills of the mountains on the horizon were beginning to turn green. The snow was melting, and the temperature in Sudduth was even higher than when they had passed through two weeks earlier.

«Now the pass is safe to cross,» observed the Nilfgaardian. To climb the mountain they had to get closer to Caravista than Cahir would have liked. With their hoods pulled down over their heads, they tried to use secondary paths, but the line of merchants who had begun to cross the Malheur as the weather improved must have been stretching along the main road, causing the locals to move to lesser-known roads.

They caught snippets of excited conversations about the end of the war. The death of the emperor, a scandal about a supposed daughter who had been found. Cahir immediately understood that they were referring to Ciri, even though her name, fortunately, was not yet being mentioned.

They quickened their pace.

Without the snow and anxiety weighing them down, their steps seemed lighter. They knew some of the shelters and camped there as soon as the sun began to set.

When they reached the summit of the Malheur, they camped in the harpy cave. Angoulême fidgeted nervously with her rings, the memory of the pendant Milva had accepted tugging at her heart and stomach.

That evening, while the rabbit was still on the spit, they heard hooves approaching the cave. Both Ciri and Cahir jumped to their feet with their right hands on their weapons, while Angoulême hurried to smother the flames as best she could. They remained silent, lurking in the darkness at the entrance to the cave, ready to pounce on the unfortunate traveler. The footsteps drew nearer. Cahir sprang forward before the man could enter the cave, exploiting the tactical advantage he had gained.

The man easily parried the blow, as if he had seen it coming. A fleeting ray of moonlight bounced off the man's white hair. The swords fell to the ground, and the Nilfgaardian threw himself at him, arms wide open.

«Geralt,» he sighed, «you're alive.»

As he moved away, the witcher placed a hand on the base of his shoulder, squeezing his fingers almost imperceptibly. He immediately turned to look for Ciri.

The girl was frozen in place.

«You're alone,» she said, her voice breaking.

Geralt looked away. He didn't even try to justify himself when the girl lunged at him, pushing him against the wall.

«You didn't do enough,» she shouted. «You should have saved her at the cost of your own life.»

The witcher remained helpless, nodding. Ciri was furious: «You didn't love her enough. You never loved her.»

The witcher's dark eyes flashed at Ciri's emerald green ones. He felt that, in some way, what the girl was saying wasn't entirely untrue. He had desired the sorceress, he had loved her, even madly, ever since the djinn had cursed them. Now that the bond had been broken, in the most brutal way possible, only a thin mist remained of that feeling. A slight warmth that surrounded him and made him feel protected. He had learned to love Yennefer by going beyond desire, beyond the mistrust that reigned in their relationship, and he had done it for Ciri, for the daughter they had wanted so much. But that visceral bond, which had united them for so long, seemed to have vanished into thin air. He swallowed. He had already cried all his tears, those caused by despair and those caused by guilt. Neither feeling, however, had subsided.

Ciri's blows reached him muffled, as if the body were not really his, despite the wounds and bruises he had collected in combat. They were not punches intended to physically hurt him. Geralt wrapped his arms around her and held her close.

«She protected me. She ended the war. She sacrificed herself for me, for you, for the whole world. Yennefer...» He hesitated. Even saying her name still hurt. «She wasn't a woman who needed saving. She has always been the architect of her own destiny, and even this time, despite everything, she chose freely.» The witcher's voice cracked, but he continued. Ciri cried and sobbed on his chest. She had stopped hitting him.

Over the next few days, Kelpie trotted nervously at the head of the company, following Ciri's commands. The mare seemed to sense her rider's despair. They rode in a silence so heavy that they regretted the blizzard on the way there. Cahir asked quietly about Regis, and the witcher shook his head. They didn't talk about it anymore.

Geralt had promised himself he would tell Ciri what he knew before they entered the city, but every moment seemed wrong. He left Cahir's side and took Roach to Kelpie's left, who snorted and puffed out her nostrils.

«There's something you should know, Ciri. Before we get to the city and she finds out from someone else...» The witcher took a deep breath. «You are the heir to the throne of Nilfgaard.»

The girl's eyes widened. «Are you raving?» She replied more coldly than expected.

«Unfortunately, no,» Geralt replied, «which puts you in danger, of course. We'd be wise to keep a low profile in the city. We're just stopping by to update Jaskier and see if Anna Henrietta can help us.» He grimaced at the thought.

«This Anna Henrietta,» Ciri asked with an inquisitive look, «does she have short black hair and green eyes?»

«No,» the witcher replied curtly, «why do you ask?»

«No particular reason,» the girl replied evasively. She was silent for a moment, then continued, changing topic «Does that mean Emhyr was my father?»

Geralt nodded gravely.

«Why didn't you tell me this before, in the castle?»

«If the plan had failed... if you had ended up being captured by the Nilfgaardian army, Emhyr would have married you. And knowing that, you would never have accepted it. You would have let yourself be killed instead. I wanted you to have a chance at happiness anyway.»

Ciri wanted to be angry with Geralt again, but after everything she had been through in the other world with Auberon, she almost understood him. The weight of her human ancestry had been added to her Ancient Blood. Her blood had been a curse, but it seemed to have been redeemed, at least in part, by the emergence of her powers. At that moment, even those were faltering, and another burden was added to her collection. She wanted to snap her fingers and become an ordinary, normal person. But she couldn't do that.

«I understand,» she replied tersely. Geralt accepted her silence, remaining nonetheless riding alongside her.

When they arrived near the city, they realized the abnormal number of people who seemed to be heading in the same direction as them.

Cahir approached Geralt and Ciri, struggling to push through the people flooding the streets. The two had covered their heads, but they were still all too recognizable.

«There are too many people here. You're too exposed,» said the Nilfgaardian, keeping his voice as low as possible.

The witcher could only agree. The news was spreading like wildfire; he could hear passersby discussing it in more detail than he would have expected. They left the main road and stopped a short distance away, hidden by vegetation.

«If His Highness sir Julian Alfred agrees to get his shoes dirty to say hello to us, bring him here. Under other circumstances, I would have told you to bring him anyway, even tied up like a sausage against his will, but I wouldn't want to end up wanted in Toussaint too,» said Geralt with a sad half-smile. «If he doesn't want to come, tell him what happened.»

«He'll come,» Cahir reassured him, «one way or another.»

Angoulême seemed strangely restless. She had dismounted and showed no intention of getting back on her horse. When Cahir called her to go, she hesitated.

«Witcher,» the girl began hesitantly, «if I really wanted to stay here and open that brothel... would that be a problem for you?»

Geralt smiled, this time genuinely happy that at least someone in his ragtag company could have what they had always wanted. He hugged her: «When the dust settles, we'll come and see you.»

«Ask for The Kite's Nest, they'll surely know where to send you.»

«Isn't that a bit too elegant a name for a brothel, especially one run by you?» asked the Nilfgaardian amusedly.

Angoulême put on her mischievous grin and, looking him in the eye, replied, «I also thought of The Wolf's Bites or The Forest of Moans, but I preferred to remember Milva instead of your–."

«It's a beautiful name, fitting for the place,» Geralt interrupted, glaring at her. If it weren't for his mutations, he would have blushed like Cahir.

Ciri frowned for a moment, confused by the two men's exaggerated reactions to those names, which weren't really that vulgar. She decided not to ask any questions. Angoulême reached her and hugged her: «You come visit me too, okay? Maybe without these old folks who don't know how to have fun!» Then she jumped on her horse and followed the Nilfgaardian toward the road crowded with travelers.

«Was it that obvious?» Cahir asked her, his face still a little red.

Angoulême raised an eyebrow: «Only Milva could think those marks were bruises. She had to hear you to convince herself that Regis was telling the truth, that Geralt wasn't beating you up, quite the contrary.»

The Nilfgaardian nearly choked on his own saliva and, now purple in the face, replied, «Don't tell the bard, please.»

«Get on your horses, we have to get away from here quickly,» said the Nilfgaardian breathlessly as soon as he reached Geralt and Ciri. Jaskier, perched awkwardly behind Cahir, with a tense smile on his face and his head tilted slightly forward, greeted Geralt and Ciri: «You can't imagine how happy I am to see you again.»

The witcher mounted his horse, letting out a brief but obvious annoyed grunt toward the bard: «What have you done this time?»

Jaskier stammered, unable to string together a coherent sentence. Cahir briefly explained for him: «We rescued him from the gallows just in time. His duchess had sentenced him to death.»

Jaskier suddenly regained his gift of speech: «She has already pardoned me. She will forgive me soon, I know Annarietta loves me.»

Geralt sighed loudly, urging his horse into a faster trot. Ciri smiled for the first time in days, perhaps months.

«Yennefer is dead,» Filippa Eillhart announced coldly, «Ciri is missing again. The emperor has been slain by the witcher, and we, as the Lodge, have no viable alternative ready.»

The sorceresses exchanged glances in silence, almost all of them troubled by the crushing defeat they had suffered.

Fringilla Vigo, after a moment's hesitation, spoke up: «Some of my spies have spotted the Nilfgaardian who accompanied the witcher in Toussaint. He and Ciri may be nearby.»

Filippa laughed sarcastically: «Can we still trust your information, Fringilla?»

The sorceress lowered her green eyes, feeling helpless. Triss Merigold intervened: «Now that Geralt and Ciri are together, they could be returning to Kaer Morhen, and if Fringilla's hypothesis is correct, we should look for them north of Toussaint. We could try to locate them. I have known and loved both Geralt and Ciri, that might be enough. And Fringilla also had a connection with Geralt,» her voice hardened as she uttered the last sentence.

«A weak plan is still better than no plan,» Francesca commented, then turned to Fringilla: «You could send your men north while we try to locate them.»

Filippa did not seem very confident that the strategy would succeed, but, sighing, she accepted it.

As soon as they were far enough away from Toussaint, the bard had ridden Kelpie with Ciri, as the mare was the only one that could keep up despite the extra weight. When tears inevitably welled up in Ciri's green eyes again, Jaskier had hugged her. He listened to her for a long time, then accompanied her with words to happy memories. He told her what the sorceress said about her, how proud she was of her daughter. He explained how much Yennefer admired her courage, and that in that last moment she had surely gathered the strength to save Geralt only because of her, because she hoped that she could have a future with at least one of her parents. Unlike Geralt, Jaskier was good with words and, when needed, had the sensitivity to make the people he loved feel better. Ciri cried her heart out in Jaskier's arms for most of the journey, but before the sky began to darken, she started to feel better.

They camped not far from the river, one of the small tributaries of the Jaruga, which they were following. The three men and the girl were tired from the day, but their mood seemed to have improved significantly since that afternoon. The bard entertained the company with a more accurate account of the exploits that had led him straight to the gallows.

«Why does your inclination to drop your pants when you shouldn't always get us into trouble, Jaskier?» asked the witcher. He wasn't really angry; they were far from danger, and even though he would never admit it out loud, he was happy that the bard was traveling with them again. It even seemed to him that, willingly or unwillingly, he had come to his senses after the idle court life that did not suit him at all.

«That's not true at all!» protested Jaskier, offended. «Take my relationship with Annarietta, for example: we wouldn't have had a warm place to spend the winter.»

«You were lucky that her husband died just in time,» replied Geralt.

Ciri laughed. Hearing that sound, Geralt's expression softened. Trying not to be noticed, he turned to watch her smile. As he did so, he caught Cahir's gaze, who was doing exactly the same thing.

Ciri, exhausted, lay down early and quickly fell into a deep sleep, lulled by Jaskier's songs. When he was sure the girl was asleep, the bard asked the witcher about Yennefer. Geralt frowned, but told him everything. Talking to Jaskier helped lighten the weight on his chest a little. The bard began to play again, this time a sad, slow melody.

Geralt rose silently, taking care not to disturb the girl sleeping not far from him, and made his way to the river that flowed a short distance from their camp. Beneath the gurgling of the water breaking on the rocks, he could still clearly hear the sound of the lute.

He undressed, slowly peeling the fabric of his doublet away from the old wounds that still required his attention. As he immersed himself in the icy water of the stream, he heard the leaves rustling under the footsteps, now unmistakable to him, of the Nilfgaardian.

«You forgot these,» Cahir said, holding out clean bandages and the ointment the witcher used to treat wounds. He placed them next to the clothes.

Geralt thanked him with a nod, then turned back, cursing under his breath as he tried to rub the cloth on the middle of his back, where a small cut kept reopening because he could never heal it properly.

He felt Cahir's hand on his shoulder before he took the damp cloth and gently dabbed it on the wound he was trying to reach. He carefully cleaned all the wounds on the witcher's back, neck, and face, then left him the cloth to continue on his own with the ones in front. The Nilfgaardian knew that Geralt would not accept help where he could do it himself.

«You could have asked for help... from me or Jaskier,» Cahir said, bending down to pick up the comb, then gently touching his hair: «May I?»

Geralt gave a low grunt of assent, and the soldier began to comb his hair with confident but gentle movements.

When the witcher was washed and dried, Cahir helped him apply the ointment. The fingers of his right hand moved delicately over the wounds, while his left hand rested firmly on the base of his neck or the curve of his hip, indicating to the witcher when and how much to bend. He lingered perhaps a little longer than necessary, because Geralt turned to him with a half-smile: «Cahir,» he said simply, turning his gaze to the faint glow of the fire. The bard's voice and the sound of the lute could no longer be heard.

The Nilfgaardian hurried to fetch clean bandages. Only two wounds needed to be bandaged, besides the one on his back: one on his hip, the other on his arm, both on the left side of his body.

«You leave yourself too exposed on this side,» Cahir commented as he tightened the bandage on his side.

Geralt snorted, amused. «It's my knee's fault, master.»

The Nilfgaardian gave him a dirty look. The witcher continued, «Sometimes you remind me of Vesemir. I bet you'll like him. And by the way...» He rummaged in his trouser pocket, pulling out the three witcher medallions he had torn from Leo Bonhart's corpse. «One is yours, if you want it. You've earned it.»

«Geralt, I...» the Nilfgaardian hesitated.

«You don't have to wear it around your neck if you don't want to, after the training it will work just as well,» Geralt reassured him, «even though you would be worthy of wearing it.»

The Nilfgaardian reached for the three medallions, weighing them as he considered his options.

«Wouldn't you like to take yours back?» he asked, holding the wolf.

«Mine is probably somewhere in the forest with the druids, I guess,» Geralt shrugged. «I'll keep them in my pocket for now anyway. If you want the wolf, take it.»

«You choose, witcher,» he said, letting them slip from his hand, «the one you would have chosen for me.»

«Are you sure?» Geralt asked with a wry smile. «You won't get another one, since I won't let you do the herbs trial.»

«I trust you,» Cahir replied. On one side, he would have liked to choose the wolf from the beginning, to have the illusion of always carrying a part of Geralt with him. A sign of a sentiment that, in all likelihood, existed only in his imagination. The knowledge that it wasn't really his, however, held him back.

Geralt immediately put the cat-shaped medallion back in his pocket: «The cat ones are bastards, I would only have let you take it on the promise that you would never wear it in public.» He considered the other two. He placed the griffin in his hand.

«The wings on your helmet, the beak on your heart. Or in your pocket,» explained the witcher.

Cahir smiled; he would never have thought of that.

They returned to the hearth, Geralt in front, his shirt half open over his chest, the bandages visible, and Cahir behind him, his clothes still a little damp. Jaskier, who had put aside his lute in favor of his notebook, stared at them as if they had both grown a third eye.

Geralt glared at him, but Cahir innocently asked, «What happened?»

«I should be asking you that, actually. What happened?»

«Jaskier,» Geralt warned him icily.

The bard was not so easily discouraged, and Geralt, unfortunately, knew this well. In fact, he continued, «Just a few weeks ago, if I had left you alone near a stream, I would surely have had to fish out a corpse. What happened? I didn't hear a single scream—and I even stopped playing to make sure. Not only did you arrive here in one piece, but you also have a brand new bandage, and Geralt—» The witcher took a deep breath, as if he wanted to reply, «Don't interrupt me! Geralt, I know you don't let just anyone lay a hand on you, or at least not without growling.»

Geralt sighed: «While we were traveling to Stygga, I realized I was wrong about him.»

«See, I knew I'd miss something interesting by staying home,» Jaskier complained with a snort, «it would have been great material for a ballad: the witcher who admits his mistakes and befriends a former Nilfgaardian knight.»

«Jaskier, you talk too much,» snapped the witcher.

«It practically writes itself, if only you would tell me how did it go, even just a few scenes...» Jaskier continued as if nothing had happened.

Geralt closed his eyes, exhaled loudly through his nose, and looked at him with a more murderous expression than usual. After years of traveling with the witcher, Jaskier knew that this was the moment to stop.

«All right, all right, I won't ask any other question,» the bard raised his hands in surrender, «but if I find you sharing the blanket tomorrow, I swear I'll write the ballad for real.»

Geralt brought a hand to his face, exhausted. Cahir turned toward his bed—all too close to the witcher's—to hide the blush that was coloring his cheeks.