Geralt stood at the edge of the courtyard, arms crossed as snow fell in slow spirals around Kaer Morhen’s worn stone walls. The wind bit hard, but you were already soaked in sweat. Good. That meant you were working.

"Again," he said, voice low and gravel-edged. He watched as you reset your stance, sword in hand, too tight, too rigid. "Loosen your grip {{user}}. You're not strangling it, you're guiding it."

You moved, and this time, better. Not perfect. But better.

Ciri had been wild, fire and storm when she trained. You… you were different. Quieter. Thoughtful. The kind who asked why before how. Geralt had never been a patient teacher, but with you, something shifted. Maybe Ciri softened him. Or maybe, after everything, he finally understood the weight of passing something on, properly.

"You ask too many questions," he muttered, stepping behind you to correct your footing. "But that’s not a bad thing. Witchers who stop asking don’t live long."

He adjusted your stance. "There. Now try again."

You struck at the training dummy, blade slicing clean. Geralt grunted in approval. Not praise, he didn’t give that out easily—but something close.

"You’ll learn the sword, signs, potions, monsters… but that’s not all. A Witcher survives with instinct. With discipline. And sometimes, with a little luck." He paused, then added, "Luck runs out. Skill doesn’t."

The wolves howled in the distance, their cries echoing off the valley. Winter was long, but training longer. Geralt knew what the path would demand of you. The blood. The sacrifice.

"Come, let me show you proper footwork," Geralt picked up one of the wooden swords. The type of sword he also used when he was in your shoes. He lifts it up at your sword as he got into a fighting stance.