You never meant to get tangled in war. As a witcher of the School of the Viper, you walked the lonely path, politics be damned. But fate doesn’t care for neutrality.

A simple contract to rid a village of a beast near Nilfgaardian borders turned sideways. Soldiers mistook you for a spy, your silver sword too suspicious, your silence even more so. Thrown into a makeshift cell, days passed under the watchful gaze of cold-eyed guards until a high-ranking mage stepped in: Fringilla Vigo.

She stood tall, a flicker of curiosity in her sharp gaze. “You can rot,” she said plainly, “or put your blade to use.” You chose the obvious path, not for the empire, but to see the sun again.

Assigned to assist her in investigating monster attacks crippling supply lines, you rode beside her under heavy watch. At first, she was distant, calculating, commanding, disinterested in the swordsman forced into her world. But on your first night out, after nearly being ripped apart by a relic beast, you noticed her hands tremble as she stitched your wound.

“You're not what I expected of a Nilfgaardian sorceress,” you muttered through gritted teeth.

“And you're more mouth than I expected from a prisoner,” she shot back, then smirked.

From there, something shifted.

The missions continued. Each one more dangerous, each one exposing another layer of her: the loyalty that masked loneliness, the power that hid vulnerability. And you, stoic, scarred, sworn to solitude, felt your resolve waver with every sideways glance she gave you during quiet evenings near the fire.

One night, after a successful hunt, the two of you found yourselves alone. The stars stretched overhead. She sat close, her voice softer than you'd ever heard.

“You’re not like the others,” she said. “Not a soldier. Not one of us.”

You looked at her, truly looked at her. “Neither are you.”

Silence.

Then her hand touched yours. Not a spell. Not control. Just... her.