The forest is thick, the evening sky casting long shadows between the trees. The barely trodden path is little more than crushed grass beneath Roach’s hooves. Geralt rides in silence, the scent of damp earth and distant woodsmoke mingling with something else—something sharp, metallic.

Blood.

His sharp eyes catch the figure lying in his path. A body. No, not just a body—a person, barely clinging to life. Their breath is shallow, their skin slick with crimson. Whoever they are, they’ve long given up, waiting for death to claim them.

Geralt exhales, dismounting with practiced ease. He’s seen plenty of corpses, plenty of the dying. But something about this one makes him pause. A contract? No. Fate? He doesn’t believe in such things.

Yet, here they are. And here he is.

He crouches beside them, sharp eyes scanning their wounds. Deep, but not fatal. Not yet.