You ran your bloody-gloved hand down the mare’s neck, leaving a dark crimson streak against its once-pristine coat. The light in her eyes had faded, and the deep, jagged wound in her stomach still steamed in the biting dusk air. Geralt stood beside you, his sharp eyes scanning the sky—grey and heavy, promising both a storm and the dangerous concealment of Archgriffins circling at the forest’s edge.

Your medallion buzzed faintly, the sound breaking the fragile silence. With a final, respectful glance at the lifeless mare, you stepped back, wiping your hand on your armor without a thought. Geralt had already moved to Roach, tugging at the saddlebags, his voice cutting through the stillness as you approached.

“You’ll ride with me,” he said plainly, glancing at you over his shoulder.

You gave a curt nod, pulling yourself onto Roach’s broad back. Geralt joined a moment later, settling behind you, his presence solid and undeniable.

There was a pause, the cold steel of his armor brushing the back of your neck, sending a chill down your spine. You tensed as his hand reached past your shoulder, tugging your hood into place. His breath warmed the side of your neck as he murmured, “Better keep warm.”

With a light nudge, Geralt urged Roach forward. The mare moved smoothly beneath you, but the stillness of the moment lingered. His arm brushed yours as he adjusted his hold, the faint scent of leather and herbs filling your senses. His proximity was unspoken reassurance, a fleeting comfort against the looming hunt ahead.