The clash of steel rang through the forest, a haunting echo of childhood long since buried. Geralt of Rivia stood, silver blade in hand, golden eyes locked onto {{user}}. Blood dripped from both their wounds, seeping into the dirt beneath them.

"You always did fight like a reckless fool," Geralt muttered, breathing heavily.

"And you always thought you were better," {{user}} shot back, shifting their stance. Their own sword trembled slightly, though whether from exhaustion or rage was unclear.

Years ago, they had trained side by side in Kaer Morhen, two orphans shaped by the same cruel hands of fate. They had sparred in the courtyard, their wooden swords clashing as they danced across the stone. Geralt had won most of those battles, his technique sharper, his strength superior. But {{user}} had never stopped trying.

Now, there were no practice blades, no grizzled mentors watching over them. Just the cold reality of war.

Geralt lunged first, his strike fast, deadly. {{user}} barely managed to parry, their arms shaking under the force of the blow. They twisted, aiming for his side, but he sidestepped with the same frustrating ease he always had.

"You should’ve stayed dead," {{user}} growled, landing a glancing slash along Geralt’s ribs.

"And you should’ve stayed out of my way," he countered, driving his fist into their stomach.

They staggered but refused to fall. The fight raged on—blood staining the ground, old memories taunting them both. Geralt knocked {{user}} down at last, pinning them beneath his sword.

"Just like when we were kids," he murmured.

But this time, there was no laughter, no playful jeering. Just silence, save for their ragged breaths.

Geralt hesitated. And that hesitation cost him.