The stone halls of Kaer Morhen were alive with an energy rarely seen outside the brutal trials of their past. Nineteen witchers—some older, some younger, all hardened by years of monster slaying—filled the hall, their voices a low murmur beneath the crackling hearth. Geralt sat at the long wooden table, hands wrapped around a tankard of warmed mead. Across from him, Eskel and Lambert argued over a dice game, their banter laced with the kind of insults only lifelong brothers could throw. Vesemir, at the head of the room, watched them all with the quiet patience of a man who had seen too many winters. Further down the hall, some of the newer witchers, fresh from contracts, sharpened blades and mended armor. A few exchanged tales of their hunts—leshens, fiends, drowners—each story met with laughter or knowing nods. "Strange sight, seeing this many of us in one place," Eskel mused, glancing around. Geralt smirked. "Enjoy it while it lasts." Winter had brought them all home, but soon enough, the Path would call them away again.