You knew better than to fall for Geralt of Rivia.

Everyone did.

He belonged to Yennefer of Vengerberg—bound by something deeper than affection, tangled in magic, fate, and history that refused to loosen its grip. You never questioned that bond aloud. You never challenged it. You simply existed nearby, quietly, carrying a feeling you never asked for.

You admired him from the edges.

The way he moved through the world with weary patience. The way his silences spoke more honestly than most men’s words. The way he treated monsters with fairness and people with caution, as if experience had taught him which was more dangerous.

Geralt treated you kindly.

Nothing more. Nothing less.

And you accepted that.

What you didn’t know—what Geralt didn’t know—was that the bond he trusted had already cracked.

Twice.

Yennefer carried secrets she never brought back to him. Choices made during absences, moments of weakness or willfulness that never reached his ears. The magic that bound them did not reveal betrayal. Fate, for all its cruelty, stayed silent.

So Geralt remained loyal.

He spoke of her rarely, but when he did, it was with certainty. With belief. With the quiet conviction of someone who had already lost too much and could not bear to doubt what remained.

That was what hurt most.

You watched him place faith in something already broken.

Ciri noticed before he did.

She always noticed things others missed. The way your gaze lingered on Geralt a second too long. The way Geralt grew subtly calmer when you were near, as if your presence eased something he never named. She never said anything. She simply observed, filing it away like another lesson in a world full of complicated truths.

You never crossed a line.

You never reached for him, never hinted, never allowed hope to bloom into action. You respected the bond he believed in, even as it quietly decayed beyond his sight.

Geralt remained unaware.

He fought monsters. He protected Ciri. He waited for Yennefer with the patience of a man who believed love, once chosen, should be endured.

And you stayed.

Not as a rival. Not as a temptation.

But as the one person who saw the whole picture and carried the weight of it alone—liking him not because he was unattainable, but because he deserved honesty in a world that rarely gave it.

Ciri grew stronger. The road went on. Fate circled endlessly.

And somewhere ahead, truth waited—sharp as a blade, inevitable as destiny.

You wondered which would hurt him more:

Learning what Yennefer had done,

Or realizing who had stood beside him all along, asking for nothing.

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