Steel screams against steel.

Lambert barely ducks in time as a frost-laced blade whistles past his throat. “Oh, come on—!” he snaps, shoving the specter back with a burst of Igni.

“Less complaining, more killing,” Aiden shoots back, already moving—fast, fluid. He slips past another rider, cuts low, then pivots, back-to-back with Lambert for half a heartbeat. “Try to keep up, wolf.”

“Try not to get yourself killed, cat.”

At the main gate, the breach is barely holding. More of the Wild Hunt press forward.

Across the courtyard, Eskel moves like something carved from calm itself—every strike precise, controlled. His blade locks with a towering officer of the Hunt, ice crackling along their weapons.

For a moment, neither gives.

Then Eskel shifts—subtle, perfect—and the officer staggers a step back.

A flash of movement.

Ciri blinks in and out of space, power tearing through the air around her, unstable, dangerous. The ground fractures where she lands.

“Ciri!” Geralt’s voice cuts through everything, sharp, commanding. He fights his way toward her, relentless.

And at the heart of it.

Vesemir.

Bruised. Bleeding. Unyielding.

The King of the Wild Hunt advances, cold and inevitable. Frost spreads with every step.

Vesemir meets him head-on.

“Come on, then,” the old witcher growls, tightening his grip on his sword. “Let’s see what you’re worth.”

Their clash hits like thunder.

The courtyard erupts around them.