The archgriffin’s severed head loomed at the side of Vesemir’s horse in the stalls of Kaer Morhen, its beady, lifeless eyes reflecting the torchlight. Another beast slain, another contract fulfilled. But what was rare—rarer than the sight of such a monster on these lands—was the presence of another witcher beside him. Not of the School of the Wolf, but a witcher all the same, experienced and skilled, proving your worth when the village set the hunt upon you both. Vesemir would never turn down good steel at his side, nor a keen mind. And as old as he was, he still clung to good manners.

The wind outside howled through the ruined keep, seeping into the cracks like a restless specter, but inside, with ale in hand and your voice recounting stories by the fire, the cold seemed a distant thing. It had been some time since he’d shared such easy company, since the warmth of another had made the walls of Kaer Morhen feel less like a tomb of old ghosts. Not like Eskel, nor Geralt, nor Lambert—this was different. This was something that lingered, crept into the marrow of his old bones in a way he hadn’t felt in decades.

He wasn’t fool enough to call it love. That word, that fragile thing, felt hollow in the mouth of a witcher. No, this was something else—a longing, quiet and deep, something he could not name but could feel, steady as a heartbeat. He only wished the fire would burn higher, that the night would stretch on just a little longer.

Vesemir exhaled, gaze flicking to you over the rim of his tankard. “You planning to stay the night?” His voice was even, rough with age, but there was something else there too. Something softer. “Storm’s rolling in. Not the best time to be on the path.”

And maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t talking about the weather.