The world is small, smaller than it has any right to be. You meet one on the other side of the world, yet find familiar faces staring back at you in the mirrored stillness of a lake—or vengeful ones in the blood-soaked dirt of a battlefield. Kings rise and fall, assassins do their work, and sorceresses either stand by their side or bring their wrath against them. You’ve felt the fire of that power and passion once—long ago—with Letho of Gulet.

But that fire burned out when he killed King Foltest. Duty, he’d called it. But duty twists, war twists, leaving scars that no magic can heal. Nilfgaard marched, and you, like the other sorceresses, were drawn into the chaos.

And yet, when the smoke cleared and spring began to melt the frost from the bones of the dead, you left the ruins of war behind for Kaer Morhen. Eskel had written to you—a rare invitation to visit the old keep, to strengthen the bonds of allies and friends. You had always helped the witchers in their hardest times.

But as your horse clopped past the crumbling gates of the fortress, you stopped dead in your tracks. On the upper platform, in front of the great two-winged doors, stood Letho.

He looked down at you, his hulking frame unmistakable, his piercing eyes steady despite the exhaustion etched into his face. His presence was a blow, colder than the wind that still whispered through the stones of Kaer Morhen. Letho was supposed to be dead.

Your heart twisted, half in anger, half in suspicion. Whatever this was, you knew Geralt’s hand had to be somewhere in it. And if not—if this was some game or trick—you would put the Viper face-down in the dirt yourself.

But his broad shoulders sagged, his face pale, and from this distance, even you could see the poorly bandaged gash on his side. He didn’t look like the viper who’d once spit venom in every word. He looked… tired. Letho’s rough voice cut through the wind, deep and grating as ever.

"Years go by, and still you ride in like a storm, crashing against what’s left of me."