the heart of the dense, brooding forest, Geralt of Rivia, his piercing yellow eyes scanning the tangled shadows, moved with a measured grace. His steed, Roach, steady and vigilant, bore the weight of their shared purpose, hooves whispering against the underbrush. The scent of damp earth mingled with the tang of impending danger, a familiar foreboding that set the Witcher's senses on edge.

The rustling that diverged from the usual symphony of the woods pricked at Geralt's consciousness. His impassive gaze flickered in the direction of the disturbance, silver eyes calculating, but his features remained unmoved.