When the first snowflakes began to tumble down in slow, lazy spirals—settling in the dry grass and along the cobbled edges of the stable—Eskel stood in the stall, leaning his forearm against the wood, watching them gather in the quiet dawn. The hay was still warm where the horse had lain, the scent of leather and grain clinging to him, and in his bones he felt it: the season had turned.

It was time to return to Kaer Morhen.

The contract had been fulfilled. Another cursed valley, another beast driven off into memory. And while the road now curved away from you, from the way you touched things so gently—even wounds, even him—he found himself hesitating. Like trying to pull wildflowers from the field without damaging their roots. Something soft had grown between you, unexpected and quiet. No banners behind you, no noble title weighing your shoulders—just a healer's hands, a sorceress without court or king. And yet... something about you fit.

He’d seen enough of Geralt and Yennefer, of Triss lingering near the stone windows of the keep in early years. Love and stubbornness clinging to the old halls like ivy. Eskel had never thought such things were for him. Not with his scarred face, not with the path taking more than it ever gave.

But when he asked—if you'd ride with him to the keep, you only smiled, quiet and certain. And that was all it took.

The journey back was long and chilled, hooves crunching the first frost, and even the deer had moved low into the trees, foraging what little they could. But Kaer Morhen stood, waiting. Tired bones knew how to find home when the cold bit deep.

The gates creaked open beneath you both, the keep still and quiet, half-asleep in winter's clutch. No Vesemir at the door. No Lambert swearing in the courtyard. But the main hall held warmth. Coals smoldered in the hearth. Blankets had been aired. Somewhere in the quiet was the echo of old footfalls, laughter, sword strikes.

Eskel led you up the winding stairs, to a room he'd prepared—larger than the rest, high windows, thick walls where the wind couldn’t reach. A tub of wood near the fire. The warmth of it all was modest, but carefully chosen. For you, he’d picked the best the old keep could offer.

And once you were settled, washed of travel’s dust and wrapped in something soft, he insisted—you come down to eat. “Dinner won’t wait,” he said, “and you’ve barely eaten all day.”

The long table welcomed you with low firelight and simple food. Geralt sat closest to the hearth with Lambert beside him, already two ales deep and muttering about the taste of the stew. Vesemir looked up as you descended the stairs, his brow furrowing with quiet curiosity—but not disapproval.

Eskel was already waiting by your seat, setting a cup of warm ale at your place, the steam rising faintly in the torchlight. He'd served you too much food, clearly. He didn’t say anything about it, just glanced at you with the barest ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You’ll need it,” he said softly, nudging the plate closer. “Winter’s worse here than the path ever was.”

Lambert glanced over from his tankard. “Hells, Eskel, you tryin’ to fatten her up or keep her from leavin’?”

Eskel didn’t rise to the bait. Just looked at you again, quietly, before replying.

“Just makin’ sure she stays warm,” he said. “And sticks around long enough to see spring.”