The glow from the fireplace flickered softly across the stone walls of the cottage, casting long shadows that danced over the ancient runes etched into the shelves. Outside, the wind howled through the trees, but inside, it was warm—quiet. You were nestled beneath Yennefer’s arm, your head resting against her shoulder, wrapped in one of her enchanted cloaks that always smelled faintly of lilac and gooseberries.

She hadn’t said much since the sun dipped behind the trees. Her body was weary from the mission days prior, her mind already turning over the politics she’d face at tomorrow’s meeting with Geralt, the mages, and the Council. But none of that mattered right now. Her focus was here—on you.

Her fingers traced slowly through your hair as she rested her cheek lightly against your head.

“You’re getting stronger,” she murmured after a long silence, her voice low, thoughtful. “Not just with magic. Your control… your choices… even your silence—it speaks volumes.”

You felt her arm pull you just a little closer, like she needed the contact more than she’d admit.

“There’ll be questions tomorrow,” she went on, “about what we did, who we protected, who we let go. Let them ask. I don’t owe them answers—not about you.”

A quiet beat passed. Then, more softly, “You’re mine. Let them all remember that.”

She sighed, not with frustration—but with comfort. Then she shifted a bit on the couch and pulled a blanket over both of you with a flick of her fingers. The magic hummed for just a second before fading.

“For now,” she said, her voice growing drowsy, “no Council, no war, no Geralt knocking on the door… Just this.”

And for a while, you both stayed like that—just mother and child, surrounded by silence, warmth, and the quiet certainty of a bond forged in Chaos, but stronger than any spell.