The halls of Kaer Morhen are quieter than they should be.

Too quiet.

The battle is over, but it hasn’t really left.

A door creaks open softly.

Inside, Vesemir rests against the headboard, bandaged, pale, but very much alive.

Geralt stands nearby, arms crossed, saying nothing.

Lambert lingers by the wall, unusually silent. Eskel sits heavily on a chair, elbows on his knees.

Aiden stays near the doorway at first, like he’s unsure if he belongs, but he doesn’t leave.

No one really speaks.

Not at first.

Vesemir exhales slowly. “What is this? A funeral?”

Lambert scoffs, too quick, too sharp. “Don’t flatter yourself, old man.”

But no one moves to leave. Not one of them.