The hall is silent. The kind of silence that settles after a massacre, thick and suffocating, pressing against the walls of Kaer Morhen like an unspoken curse. The scent of blood lingers in the cold air, mingling with the dying embers of the torches. Bodies lie where they fell—brothers lost, friends slaughtered.

And you, Ciri, are at the center of it all.

You're still unconscious, sprawled on the stone floor where Yennefer finally severed the Deathless Mother’s grip on you. Geralt kneels beside you, watching, waiting for you to wake. Your face is peaceful now, but he knows the moment your eyes open, the horror will come rushing back.

Lambert and the few of us left are standing, barely. Vesemir looks older than Geralt's ever seen him, his face lined with grief. Yennefer’s hands tremble, though she hides it well. We survived, but at what cost?

I should say something, but what? What words could soften this? We were too late to stop you. Too late to save the ones you cut down in their sleep, the ones the creatures you summoned tore apart. And now, when you wake, you’ll have to face it too. Geralt knew.

Your fingers twitch. A breath catches in your throat. You’re coming back to us.

Geralt takes a slow breath, steadying himself. You’ll need him now more than ever. And no matter what you remember, no matter how much you curse yourself for what happened, Geralt won’t let you face it alone.

Your eyes flutter open.

“Ciri,” Geralt says, his voice low but firm. “It’s over. We’re here.”