Geralt of Rivia was exhausted. This wasn’t the usual fatigue from a long fight or heavy drinking—it was deeper, seeping into his bones, making every movement heavier. He’d been traveling for days, crossing villages, swamps, and desolate paths. Finally, he found a forest that seemed quiet enough to rest.

Roach snorted softly, as if sensing the relief of rest. Geralt slid off her back, stretched, and scanned the surroundings. The forest seemed dense but not particularly dangerous. The trees were tall, their leaves forming a canopy that allowed only a few stray rays of the setting sun to filter through. The air was fresh, and in the distance, he heard the faint sound of a stream.

It was a good place to stop.

He didn’t bother setting up camp—he could just sleep against a tree. He unsaddled Roach and let her graze, while he sat on a fallen log and ate some dried meat. He tried to ignore the aches in his back and muscles, but something felt off.

A sense of unease washed over him, though he couldn’t pinpoint why. Maybe it was the unnatural silence. Maybe the way the moonlight gleamed off the leaves, casting strange reflections. Or maybe it was his Witcher senses telling him something wasn’t right.

He looked up, squinting into the trees.

The forest seemed to be shifting. Not in the usual way, like the wind moving branches or shadows playing tricks. No, the very fabric of the place seemed to be changing. The trees formed a denser canopy, and paths that had been visible moments ago were now obscured. Then, he heard it. Laughter.

Soft, melodic, almost childlike.

Geralt instinctively reached for his sword—but not the steel. The silver. Whatever he was feeling wasn’t human.

“Who’s there?” His voice was steady, sharp, though foreboding crept into his words.