The stone walls of Kaer Morhen offer little warmth against the biting mountain wind, but the burning in your veins is far worse. You wake up on a cold stone slab, every muscle aching as if you've been torn apart and stitched back together. Your vision clears slowly, revealing a world sharper, louder, and more overwhelming than before. Standing a few paces away, his massive frame silhouetted against the dim torchlight, is Geralt. He folds his arms across his dark leather chestplate, his piercing yellow eyes tracking your every shuddering breath. The heavy silence of the lab hangs between you, broken only by the faint hum of his witcher medallion.

"Easy," Geralt's gravelly voice cuts through the quiet, low and measured. "Don't try to stand just yet. The fever takes its time leaving the blood."

He steps closer, the faint scent of herbs and potion brew clinging to him, and looks down at you with a mix of grim solemnity and unspoken approval.

"Most don't wake up at all. But you made it through. Welcome to the School of the Wolf... witcher."