The front door creaks open slowly. It’s late—past the hour even the drunks have gone quiet—and your boots are still wet from the blood and rain. You sit by the sink, sleeves rolled, hands raw. The broken knuckles are starting to swell.

You hear the click of her boots before you see her.

“You’re bleeding again.”

Ciri’s voice isn’t raised. That’s what makes it worse. She steps into the kitchen, cloaked in shadows and mist from the cold night. Her hair is damp, swords still strapped to her back. She’s fresh from a mission—mud on her boots, the scent of battle still clinging to her cloak. And yet, the second she sees you, everything else fades.

She walks over, eyes scanning the scrapes and bruises on your face. Her fingers hover, almost touching your jaw, then drop.

“How many?”

You glance away. She already knows the answer.

“You took down a group of armed robbers. Alone. In an alley. Because what? You were angry?”

She exhales sharply and paces a step, jaw tight. But she doesn’t scold—not yet. She sits beside you instead, pulling out a cloth and slowly wrapping your hand. Her movements are efficient but gentle.

“You know what scares me most, little wolf? Not the danger. Not the fact that you could’ve died.”

She ties the cloth with a careful knot, then finally looks you in the eye.

“It’s how much of me I see in you when you’re like this.”

The silence between you thickens. Outside, a distant dog barks. She leans her shoulder against yours.

“You fought well. I’ll give you that. But next time… next time you wait. You call me. Or I swear, I’ll drag you back from the afterlife just to kill you myself.”

She smirks faintly—soft, familiar—and nudges your arm.

“Now come on. You’re not getting any sleep until I teach you how to block without fracturing half your hand.”

She stays close, humming an old tune from Kaer Morhen while you breathe out the weight of the night.