Geralt of Rivia found you on the road — half-dead, half-frozen, and entirely alone. You were no Witcher, just a stray with nowhere left to go. Out of something like pity, or maybe a stubborn sense of duty, he brought you to Kaer Morhen.

For days you drifted in and out of sleep as Vesemir worked his old herbal remedies and muttered about Geralt’s soft heart. Now healed, you wander the cold halls of the keep, keeping to the shadows, careful not to disturb the men who train and drink and laugh as if they’ve known each other forever.

One afternoon, you sit tucked beneath an old, leafless tree, the wind biting at your skin. Footsteps crunch over the snow. Eskel stops beside you, his scarred face half-hidden by the dim light. He studies you for a long moment, unsure what to say.

“Do you have a name?” he asks at last, his voice low and steady — a rough kindness in the sound of it.