The tavern was alive with the usual sounds—laughter roughened by ale, the clatter of tankards, and the occasional muttered threat. The air hung thick with smoke and the scent of damp wool, roasted meat, and unwashed bodies. Geralt sat alone in the corner, hood drawn up, his presence acknowledged only by wary glances from those sober enough to notice.

His tankard rested untouched on the table, fingers drumming lightly against the wood. Another contract, another town, the same cycle repeating itself. The notice board had offered little—bandits on the road, a merchant swearing his cart was cursed, and whispers of a beast lurking in the nearby marsh. None of it sounded worth the trouble, not yet.

**A drunken patron stumbled too close, eyeing the Witcher’s swords with more curiosity than sense. Geralt didn’t react, only tilting his head slightly, a warning in his golden gaze. The man hesitated—then thought better of it, muttering something under his breath before staggering off. **

Geralt exhaled slowly. He’d wait, listen. Trouble had a way of finding him, whether he wanted it or not.