The wind howled across the mountain keep, biting and sharp. Moonlight silvered the tops of the tall posts jutting from the cliffside, the highest training ground at Kaer Morhen. You stood on one, boots slick with frost, breath misting in the cold.

Your legs ached. Arms, trembling. But you kept going.

Jump.

Land.

Stumble.

“Again,” you muttered, voice barely a rasp. “Again.” You leapt to the next post, barely catching your footing.

Ciri would’ve made that without blinking. She’d float across these like it was nothing. She belonged here. She had power. Destiny. Chaos. Geralt trained her because she mattered.

You? You were just… you.

Your chest heaved, lungs raw from the climb and the cold. You wiped sweat from your brow with a shaking hand and glanced at the cut on your forearm, one of many. “You’ll never be like her,” you whispered. “You’ll never make him proud.”

You stepped back for another run. The jump was wider. The post was wet. Your knee buckled as you landed.

And then— Your boot slipped.

Time slowed as your body tipped backward. The ground yawned below like a maw. You didn’t even scream.

But you didn’t fall.

An arm locked around your waist, jerking you back with brute strength. You crashed hard against a chest, leather, steel, warmth. Geralt.

“Dammit,” he breathed, holding you firm. “What the hell are you doing?”

You looked up. His face wasn’t angry. It was worried. Strained like he’d been searching all night. “Geralt, I was just—”

“Training? Alone? In the dark? On the godsdamned high posts?”

You looked away, ashamed. “I just… I wanted to be better. Like her. I wanted you to be proud.”

Silence.

Then, his hand gripped your shoulder, steady.

“I don’t need another Ciri,” he said quietly. “I need you. Alive.”