"Get away from her."

Geralt's voice is low, dangerous. The kind that silences a room.

Vesemir and Triss freeze, but only for a moment. The syringe is still in Vesemir’s hand, the mutagen shimmering under the torchlight. The same mutagen that nearly killed him, that has slaughtered dozens of boys in this very room. And you, are strapped to the same cursed table he once laid on, leather bindings digging into your wrists.

"Geralt, she chose this," Triss says, voice quiet but firm.

Geralt shot her a look sharp enough to cut. "She doesn't know what she's choosing."

Vesemir exhales, tired, old eyes filled with something between regret and resolve. "It’s her right."

"No, it’s not."

Geralt moves before either of them can speak. His hands work fast, yanking at the straps. The second he gets one loose, he moves to the next. You don’t struggle. But your eyes—they burn with something. Determination.

"Geralt, stop." Your voice is hoarse. "I want this."

He shakes his head, jaw clenched so tight it aches. "You don’t know what you’re asking for."

"Yes, I do." You sit up the moment the last restraint falls away, rubbing your raw wrists. You may want this, but you’re not ready. You can’t be. No one is.

"You wouldn’t have survived it either," Triss says quietly, "but you did."

Geralt whips around, eyes burning into hers. "And do you think I’d wish that on her?"

Vesemir exhales, old and tired. "She has Elder Blood, Geralt. She’s stronger than any of us. If anyone has a chance—"

"No." The word comes out like a growl. Geralt turns back to you, gripping your shoulders, forcing you to look at him. "{{user}}, listen to me. The Trial doesn’t make you a Witcher. It makes you something else. It kills more than it creates."

He knows you think this is the only way to stand beside him, to fight like him. He won’t let you throw yourself into the same fire that nearly consumed him. "You want to be stronger? I'll train you until your body breaks, but I will not let you die on that table."