Geralt knew better than to be jealous. Emotions like that were a distraction, a liability. And yet, the feeling gnawed at him all the same—slow, insistent, like the burn of a potion that refused to fade from his veins. His golden eyes followed the sight ahead: Dandelion prattling beside {{user}}, laughter spilling as effortlessly as wine from a too-full goblet. The bard’s arm slipped around their shoulders with the ease of long practice, his words blooming in bright colors where Geralt’s own tended to wither into silence.

“Ah, but you’ve never truly lived,” Dandelion proclaimed, gesturing wildly with his free hand, “until you’ve heard me sing at the Seven Cats. Sold-out crowd, nobles swooning, peasants weeping. And you—” he leaned closer to {{user}}, voice dropping in mock secrecy, “you would’ve been the true muse that night, had fate only been kinder.”

Geralt’s jaw tightened, his gaze narrowing as the city walls came into view in the distance. He wrapped the reins tighter in one gloved hand, guiding Roach with a steady firmness. The mare exhaled sharply through her nostrils, almost echoing her rider’s impatience, and shook her mane with a restless toss. Geralt reached out, stroking the side of her face with a calloused hand, the gesture more for his own composure than hers.

“Easy, girl,” he muttered, low enough that only Roach could hear. His eyes slid sideways, taking in the bard’s flamboyant gestures. Another grunt, a flash of irritation quickly swallowed. Better to stay quiet. Better to let the noise of others fill the air than risk spilling what should be left unsaid.