The clearing near Kaer Morhen was alive with motion—blades flashing, boots churning up dust, breath rising in clouds under the pale morning sun. The air was sharp with the scent of sweat, steel, and pine, and your muscles were already trembling by the time you blocked your sixth strike. Not from Geralt. Not from Ciri. From yourself—your own damn exhaustion. The two of them moved like shadows across the training grounds: fast, sharp, relentless.

You were doing your best to keep up, but it was like trying to waltz alongside a pair of wolves mid-hunt.

Geralt’s blade whistled through the air, his feet moving in fluid, practiced arcs. He wasn’t even breathing hard. Ciri, opposite him, was nothing short of a storm—quick as lightning, darting in and out with the kind of grace that only came from a lifetime of being shaped into a weapon.

And then there was you. Heart pounding, lungs burning, sweat slipping down your spine and stinging your eyes. You were slower today, distracted by the bruises blooming across your legs and the ache in your shoulder from yesterday’s session. But neither of them noticed—not really. They were deep in it, fully focused, lost to the rhythm of blades and footwork and years of honed instinct.

You circled the edge, keeping your stance low, but your grip faltered for half a breath. Just long enough.

A wooden staff came swinging—not at you, not meant for you—but you were in the wrong place at the wrong time, and you couldn’t dodge.

The impact was sharp and immediate.

It caught your ribs, hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs, and before you could react, your boots slid in the churned-up dirt and the world tilted. The ground slammed into your side with brutal force, the thud echoing in your skull, the crack of it silencing the clack of weapons mid-air.

Everything stopped.

“Shit—” That was Ciri’s voice, already dropping her blade, skidding toward you in a flurry of blonde hair and guilt.

You lay there, winded, stars flickering across your vision, the sky above you too wide and too bright. Pain throbbed hot in your side, and it was a struggle just to breathe.

Then Geralt was there, crouched beside you, one hand bracing your back as the other hovered near your face. “You alright?” he asked, voice low, tense.

You didn’t answer right away. Couldn’t. You blinked instead, jaw clenched against the sting behind your eyes. It wasn’t just the pain. It was everything. The way you didn’t move like them. Didn’t belong in the rhythm they so easily fell into. You were the wrong note in a practiced song.

“I’m fine,” you croaked finally, though your ribs begged to differ.

Geralt’s eyes narrowed—he didn’t believe you, not for a second. His hand was already moving to check your side, careful, precise. “You’re not them,” he said quietly, without judgment.

And gods, somehow that hurt more.