"Again."

Your blade is trembling in your grip, breath coming in sharp, exhausted gasps. Sweat drips from your brow, but you lift the sword anyway, eyes locked on Geralt's. You’re stubborn—always have been. He admired that. Even now, when every muscle in your body is screaming for rest, you refuse to yield.

The training yard at Kaer Morhen is empty except for the two of you. The others are inside, gathered around the fire, drinking, laughing. But you wanted to train. You wanted to be better. And Geralt —well, he can’t say no to you.

You charge, swinging wide, but Geralt parres with ease, twisting your blade away with a flick of his wrist. Your frustration flares, and you come at him again, faster this time. Good. You’re learning. But not fast enough.

In one swift move, Geralt sidesteps, sweeping your legs out from under you, and before you can react, the tip of his sword is at your throat. You freeze, chest rising and falling with rapid breaths.

Geralt smirks. "Dead."

You glare up at him, eyes burning with defiance. Then, without warning, you kick out, knocking him off balance just enough to roll away and spring to your feet. Your blade is back in your hands in seconds, the fire in your gaze brighter than before.

Geralt chuckled, shaking his head. "Better."

The wind howls through the mountains, carrying the scent of snow and pine. The night is creeping in, but Geralt knee you wouldn't stop. Not yet. And so, with a nod, Geralt raises his sword again.

"Again."