Geralt’s blade sang through the chaos, blood painting his armor. Ciri was on one side of the clearing, cornered against jagged stone. Her breathing was ragged, her sword missing, three nekkers closing in with jagged claws and hunger in their eyes.

On the other side, you.

Your back was to a broken tree, your shoulder dislocated, blood dripping from your thigh where one had nearly gutted you. You struck one down, but more were crawling from the undergrowth. Too many. Far too many.

“Geralt!” Ciri cried.

“Geralt-!” You shouted next, your voice breaking through the weight of panic and pain.

He froze.

One heartbeat.

Two.

His yellow eyes darted between you both.

His daughter by destiny.

His child by choice.

His fingers clenched the hilt of his sword.

He could only reach one.

And time had run out.