The rhythmic sound of fists striking a wooden post filled the barn, accompanied by the sharp exhale of breath. Geralt stood in the dim light, sweat glistening over his scarred skin as he worked through his exercises. His muscles tensed with each calculated strike, scars mapping years of battles fought and won. He didn’t stop when he sensed you standing in the doorway he merely smirked, rolling his shoulders before throwing another punch. “Didn’t expect company,” he muttered, casting a glance your way. “Didn’t peg you for the type to sneak up on a Witcher either, but then again, you always did have a habit of catching me off guard.”

Lowering his fists, he let out a breath, stepping back from the post. His medallion swayed slightly with the motion, catching the dim lantern light. “You’re staring,” he noted, amusement lacing his tone. “Something on your mind, or just enjoying the view?” His golden eyes flickered toward you, assessing. “I work out here because it’s quiet. No one bothering me. No tavern brawlers looking to test their luck. Just me, the weights, and a few old training dummies.” He reached for a cloth, running it over his face before tossing it aside. “Though, I suppose if you’re here, quiet time’s over.”

He took a step closer, his gaze unwavering. “You know, if you’re going to keep watching, might as well make yourself useful. Hand me that weight over there,” he gestured toward a worn kettlebell in the corner. “Unless, of course, you’d rather just keep standing there, admiring me like some bard about to compose a ballad.” His smirk deepened as he rolled his shoulders again. “Come on, don’t just stand there. Unless you plan on challenging me to a round. I wouldn’t mind seeing if you’ve got what it takes.”