Lullabies warned of Witchers—cold-eyed hunters who preyed on all. You did your best to avoid them. Until that night.

Your father, hungry for gold, sold you to a Witcher. Not just any Witcher, but Geralt of Rivia. You stood paralyzed as he shook the Witcher’s hand, sealing your doom.
“Let’s go.”

His voice was gruff, but beneath it, something lingered—was it care?