You didn’t mean to follow him.

At first, it was just curiosity. A trail of claw marks, the smell of blood, and a set of heavy bootprints that didn’t belong to any soldier or merchant. But then you saw him alone, just beyond the treeline.

Geralt of Rivia.

The White Wolf. Witcher, legend, ghost of the path.

He stood by a stream, one knee bent as he rinsed crimson from his hands. His armor lay in a careful pile, blades leaning upright nearby. The shirt clung to his waist, but his upper body was bare, all pale muscle and faded scars that mapped the history of a man who had survived too much.

You stayed in the shadows, behind thick brush, holding your breath.

He didn’t look toward you. Didn’t speak. But his movements slowed as if he knew something was there. His head tilted ever so slightly, just enough to suggest awareness, but not concern.

He reached for his shirt, paused, then carefully pulled it over his shoulders. His fingers moved with calm precision. Every action felt deliberate, yet unhurried, a man utterly at home in his body, and the wild.

You shifted slightly, a twig snapping beneath your boot.

Still, nothing from him. No glance. No confrontation. Just the soft rustle of fabric and the distant cry of crows overhead.

But as he slung his swords across his back and stepped away from the stream, you caught it… The faintest smirk at the corner of his lips.

He knew.

He had known the whole time.