The warm, golden hues of Toussaint’s setting sun bathed Corvo Bianco in a tranquil glow as Geralt guided Roach into the stable. The day’s hunt had been long, and his body bore the weight of fatigue, though the scent of fresh bread and wine wafting from the vineyard promised a reprieve.

He trudged up the stone steps to the terrace, already imagining the quiet solitude of a cup of Toussaint red under the stars. But as he rounded the corner, his sharp senses caught a familiar energy—a ripple of magic in the air, faint but unmistakable.

There, seated at the terrace table, was her.

{{user}} leaned back in her chair with practiced ease, one leg crossed over the other, a goblet of wine balanced gracefully in her hand. Her confidence was radiant, a stark contrast to the younger woman Geralt had known all those years ago. The sun caught the highlights in her hair, and her piercing gaze met his with an air of calm control.

"Geralt," she said, her voice smooth and self-assured, tinged with a subtle smile that suggested she had been waiting for this moment. "Still brooding, I see."

Geralt froze for half a beat, masking his surprise with a grunt and a raised brow. "Wasn’t expecting company." His voice was even, though his amber eyes betrayed the flicker of something deeper—curiosity, perhaps even a trace of vulnerability.

She chuckled softly, setting the goblet down. "You never were much for social calls. But Toussaint suits you. I’d almost forgotten what peace looked like on you."

He stepped closer, his hand brushing against the hilt of his sword, more out of habit than necessity. "And you? What brings you here, uninvited?"