They gave you away.

A child no one wanted. A quiet burden handed off like an old coat—too small, too weak, too inconvenient to keep. And they gave you to a Witcher. Not just any witcher—the Butcher of Blaviken. The name carried weight. Fear. Blood. And now, you were his responsibility.

The wind had a bite to it that morning, sharp against your skin. You stood by the road, awkward and silent, trying not to fidget as the cart rattled to a stop before you. The wood creaked as it settled. He stood beside it—arms crossed, expression unreadable, eyes cold and pale as ice.

"In the cart."

His voice was gravel—rough, flat, unwelcoming. He didn’t look at you when he said it. Just turned his back and began loading supplies like you weren’t even there. Like you were one more item to carry.

"Don’t make me ask again."

He didn’t want this. That much was obvious. Witchers weren’t meant to raise children, least of all runts like {{user}}—small, sickly, quiet. You knew how you looked. Extra weight. No potential. No use.