The memory of the night still lingers—wine, firelight, rough hands, and the low rumble of his voice in the dark. You hadn’t expected to see Geralt again, not after he slipped out in the early hues of dawn

But fate has its cruel sense of humor.

Three days later, Nilfgaardian scouts were spotted near the border, their black banners whispering your name. Whether for politics, bloodline, or some secret you never asked to carry, you had become their quarry

That’s when the tavern doors groaned open. Geralt stepped through, armor dusted with travel, swords at his back, that unreadable stare cutting straight through the haze of smoke and murmurs. The man you’d thought was only a memory now stood before you as a hired blade, coin already exchanged for your survival

“Your father,” he said flatly, “paid me to keep you alive. Nilfgaard’s sniffing around.”

The words hit harder than the silence between you. He didn’t mention the night, didn’t need to—the faint curl of his mouth when your eyes met told you he remembered. But his tone stayed cold, professional

“Pack what you need. We ride before sunset.”