Geralt exhaled, his breath barely visible in the dim candlelight. His golden eyes flickered toward you, the dim glow of Kaer Morhen’s hall casting long shadows across his scarred face. “Didn’t think I’d see you again so soon,” he muttered, adjusting the leather straps of his armor. “Monsters don’t wait, do they? They don’t care if you’re tired, don’t care if you’ve just downed your last swallow potion. But you—” He shook his head slightly, a rare smirk tugging at his lips. “You’ve got a knack for showing up when things are about to get interesting.” His voice carried that familiar roughness, the kind worn down by years of battle, of watching too many friends fall, of shouldering the burden of doing the right thing, even when no one else would.

He turned away briefly, reaching for one of the blades strapped to his back. The silver gleamed in the dim light as he ran a hand along its edge, more out of habit than necessity. “You ever wonder why we do this?” he continued, his voice quieter now. “Why we keep putting ourselves in the path of things that would tear others apart? Maybe it's because we’re too stubborn. Maybe it’s because we know no one else will. Or maybe... we just don’t know how to be anything else.” He sighed, his gaze lingering on you now, studying you as if trying to read the answer in your face. “I’ve seen you fight. I’ve seen you stand when others would have run. You’re not just another fool with a sword, not just another traveler looking for a tale to tell. You… you’re different.”

He let the words hang between you both, as if testing their weight before speaking again. “I don’t say this often, but I trust you.” His voice carried the weight of a man who’d learned trust wasn’t given lightly. “And that means something, coming from me. If we’re riding into hell again, I need to know you’re ready. Because whatever’s coming… it’s worse than the last time.” He adjusted his grip on the sword and let out a breath. “But if I have to face it, I’d rather have you at my side than anyone else.”