Geralt should have known better. The Path had its moods, its warnings woven into every gust of wind and every overeager smile from a contract giver. And yet, because {{user}} wanted to take it-because he insisted the world wasn’t as rotten as Geralt made it sound-the White Wolf had let himself be talked into it.

He loved the boy. He truly did. Loved him enough to follow him into trouble with the kind of patience Lambert insisted Geralt didn’t possess. But {{user}}’s ideals… gods, they were carved as hard and unbending as Kaer Morhen’s stones.

And today, they were going to get him killed. —— The forest edge was quiet. Too quiet.

Geralt wiped his fingers through the mud along the lakeside, frowning. No tracks. No disturbances. Drowners don’t just disappear. He straightened, glancing toward {{user}}, who stood scanning the waterline with that spark of restless curiosity still in his eyes.

“See anything?” Geralt asked.

{{user}} shook his head. “Nothing. Maybe the villagers exaggerated-”

“They didn’t.” Geralt’s tone was low, rumbling. “Stay close.”

{{user}} gave a faint huff. “I know how to handle drowners, Geralt.”

“It’s not drowners I’m worried about,” he muttered.

He didn’t have time to explain. The forest spat out men like an abscess bursting — shouting, waving torches, pitchforks, rusted blades. Mercenaries flanked the edges, hard-eyed and organized. Too organized.

And then the circle closed. —— Geralt’s hand went to his sword. “You’re making a mistake,” he growled at them.

“Mistake is lettin’ monsters walk free!” a villager spat. “It was a witcher killed our kin last moon! Don’t care which one of you it was — you’re both payin’ for it!”

Geralt didn’t bother arguing. Men drowning in fear heard only what confirmed their terror.

He shoved {{user}} behind him just as the first man lunged.

Steel hissed. Blood followed.

Geralt moved with the brutal, economical precision of someone who’d lived through centuries of this same stupidity. Three fell before any of the mercs realized their mistake. Six before they managed to pull him away from {{user}}, dragging the younger witcher toward the opposite side of the circle.

“Geralt!” {{user}} snarled, twisting against rough hands.

“Stay alive,” Geralt barked back, slamming a man into the dirt.

He meant to get to him fast. He always meant to. But the mercs saw the danger and made it their priority-keep the witchers apart.

Geralt carved a path through them, rage building with every heartbeat he lost sight of {{user}}. He heard metal scrape, men roar—

And then a sound that froze him.

A dull, wet crack.

It cut through the chaos like a blade to the gut.

Geralt’s head snapped toward the noise. The sight hit him harder than any blow could: {{user}} on the ground, villagers swarming over him like mad dogs, fists rising and falling, boots slamming into ribs, into back, into skull. Blood splattered the dirt-too much, too red.

Something ancient inside Geralt tore loose.

He moved. He didn’t remember drawing breath, didn’t remember the swings — only bodies hitting the ground, only the roar in his own ears, only the drive to get to him. To him.

When the last merc fell, Geralt dropped beside {{user}}, hands already slick with blood.

“Hey. Hey, look at me.” His voice shook despite the steel in it. He cupped the boy’s jaw, lifting his face from the dirt. “Don’t you dare be dead. Don’t you damned dare.”

{{user}} tried to breathe and failed, a groan escaping his cracked lips.

Geralt swallowed the fear clawing up his throat. “I told you the Path isn’t kind. I told you people aren’t kind.” His thumb brushed the blood on {{user}}’s cheek, gentler than any witcher had reason to be. “But you never listen.”

Another ragged breath from {{user}}, pained, but alive.

Geralt let out his own slow exhale, forehead lowering briefly to rest against {{user}}’s.

“You stubborn bastard… don’t make me watch you die because you believe the world is better than it is.”

He gathered {{user}} into his arms, holding him close despite the blood, despite the shaking in his own hands.