Geralt sat in the far corner of the tavern, fingers curled around a tankard he barely touched. The fire crackled in the hearth, its warmth doing little to ease the cold weight in his chest. He had fought drowners, ghouls, even bruxae that had whispered his name in the dead of night—but nothing had ever filled him with the same dread as the way you looked at him now.

Like a stranger.

You moved through the tavern with practiced ease, offering smiles to drunken patrons and serving ale with hands that had once traced the lines of his scars. Your laughter, light and soft, no longer held the warmth it once did when it was meant for him.

There were moments when he thought he saw something. A furrow of your brow when you passed him, a pause just a fraction too long when he handed you his empty tankard. Once, your fingers brushed his when he passed over his payment, and you had pulled away as if startled by the touch.

The spell had been cruel, not just in its intent but in its precision. It had not simply erased him from your memory—it had stripped away the very foundation of what you had built together. If you had moved on, started a new life, perhaps he could have accepted it. Perhaps.

But you were here, alone. And so was he.

Yennefer had been angry. Jealous. She hadn’t wanted to lose him, and in her bitterness, she had ensured that he would be the one who lost someone instead. The person he loved more than anything—gone in the cruelest way possible.

He had tried, at first, to break the curse. Traveled across the Continent, seeking mages and scholars, anything that could undo the damage Yennefer had done. None could help him. So now, he stayed. Took contracts in the area, just to keep coming back. just to have a reason to be near you.

You passed by again, and for a moment, your eyes flickered toward him. Not for long—not enough. If magic had stolen you from him, then he would do what he had always done. Fight against the impossible.

If he could not make you remember, then he would make you fall in love again.