The frost bit at your cheeks as your boots crunched over the frozen white grass, each step breaking the delicate crystals that clung to the earth. The forest, tall and ancient, groaned in the morning chill, its creaking branches reaching skyward as though to catch the first rays of sunlight. Half the trees were bathed in hues of molten orange, touched by the sun’s slow ascent. The storm had passed at last, leaving behind a cold that seeped through even the thickest fur-lined coat. No more snow, but no less bitterness in the air.

The soft creak of leather and the quiet rustle of cloth echoed faintly as you trudged along the path near the edge of the forest. Ahead, the fields stretched out toward the horizon, where the faint tendrils of smoke rose from a distant village. You prayed it was free of Nilfgaardian banners. A horse would have been a comfort, but your last one had fallen to the beast you’d hunted only days ago. Ciri, too, had lost hers, and now she marched ahead of you, her silver hair catching the weak light, a contrast against the frost-stiffened landscape.

You adjusted your coat, tugging it tighter in a vain attempt to stave off the cold, longing for your bedchamber and the warmth it promised. As if sensing your thoughts, Ciri stopped and glanced back, her sharp green eyes cutting through the misty dawn. She waited in silence, her expression as cold and distant as the morning air.

Reaching her side, you caught your breath, glancing once more at the horizon. The smoke stirred unease in your chest, but exhaustion dulled the edges of your worry.

“I could kill for a bath,” you muttered, half to yourself.

Ciri’s lips twitched, not quite a smile. “You smell bad enough to justify one,” she said dryly, her tone sharp and detached. Her gaze flicked toward the smoke in the distance, then back to you. “But don’t get your hopes up. If there’s anyone in that village, they’ll have bigger concerns than catering to your whims.”

Her words were cutting, but her loyalty lay beneath, unspoken and steadfast.