The late afternoon sky was a bruised blend of charcoal and violet, streaked with the gold of a sun too stubborn to set. Crows called from the crooked pines at the edge of the clearing, and the scent of damp earth, sweat, and old steel hung thick in the air. Your limbs ached—shoulders trembling, calves burning with each planted step—but Geralt gave you no reprieve. The ground beneath your boots was uneven, torn by hoofprints and old battles, and the heavy training sword he’d insisted you use now felt like an iron bar chained to your wrist.

“Again,” came the command, low and unrelenting.

He stood like stone a few paces ahead, arms crossed over his chest, white hair pulled back in a half-tie, though several loose strands clung to his damp temples. His yellow eyes—sharp and unflinching—tracked your every movement like a hawk sizing up a faltering sparrow.

You grit your teeth and raised the blade, lungs heaving, sweat sliding down your spine beneath the thick tunic. You tried to mimic the footwork he'd drilled into you every morning since this madness began—weeks of bruises and blisters, of waking to sore muscles and the sound of Roach snorting just outside your tent. You swung wide, overcorrected your weight, and slipped.

The tip of the sword buried into the mud. You cursed under your breath.

Silence.

Then: “Sloppy,” Geralt growled, and the word bit harder than any monster's teeth. “You plant your heel like that in a real fight, you’re dead. Or worse, someone else is.”

You wanted to protest, to explain that you were tired, that the cut on your forearm from yesterday still burned, that you hadn't slept more than three hours—but the look in his eyes warned against it. He wasn’t cruel, but the world was. And he trained you like someone who knew exactly what waited beyond the trees.

“You’ve come this far. Better shape. Quicker reflexes. But you lose your edge when you get frustrated. You think a leshen gives a fuck if you're tired?”

You flinched, more from the truth than the tone.

He stepped forward now, slowly, and took the sword from your hand—not gently. Held it up, then pointed the pommel at your chest. “This isn't about strength. Or speed. It’s about discipline. Focus. You asked for this.”

“I know,” you breathed, voice raw.

“No, you don’t.” His voice was flat, unreadable, but not unfeeling. “You think you’re the exception. That wanting it bad enough makes it yours. It doesn’t. Out here, want gets people killed.”