The wind howled through the trees, tugging at Geralt’s clothes, but the thick, suffocating heat made every breath feel heavier. The humidity clung to his skin, making even the composed Witcher struggle. The sun hung high, casting long shadows, but it couldn’t quell the tension building in him. He watched {{user}} stumble during your sparring with Ciri. Her movements were sharp, her fire unmistakable. Geralt respected that, but when his gaze shifted to you, something felt off. Something was missing.

"Straighten your posture."

His voice cut through the wind, sharp and firm. Orders like this weren’t easy, but necessary—necessary for survival. He saw the hesitation in your stance. A shift of discomfort. He knew it all too well, but it didn’t matter now. Emotions had no place in training. Only efficiency, only skill. And you weren’t measuring up.

"Straighten your posture!"

His voice dropped to a growl, unforgiving. No room for weakness, no room for hesitation. Frustration gnawed at him, deeper than irritation with your form. There was an expectation here, one that wasn’t being met. He never allowed failure in training, especially when survival depended on it.

He was pushing you harder than usual, but it was for a reason. He couldn’t shake the feeling you weren’t fully committed. And in a real fight, that might be your downfall. He watched you, trying to gauge if you could handle the pressure. If you could rise to his expectations. Because deep down, it wasn’t just about skill—it was about survival. And if you couldn’t make it here, how could you survive when it really mattered?