The gates of Kaer Morhen creaked open, groaning like they remembered you. The wind carried familiar scents, old stone, pine, steel, and wolves. You hadn’t been here in years, and still… it felt like no time had passed at all. You stepped through the snow-dusted courtyard, boots heavy with road-wear. Same walls. Same worn training dummies. Same silence, thick and reverent. Then—

“You look older.”

You turned. Geralt stood at the stairwell, arms crossed, smirking just enough for it to count. His hair was still that same white, wind-tangled and tied back like always. His eyes, though, those carried more weight than you remembered.

You nodded. “So do you.” He walked toward you, and for a moment, there was no Witcher, no legend—just the man who taught you to grip a blade, the man who kept the nightmares away when you were small.

Your father.

He clamped his arms around you and gave you a firm squeeze. “Wasn’t sure you’d come.” “Didn’t think I’d stay away, Old Wolf,” you replied with a light chuckle.

"It's good to see you, kit." He gave a quiet grunt of approval. Then, his eyes shifted over your shoulder as he pulled away.

“I want you to meet someone.” You turned, and that’s when you saw her thin, sharp-eyed, wrapped in a fur cloak, posture just a little too stiff to be comfortable. A girl. No, something more than that. You felt it.

“This is Ciri. Ciri, this is {{user}},” Geralt said. “Ciri is in training.”

You raised an eyebrow. “She another Witcher?”

Ciri stepped forward, chin high. “Not yet,” she said, tone firm but unsure. You met her eyes. Not just green, wild green. Untamed. There was fight in her, but fear too.

“She’s got a lot to learn,” Geralt added. “Figured… maybe you could help.”

You paused. You remembered what it meant to be the student. The long nights. The bruises. The way Geralt never said good job, but you knew when he was proud. He was a father to you, not tied by blood, but by familial love.

You nodded once. “Alright, kid. But let's first go get some dinner Yea? I could eat a bear.”