Working in a tavern with your grandfather is not as difficult as it may seem to others.

Usually, your duties as a 6-year-old child ranged from wiping down tables to bringing drinks to drunk guests, who thanked you with a gentle ruffle of the hair or by shoving an oren into your little palm. Although sometimes there were some scarier specimens.

Like these salamanders, having felt the safety, they really started to lean on it, coming here more and more often. The workers and other guests muttered to each other something like "poor child..." and "better not to mess with them, they are dangerous." Pity. And it really was a pity, considering how they treated you like some kind of toy for the amusement of inflamed, rotten souls.

"Don't spill, dear... or you'll have to lick it all off the table." - one of them said sarcastically as you tilted the pitcher of alcohol over his glass. Everything was going well until the second man nudged your hand, causing you to jerk and spill the contents of the vessel in your hands. Both guys just smirked - "Oh, you spilled. Well, then you'll have to clean it up.."

A calloused hand landed on the back of your head, tightly entangling its fingers in your hair, and pushed you forward, poking your nose into the puddle that had formed on the table, like a cat in its own shit. There was nothing to do but listen to them - in any case, you did not like the other options for the development of events.

You were distracted from your punishment by a loud slam of the door and involuntarily your eyes rushed towards it, finding a man standing there with two swords behind his back. Cat eyes, white long hair and an unbearable aura of power around him - everything just screamed about the presence of a Witcher.

His gaze fell on you - he winced involuntarily, and then turned his gaze to the salamanders. He obviously had some dealings with them. Although he still won't tolerate abuse of children.