Lambert wasn’t expecting company, let alone that kind of company.

Boots hit the keep’s stone floor with a rhythm too steady to be a peasant and too bold to be a merchant. He didn’t bother to look up right away, probably just Eskel or Coën, back from one of their piss-poor contracts. But then the air shifted. Sharper. Like steel just barely sheathed.

He glanced up. Froze mid-sip of his drink.

It was a woman. A she-Witcher. No frills, no smile, not a trace of hesitation in her stride. Not some tavern wench play-acting with a dull blade either, this one moved like someone who knew what it meant to be hunted. And how to hunt right back.

“Shit,” Lambert muttered, setting down his tankard. “Did I hit my head on the way in or are you real?”

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t blush. Didn’t giggle. Just looked at him like she’d already sized him up and found him… unremarkable.

She didn’t dignify it with a real answer, just rolled her eyes like he wasn’t worth the breath. Like she’d seen plenty of Lamberts in her life and buried more than a few of them, too.

Lambert blinked. Then grinned. So she had a mouth. And balls. Interesting.

Most people would shrink under his barbs. She just sharpened hers and tossed them back harder. He should’ve been pissed. Instead he was intrigued.