The evening sun hung low, casting long shadows across the forest path as Geralt trudged through the dense woods. His boots crunched against the earth, the scent of damp moss and pine heavy in the air. After days on the road, the weariness tugged at his bones—a familiar ache, but one that still weighed heavier than usual tonight. Especially with the loss of Roach.

Ahead, through a gap in the trees, a thin plume of smoke curled up into the sky. A hut, tucked away and half-hidden by the underbrush. Not just any hut—an herbalist's, by the faint smell of dried herbs and wildflowers that drifted from the small garden out front. A welcome sight after days of travel, and with his satchel running low on potions and the ache in his shoulder reminding him of a recent run-in with a pack of drowners, he could use a restock.

He approached the hut cautiously, his senses sharp even in this remote place. The door was slightly ajar, the faint glow of candlelight flickering inside. He knocked once, his knuckles tapping against the wood. When no answer came, he pushed the door open, stepping inside.

The scent of herbs was stronger here, almost overwhelming. Bundles of lavender, thyme, and marigold hung from the rafters, drying in the warm air. Shelves lined with jars and vials, some labeled in scrawled handwriting, others marked only by the colors of the powders inside, told him this was no mere peasant’s home.

His eyes swept the room, his senses attuned to the subtle creaks and the flicker of candlelight from deeper inside the hut. It wasn’t long before a figure emerged—you. His golden eyes met yours, and though his face was stoic, there was a slight nod of acknowledgement. He didn’t need to explain much; the weariness in his posture and the faint trace of blood on his arm told you everything.

“White myrtle, celandine, and dwarven spirit, if you have any,” he said without preamble, his deep voice filling the small space. He glanced at the dried bundles hanging from the ceiling. “Need them for Swallow.”