Ghost never cared much for festivals. Too many people, too much noise, too many variables. He preferred the quiet of the road or the controlled chaos of battle over the unpredictable energy of a crowd. But when Price decided that he, Soap, and Gaz were to accompany him into town for the fair, there wasn’t much room for argument.

So here he was, lurking near a blacksmith’s stall, arms crossed as he idly inspected a set of finely crafted daggers. Each blade gleamed under the torchlight, edges honed so cleanly they looked like they could split a hair. His fingers twitched with the urge to test their balance—just a flick, a spin, one clean throw—but the vendor was already staring at him with wide, nervous eyes, as if sensing that Ghost wasn’t the kind of witcher who bought decorative steel.

He smirked under his skull mask and stepped away.

The square was overflowing with villagers reveling in the festivities. Colorful banners snapped in the breeze overhead, music from lutes and fiddles mingled with bursts of laughter, and the scent of spiced wine and roasted boar rolled thick through the air. Children darted between stalls with painted faces; drunk men boasted loudly near the archery games; and somewhere to his left, Gaz stood stiffly beside a merchant selling enchanted amulets. The witcher listened to the man’s sales pitch with the expression of someone trying very hard not to call him a fraud to his face.

Ghost had just about decided he’d had enough of town life when a familiar voice cut through the noise.

“Oi, Gaz! What do you say, mate? You and me, right here! Let’s give the people a show!”

Ghost exhaled slowly. Soap. Of course.

He turned toward the commotion and found Soap already in the center of a makeshift fighting ring—a loose circle of packed dirt framed by rope and wooden posts. A crowd had gathered quickly, drawn to the young witcher’s infectious bravado. Soap wore a cocky grin, his traveling leathers dusted from some earlier scuffle, and he beckoned Gaz forward with exaggerated flourish.

Gaz pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering: “You’re relentless, you know that?”

Soap bounced on his heels, fists lifted in playful challenge. “Come on, brother. Bit of sport, aye? Unless you’re scared.”

Gaz scoffed. “Alright. But when I knock you flat, I don’t want to hear any complaints.”

Ghost leaned against a support beam beside the ring, arms crossed, his presence a quiet shadow at the edge of the action. The two witchers began circling each other—grins slipping into focused intent, movements light and precise. The crowd whooped and shouted, coins trading hands in quick wagers.

Soap threw the first jab—quick, testing. Gaz deflected it easily, stepping in with a sharp elbow, forcing Soap to dance back. Dirt kicked up beneath their boots as they traded blows, movements blurring with the speed and precision only witchers possessed. Someone in the crowd gasped; another cheered wildly. The ring pulsed with energy.

Ghost watched, silent and unmoved on the exterior, though a faint flicker of amusement tugged at the corner of his eyes beneath the mask.

Just as Gaz swept Soap’s leg out from under him—sending the younger witcher stumbling but laughing—the crowd shifted. A few heads turned. Bodies moved aside.

And that’s when Ghost felt a presence approach.

He didn’t startle, but his head turned—slow, instinctive.

{{user}} drifted toward the edge of the crowd, slipping between villagers with quiet ease. The festival lights painted a soft glow along their features, and something in their stride—steady, confident but wary of the chaos—caught Simon’s attention immediately. Their scent threaded through the air a heartbeat later, familiar enough to ground him more than the noise, more than the flashing colors and shouting onlookers.

They paused beside him, close enough for the brush of their cloak to whisper against his arm.

Ghost shifted just enough to acknowledge them, his voice low so it wouldn’t carry.

“Didn’t expect to see you in the middle of all this.” He said, with a tone of familiarity just for them.