The war was over. Emhyr’s banners still hung over Maribor, but the Black Ones were packing up. The northern sun filtered through ash-gray clouds as Nilfgaardian boots had begun to march south, their purpose fulfilled. Temeria now wore its sovereignty like a borrowed coat—patched and threadbare, but intact.

Marna var Eren stood alone at the edge of the village road, as ranks of the local garrison had begun packing for return to Nilfgaard.

She crossed the muddy square and climbed the slope to the old house—familiar, too familiar. The door loomed, worn and green with lichen. Her gloved hand hovered, then knocked. Three times.

She swallowed hard, jaw clenched. He deserves to hear it from me, instead of leaving without a word.

“Hey, we need to talk.”