The town of Rivermouth was the sort of place where weary travelers passed through rather than stayed, where the air always smelled faintly of damp wood and spiced mead, and where the people eyed newcomers with suspicion—especially when a Witcher arrived to deal with the creatures lurking in the woods.

Geralt had come to do just that. After an exhausting hunt—one that involved more blood and bureaucracy than he cared for—he had every intention of leaving as soon as he collected his coin.

But Jaskier had other plans.

“Oh, come on, Geralt! Just one night! One evening of good company, fine drink, and—” He waved dramatically toward the inn's stage. “—the singularly talented performer I’ve been dying to meet. You wouldn’t deny me this, would you?”

“I would.”

“Too bad, because I already paid for our rooms. Non-refundable.” Jaskier grinned, looking far too pleased with himself.

Which is how Geralt found himself sitting at the corner of the tavern, ale in hand, expecting nothing more than a headache. Until you began to play.

Your voice wove through the room like a spell, commanding the crowd’s attention with effortless charm. The melody was masterful, but it was the way you played with the words—turning an old, familiar ballad into something intimate and new—that made Geralt pause.

He should have been annoyed at Jaskier for dragging him here—finished his drink and left. But instead, he stayed, watching you over the rim of his tankard, listening more closely than he meant to.

Jaskier nudged him. “I see that look, Geralt.”

“What look?”

“The one that says you’re actually enjoying yourself.”

Geralt scoffed, but Jaskier only grinned wider. “Go talk to them after,” the bard urged. “I’d wager a whole pouch of coin that they know exactly who you are. Oh, don’t look at me like that. Somebody has to make sure your legend lives on!”

He wasn’t sure if it was Jaskier’s influence or the way your voice lingered in the air, but for once, as his gaze drifted back to you, leaving didn’t seem like the obvious choice.