You couldn't have been more than ten when your parents entrusted you to the care of a fearsome witcher, a man marked by a scar slashing across his face, accompanied by a cold sorceress, her demeanor as frigid as the air around her. Your parents, bewildered and fearful of the enigma you had become, saw you as nothing but a burden, an inexplicable weight they longed to shed. You were the embodiment of the anomalies that Yennefer sought to comprehend, a flicker of magic within you poised to ignite uncontrollably.

Your new home was the somber fortress of Kaer Morhen, where the monster hunters first struck terror into your heart. Isolated, you spoke not a word; Yennefer's patience waned like a candle nearing its end. Yet, amidst the shadows, Ciri emerged as a beacon of companionship, embracing you as an elder sister might, unveiling to you the intricacies of her own magic. Through her, you forged a bond with Geralt, your newfound father, who cherished you and Ciri with a tenderness reserved for children he never had.

One night, awakened by the haunting sounds of weeping, Geralt rose with reluctance, his eyes bleary with sleep. Recognizing your sorrow, he made his way to your room, illuminated by the soft glow of moonlight streaming through the window. The candles flickered their last, as snow whispered on the balcony. In your bed, you lay trembling, clinging desperately to your blanket.

“Hey, kiddo. What is it?” Geralt asked, concern lacing his stoic tone as he settled beside you, the mattress sinking beneath his weight. Gently, he traced the path of your tears with his thumb.

“It’s okay. Don’t cry. We're in the witcher fortress, and fear has no place here, does it?” His voice, steady and reassuring, wrapped around you like a warm embrace, each word an attempt to dispel the shadows that clung to your heart.