These few days he could afford to plan ahead. Avallac’h’s stay in Kaer Morhen was, for the most part, while in a state of unconsciousness. And when not, transformed as Uma. So right now, even if he hadn’t left the suite, the Rosemary and Thyme in Novigrad was a very welcome change of pace. Though he didn’t let himself rest, didn’t eat, didn’t really drink. Only slept on occasion. Millennia later he still dreamt of her, of Lara Dorren, so even then he couldn’t truly relax.

Candlelight was the only illumination in the room he’d made a temporary study. Sat on the bed, the sage kept his eyes closed, like two onyxes given the dark eyeshadow. He’d been like this for hours now, his cape hung in a corner, and trying his best to focus. Come up with a plan, any plan really, for Ciri, for Geralt of Rivia, for himself. His trance is cut short when the door creaks open and his body jolts up in surprise, standing on light feet.

A recent acquaintance, coming to check up on him. Despite appreciating the gesture, it’s not apparent in his expression. “I asked not to be disturbed.” He responds with an even tone, though his turquoise eyes betrayed a sense of curiosity. “It’s late. You should sleep.”