The hall of Kaer Morhen flickered with firelight, shadows dancing along the stone walls as the scent of roasted hare and spiced wine drifted through the air. Geralt sat at the long, scarred table, carving neat slices from his portion with the calm precision of a man who’d done everything at least twice. Beside him, you—Ciri—laughed at one of Lambert’s predictably awful jokes, while Vesemir grunted in disapproval and Eskel tried to hide his smirk behind a mug of ale. Coen, quiet as always, observed with a small, knowing grin.

Geralt watched you with that familiar, half-tired softness in his eyes. You’d grown, sure, but here, in the keep’s familiar warmth, you were still the girl who’d once trained on splintered beams and swung wooden swords with wild, stubborn determination.

“You always win at cards because you cheat,” Lambert said, stabbing a piece of bread toward Coen.

“I win because I’m better,” Coen replied flatly.

“And quieter,” Eskel added.

You turned to Geralt, your eyes bright with curiosity and comfort. “Geralt,” you asked, setting your fork down, “what was the first monster you ever killed?”

The chatter paused. Even Vesemir looked up.

Geralt chewed, swallowed, then leaned back slightly. “Manticore,” he said after a beat. “Wasn’t supposed to be mine. Contract was Vesemir’s, but he got held up, sprained something, I think.”

“I did not sprain anything,” Vesemir muttered.

Geralt smirked. “I was sixteen. Stupid. Thought I was ready. I tracked it to a gorge outside Dorian, got lucky. It was young. Arrogant. Like me.”

“And?” you urged.

“And I almost died. Broke three ribs, lost half my hair, and pissed myself before I stuck a blade in its throat.” He picked up his mug, eyes narrowing with dry amusement. “But hey, first coin’s the sweetest.”