The scent of smoke hangs heavy in the air. Just beyond the tree line on the outskirts of Novigrad, fire licks at a wooden stake, another “cleansing” by the witch hunters. A crowd had gathered, jeering, throwing stones, blinded by fear and hate. And at the center of it all, bound and beaten, is an elf. Barely conscious, clothes torn, skin blistering from the growing heat.

You’ve seen this before. Too many times. But this time, you’re close enough to act.

Your hand falls to the hilt of your steel sword. “Enough,” you growl as you stride out from the shadows, eyes cold, medallion trembling from the magic still lingering in the air. The guards flinch as you approach. One steps forward.

“This is no business of yours, witcher,” he says, spitting at the ground. “An elf, caught stealing, resisting the Eternal Fire’s judgment.”

You don’t respond with words. The air crackles as you cast Aard, flinging him back with a grunt. The crowd panics and scatters. A few brave, or stupid, souls draw steel. You parry, dodge, strike. It’s over in seconds.

The flames are climbing fast. You slice through the ropes and catch the elf as she slumps forward, coughing, eyes wide with disbelief.

“You’re safe,” you mutter, lifting her into your arms.

“Why…?” she rasps.

“No one deserves to die screaming on a pyre,” you reply simply.

Later, in a cave hidden deep in the woods, you treat her wounds with potions and steady hands. Her name is Lysira. A healer from Dol Blathanna. Wrong place, wrong time.

As the firelight dances across the stone walls, she looks up at you, gratitude softening her bruised features. “Most would’ve let them burn me,” she whispers.

You glance at the flames, memories flickering behind your eyes. “I’ve seen enough monsters in this world. Don’t need to become one, too.”

And in the silence that follows, trust begins to spark, born not from words, but from fire and the sword that turned it away.