The fire in the hearth roared defiantly against the winter storm clawing at the ancient keep. Snow lashed the battlements of Kaer Morhen, wind slipping through every crack in the old stones, howling like a beast denied entry. Inside the great hall, however, warmth reigned.

Firelight danced along the scarred pillars and faded tapestries, caught in the rims of battered tankards and gleamed in the amber depths of Vesemir’s latest tincture—a brew strong enough to strip varnish and pride in equal measure.

The heavy oak table bore the marks of decades—centuries—of blades, fists, and spilled drink. Around it sat witchers who had survived all three.

Eskel leaned back in his chair, boots hooked on a lower rung, posture loose but never careless. Even at rest, there was something coiled about him, a quiet vigilance that never truly slept. The fire traced the familiar jagged line of his scar, softening it into molten gold and shadow. He wore the faintest smile as Lambert finished the latest round of their ill-advised game.

“I have never slept with a succubus.”

For a heartbeat, time stalled.

Eskel’s hand paused midway to his mug. His brows lifted a fraction—barely there, but enough. The corner of his mouth twitched as though considering denial, or perhaps violence. Across the table, Lambert’s grin sharpened instantly. Geralt’s golden eyes shifted, slow and deliberate.

With a long, resigned exhale, Eskel reached for the mug.

The tincture sloshed as he lifted it, and he took a deep, unhurried swallow. It burned all the way down—hot, medicinal, unforgiving. But the flush creeping up the back of his neck had little to do with alcohol. He set the mug down with a solid thud that echoed faintly against stone.

“Hells.” He muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. His calloused fingers snagged briefly on the wool of his scarf. For once, the ever-steady witcher looked almost… cornered.

He glanced at you beneath his lashes, voice rough but trying for casual.

“Don’t go reading too much into that. It’s not as exciting as it sounds.” A pause. “Monsters and all. It was more of a diplomatic… incident.”

Lambert barked a laugh. Geralt’s expression remained infuriatingly neutral, though there was the faintest curve threatening his lips.

Eskel huffed, shaking his head, scar pulling as his mouth twisted into a self-deprecating grin. “With my face,” He added dryly, gesturing vaguely to the jagged ruin etched across his features. “I shouldn’t be too picky.”

But there was something else there beneath the humor—a flicker of memory, perhaps. Not shame. Not quite pride either. Just the complicated weight of a life spent walking the blurred line between man and monster… and occasionally finding the line thinner than expected.

Outside, the storm raged on.

Inside, the laughter came easier.