"CIRI!"

Geralt's voice rips through the trees, but you don’t stop running. You can’t. The beast is right behind you.

Geralt is moving before he thinks, his feet pounding against the damp forest floor, breath coming in sharp bursts. Branches whip against his face, the scent of blood thick in the air. Yours. Geralt saw it—a gash along your side, dark red staining your tunic as you pushed yourself forward.

Too far. You’re too far ahead, and that thing is gaining on you.

A leshen. Not just any, but an ancient one—scarred, massive, with antlers like twisted roots and claws that could gut a man in one strike. It had been watching us, waiting, and now it had chosen its prey.

You.

Geralt sees you stumble, your step faltering as pain overtakes you. The beast lunges.

"No!"

Geralt throws Aard with everything he had. The force slams into the leshen’s side, knocking it off course just before its claws can reach you. You collapse to your knees, gasping, eyes wide with exhaustion and something else—fear.

Geralt reaches you in seconds, stepping in front of you, sword raised, teeth bared. The leshen growls, shadows twisting around it as it prepares to strike again. He doesn’t think. He doesn't hesitate.

"Stay down," Geralt ordered, shifting into a defensive stance. His grip tightens on his silver sword. The leshen moves, and he moves faster.

You’re hurt. You’re bleeding. But you’re alive. And as long as he's standing, he’ll make damn sure you stay that way.