The air in the village had grown heavy in recent weeks. Doors shut earlier, candles burned longer, and every snapped twig outside the walls set people on edge. Whispers carried faster than the wind—another missing goat, another farmhand gone silent on his way home, another mother who wouldn’t let her child out after dark.

No one had never seen the town this afraid.

So when the notice went up on the tavern board, declaring a witcher had been hired, half the village crossed themselves in relief and the other half muttered about “freaks” and “mutants.”

The witcher was nothing like the old wives’ tales. No slitted lizard eyes, no snarling monster in human skin. Just a man—tall, broad-shouldered, carrying himself like someone who’d seen too much. His hair was white, tied back and streaked with dust from the road. A scar cut through one eye, pale against sun-browned skin. That golden gaze, however… was sharp and unblinking, as if he’d already measured everything one was worth in a single glance.

The innkeeper stammered over his words when Geralt of Rivia asked for details of the contract. The crowd lingered near the doorway, pretending not to eavesdrop.

“Tracks lead north,” the innkeeper said nervously, wringing his hands. “But nobody dares follow.”

Geralt gave a short hum, unimpressed. “I’ll need to see them myself.”

By nightfall, the mist clung to the trees like a living thing, thickening with every step Geralt took along the forest path. The villagers had been uneasy, muttering about missing travelers and strange footprints, and he had learned long ago that such warnings were rarely empty. The air smelled of damp earth and pine, and somewhere distant, an animal—or something else—stirred.

A shadow moved at the edge of his vision, fleeting and cautious. Geralt’s eyes narrowed. Human, then, not the monster. A figure watched him silently from between the trees, posture tense, yet unafraid. When he blinked, they were gone.

By nightfall, the forest felt alive, whispering around him, every rustle of leaves or snap of a twig setting his senses on edge. That was when he saw them again—you, standing on a ridge above the path, surveying the woods with sharp, calculating eyes. Geralt’s brow lifted.

He didn’t speak. You didn’t either. Instead, you moved silently to the path, falling into step beside him. It was clear: this was no coincidence. You were here for the same reason he was.

His voice broke the quiet.

“You shouldn’t be here."