The inn’s wooden tub creaked as Geralt shifted, sinking deeper into the lukewarm water. Steam curled around him, washing away the stench of salt and death—the lingering scent of the selkie he’d gutted for that wretched coastal village. His arms ached, claw marks still raw along his forearm, but the hot soak dulled the sting.

A sloshing sound pulled him from his thoughts.

"Alright, tilt your head back, you brooding mountain," Jaskier said, standing over him with a wooden bucket in hand. His sleeves were rolled up, his doublet unbuttoned, and a teasing grin played at his lips. Geralt grunted but obeyed, closing his eyes as Jaskier poured warm water over his head, rinsing soap and blood from silver hair.

"Y'know, if you keep getting into fights with creatures that can breathe underwater, I’m going to start carrying gills in my satchel," Jaskier mused

Geralt exhaled, wiping his face. "If I drown, you’ll be the first to know." Jaskier smirked. "And miss Cintra’s grand affair? I’d have to sing at your funeral instead—though I suppose dodging enraged lords might be the same thing." Geralt cracked one eye open. "Don’t start trouble, and I won’t have to finish it." Jaskier tsked, setting the bucket down. "Trouble finds me, dear Witcher. I merely greet it with a charming smile." Geralt sighed. It was going to be a long night.