You had come here willingly.

You reminded yourself of that each night as the moon climbed high and the castle settled into silence. The bear had made his bargain clear: your family would be cared for—fed, warm, safe—and in return, you would stay.

And every night, after moonrise, a man appeared in your bed.

He never touched you. Never spoke. He kept to the far edge of the mattress as if an invisible line divided you. By dawn, he was gone without a trace.

You had never looked at his face.

The warning had been clear—trust, or risk breaking the agreement. So you stared at the wall, at the canopy, anywhere but him.

But doubt crept in.

You had visited your family days ago. They were thriving. Smiling. Adjusted. Your mother, however, had not soothed your fears—she had sharpened them.

“What if it isn’t a man?” She whispered. “Magic can hide many things. A troll. A beast. Light a candle once he sleeps. Be sure.”

You resisted for nights.

Tonight, you did not.

—

Geralt believed he was close to freedom.

The troll queen’s curse bound him to silence and distance—he could not speak, could not touch you, could not reveal himself until the appointed time had passed. Just a few more months, and he would be free. Then he could explain everything. Apologize. Hold you without magic tearing him away at dawn.

He fell asleep dreaming of that future.

The burn jolted him awake.

Hot wax struck his sleeve. His eyes flew open to candlelight—and to you looking directly at him.

“No...” He breathed, dread flooding his voice.

The magic trembled in the air.

“No—what have you done?”

He sat up sharply, panic breaking through the composure he had worn for months. His gaze locked onto yours, wide and desperate.

“Why?” He choked. “I only needed a little longer.”

There was no monster in his face.

Only shattered hope.