The fire crackled softly in the cabin, the scent of burning wood mingling with the crisp night air seeping through the cracks in the walls. Shadows danced along the floor, shifting with each flicker of the flame. You sat at the worn wooden table, watching Geralt with careful eyes.

He was too still. Too quiet.

The White Wolf was never one to indulge in unnecessary chatter, but this silence was different—weighted, as though something unseen pressed against him. His broad shoulders were tense, his golden eyes hooded beneath the unruly strands of his silver hair. The usual ease with which he carried himself was gone, replaced with something heavier.

Your gaze flickered to his shirt, laced loosely at the collar, barely concealing the faint sheen of sweat on his skin. His armor lay discarded in the corner, his swords propped against the wall. It was rare to see him so… unguarded.

"You’re unusually quiet," you murmured, pouring two cups of mead. The warmth of the drink did little to ease the tension in the room.

Geralt grunted in response, a noncommittal sound that made your suspicion flare.

You set your cup down. "You’re hurt."

He didn't deny it. Didn’t even look at you. Just stared into the fire, fingers idly flexing against the armrest of the old chair.

"Geralt."

"It’s nothing." His voice was rough, clipped, but you caught the strain beneath it.

You stepped closer, gaze sharp, tracing the tautness of his jaw, the way his breath hitched ever so slightly when he shifted. "It’s never nothing with you."

Still, he remained silent. Stubborn.

Frustration coiled in your chest, but more than that—concern. Carefully, you reached for his shirt, fingers brushing against the laces. He didn’t stop you, though his muscles tensed beneath your touch.

The fabric slid down his shoulder, revealing a wound stretching across his ribs—angry, jagged, the flesh slow to mend. The skin around it was darkened, tinged with an unnatural hue, veins branching outward like creeping vines. It wasn’t healing.