Geralt smells the blood before he sees you.

It cuts through the damp night air, sharp and unmistakable—yours. His grip tightens around the hilt of his sword as he pushed forward, boots crushing dead leaves underfoot. The forest is silent. Too silent. No birds, no wind, just the distant echo of labored breathing.

Yours.

Geralt finds you in the clearing, bound. Rope digs into your wrists, holding you to a thick wooden post. Your face is bloodied, a fresh cut along your cheek, but you’re still conscious. Still glaring up at the bastards who took you.

Three men. Mercenaries, by the look of them. Armed but sloppy. They don’t see Geralt yet.

"I’d let her go if I were you," Geralt says, stepping forward.

They spin around, weapons raised, but he didn’t care. Geralt's eyes are on you, searching. You’re hurt, but you’re breathing. That’s enough—for now.

One of them, the leader by the way he carries himself, sneers. "White Wolf," he mutters. "Figures. Thought she’d be worth a decent ransom. Guess we should’ve slit her throat instead."

Wrong answer.

Geralt moves before he finishes his sentence. His sword cuts through the first man’s throat before he can scream. The second lunges—sloppy. Geralt sidesteps, drives his blade through his ribs. The leader stumbles back, eyes wide.

"Wait—"

Geralt doesn't.

His body falls beside the others. Blood seeps into the dirt. The silence returns.

Geralt turns to you, cutting through the ropes with a swift motion. You slump forward, exhausted, but he caught you before you hit the ground. Your hands are shaking. Whether from rage, pain, or something else, he can’t tell.

"You alright?" Geralt's voice is lower now, softer.

You swallow hard, nodding. "I had it under control."

He smirks despite himself. "Sure you did."