The tavern door creaked open, letting in a gust of cold wind and the scent of damp earth. A few heads turned, then returned to their mugs—this wasn’t a place for curiosity. Firelight danced in the hearth, casting flickering shadows through smoke-thick air.

In a darkened corner sat a man who didn’t quite belong. He was quiet, still, but something about him made you look twice. White hair, loosely tied, framed a face marked by old scars and calm intensity.

Two swords leaned beside him—one steel, worn and practical; the other, silver, gleaming in the firelight. Not for show. A witcher’s blades. His eyes, pale yellow and predatory, moved slowly over the room, reading it like a worn map. He missed nothing.

A barmaid placed a tankard on his table without a word. He nodded, offered no coin. Either it was paid, or no one dared ask.

A drunken farmer near the hearth muttered, “Mutant freak” too low for most to hear. Geralt did, his eyes flicked over and the man fell quiet.

You watched from across the room. The stories spoke of monsters, war, and kings, but they always felt like smoke and song. Now, here sat the White Wolf—real, quiet, dangerous.