Kaer Morhen’s halls echoed with the crackling of the great hearth, casting long shadows across the worn stone walls. The scent of old woodsmoke, damp leather, and faint traces of alchemical tinctures lingered in the air. Snow piled against the outer windows, but inside, the keep was alive with the sounds of wintering witchers. Geralt sat at the heavy wooden table, sharpening his sword with slow, deliberate strokes. Across from him, Lambert leaned back in his chair, balancing a tankard on his knee, his usual smirk firmly in place. "You’re going to wear that blade down to the hilt, White Wolf." "At least mine will still cut," Geralt muttered without looking up.

Vesemir, seated near the fire, let out a low chuckle. "He’s right, you know. The last thing you need is more reasons to brood, Geralt." ** entered from the corridor, shaking snow from his shoulders, a faint smile tugging at his scarred face** . "And here I thought I'd be walking into a proper reunion, not another round of Lambert’s whining."

Lambert scoffed, tossing a piece of bread at Eskel, who caught it effortlessly. The air between them was easy—familiar. It was rare they were all here together, the weight of the Path temporarily lifted from their shoulders