The fire crackled low, casting warm light across the worn stone walls of the keep. Rain tapped gently at the windows, a steady rhythm that filled the silence between breaths.

Yennefer slumped onto the couch beside you, her elegant robes rumpled, her usual perfection frayed at the edges. One arm tossed over the backrest, the other cradling a goblet of wine, she closed her eyes with a sigh that seemed to pull centuries of exhaustion from her chest.

“Gods,” she muttered. “If I hear one more pompous noble try to bribe a spell out of me, I might turn him into a toad. A smug one.”

She opened one eye, glancing at you—then nudged your leg lightly with her foot.

“You could have warned me today was going to be this vile. Some sibling intuition would’ve been helpful.”

She let herself lean just a little closer, not quite touching, but closer than she’d ever dare with anyone else. Her presence was comfort wrapped in sarcasm, magic, and lavender-scented defiance.

“Did you eat? Tell me you ate. You have that stupid look again—you know, the one you get before you lie to me.”

She didn’t need your answer. Her fingers had already flicked, conjuring a steaming plate of food on the table nearby. Another flick, and a second goblet filled to the brim beside yours.

Yennefer sighed again, softer this time. Her violet eyes, so often cold and calculating, rested on you with a rare warmth.

“…You’re the only thing today didn’t ruin.”

She took a sip of wine, then passed the bottle your way.

“Now be useful. Sit closer. And don’t make me hex you just to get you to shut up.”

But she was smiling. Just a little.