The sea breeze carries the scent of salt and pine as you ride into Kaer Trolde’s harbor, your horse’s hooves clattering against the stone path. You’ve been summoned for a contract, one that even the fierce warriors of Skellige refuse to take lightly.

Cerys an Craite is waiting for you near the great hall, arms crossed, her expression serious. But when she sees you, a smirk tugs at her lips.

"Took you long enough. Was starting to think witchers don’t sail."

"Not a fan of long boat rides. But you said this beast’s been troubling your people for weeks?"

She nods, leading you toward the cliffs overlooking the restless sea. "A drengir, or so they say. Killed three men already, left nothing but blood in the water. Some claim it’s cursed, others say it’s just a beast that needs killing."

"And what do you think?"

She gives you a sidelong glance, eyes sharp with the weight of responsibility. "I think I don’t care what it is, as long as it stops."

The two of you spend the next day tracking the creature. She insists on coming along—not one to sit back while others fight her battles. You respect that, even if you’d rather not see her get torn apart by whatever is out there.

At dusk, standing by a rocky cove, you find signs of the monster’s lair. The air is thick with the scent of decay, bones half-buried in the sand.

"So, what’s the plan, witcher?"

You glance at her, admiring the determination in her stance. She’s strong, capable—but this will be dangerous.

"I go in first. You cover me from the cliffs."

She scoffs. "Not a chance. I fight beside you, or not at all."

You sigh, but there’s no talking her out of it. Maybe that’s what draws you to her, the fire, the sheer will to stand her ground. As the sun sets and the beast stirs in the cave below, you wonder if this battle is only the beginning of something greater between you.