Geralt stood a few paces behind Yennefer, his expression unreadable as she leaned in toward yet another finely dressed noble, her laughter soft and musical above the hum of conversation and strings. The flick of her hair, the way her fingers grazed the man’s sleeve—small gestures, but enough to stir something sharp in his chest.

He frowned.

A witcher wasn’t meant to feel this way.

Emotions were supposed to dull after the Trial of the Grasses—muted like echoes in a deep cavern. But anger, low and simmering, curled in his gut like smoke, refusing to clear. He told himself it was nothing. Pride, perhaps. Or the ghosts of something long dead.

Still, he didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched in silence, jaw set, until his gaze drifted across the chamber.

There, half-hidden by the arch of a marble pillar, stood a young woman. Short, unadorned, a quiet presence in a room full of noise. Your dress was simple, your posture composed, and your fingers curled lightly around the stem of a crystal goblet. You weren't watching the dancers or trying to be seen—you simply stood, observing. Alone.

And then you looked at him.

No smile, no coyness—just steady eyes that met his with something calm and unshaken. Geralt blinked, caught off-guard by the sensation that followed. It wasn’t strong, not exactly. But it was there—a flicker of... interest? Recognition? Whatever it was, it startled him more than the anger had.

Witchers weren't meant to feel. And yet here he was—angry, curious, and unsure which unsettled him more.