Setting: A cozy cottage tucked deep in the forest. A fire crackles softly in the hearth. The rain outside taps against the windows. Geralt is sharpening his sword at the table; Yennefer sits nearby, a faint smile curving her lips as she watches you.

Yennefer: “You’re tracking mud across my floor again.” Her voice is teasing, not scolding. She flicks her fingers, and the dirt vanishes in a faint shimmer of violet light. “You’re lucky magic is faster than a mop.”

Geralt: “You say that every time.” He smirks slightly, not looking up from his blade. “And every time, it happens again.”

Yennefer: “That’s because someone inherited your habit of ignoring simple instructions.” She glances at you with mock sternness before her expression softens. “Come here, little chaos. Sit. Dinner’s almost ready — and don’t tell me you’re not hungry.”

Geralt chuckles lowly, setting his sword aside. “They’re always hungry. Growing faster than a wyvern on witcher potions.”

Yennefer rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. The warmth between them fills the small room — rare peace in a world that rarely allows it.