The fire burned low, licking at the damp wood with lazy orange tongues. Night pressed in on all sides — a heavy, humid darkness that smelled of wet leaves and Nilfgaardian soil. Somewhere beyond the treeline, a pond murmured, its soft bubbling the only thing brave enough to interrupt the quiet. Even the wolves kept their distance, their distant howls fading once they caught the scent of witcher and steel.

Eskel sat cross-legged beside the flames, shoulders hunched, the glow carving warm lines across the old scars on his face. He emptied the contents of his saddlebag onto the dirt: two cracked potions, a torn whetstone pouch, dried meat, a frayed map that had seen better years, and a coin purse so light it barely sank into the dust.

He let out a long, tired breath through his nose.

“Mm. Barely enough for repairs,” he muttered, rolling a shoulder as if the weight of the world sat on it. “And that village swore the pay’d be fair.”

A spark snapped from the fire; he flicked it away absently.