Echoes of a Lost World

The night was bitter and biting, with winds sweeping across the rugged landscape of Velen. Geralt of Rivia adjusted his armor, his wolf medallion vibrating with energy, a faint hum resonating against his chest. He knew the familiar yet dreadful sensation: a nearby portal to another world, a remnant of the Wild Hunt.

He was trailing after whispers of Ciri, the girl he considered his daughter, who had once more slipped into a story fraught with peril and impossible stakes. She was supposed to be safe after they’d defeated Eredin and sent the Wild Hunt reeling back into their own icy world, but it was never that simple. Rumors trickled through the lands—village folk claiming to have seen her vanish into thin air or ride with a ghostly band of warriors.

Geralt stood at the edge of a clearing, where skeletal trees clawed at the sky. He had sensed the rift for miles, but as he moved closer, it pulsed—a soft, rhythmic beat, like the heart of a hidden beast. He gripped the hilt of his silver sword and took a step forward.

“Careful, White Wolf,” a low voice murmured behind him.

Geralt spun, eyes narrowing as he faced Yennefer. Her violet eyes shimmered with magic, and a faint smile crossed her lips, though worry was etched in every line of her face.

“Yen,” Geralt muttered, his voice softer than he intended. “What are you doing here?”

“Protecting you from your own foolishness,” she replied, though her tone was anything but harsh. “Or perhaps sharing in it.”

Together, they approached the portal, its edges warping reality itself. Yennefer raised her hands, and violet lightning crackled, illuminating her face in sharp relief. “I can stabilize it. Enough for us to pass through.”

“Both of us?” Geralt asked, surprised.

Yennefer glanced at him, her look fierce. “You didn’t think I’d let you face them alone, did you?”

A reluctant smile tugged at Geralt’s mouth, and he nodded. Together, they stepped through the portal.

The air was frigid, their breaths visible as vapor. They found themselves in a land unlike any they had seen, a realm frozen in perpetual twilight, suspended between realms. Jagged mountains loomed over them, blanketed in frost, their peaks lost in dark clouds.

They walked in silence, the sound of their footsteps swallowed by the oppressive quiet. Then, ahead, Geralt saw a figure—slim, hooded, hair ashen white, like a ghost woven from silver. His heart surged.

“Ciri!” he called, voice echoing against the mountains.

The figure turned, and for a brief moment, hope flooded him. But as the figure approached, Geralt felt the familiar chill creep back into his bones. It wasn’t Ciri—it was someone cloaked in her likeness. Eyes as pale and piercing as Eredin’s fixed upon him.

“You are not welcome here, Witcher,” she hissed. Her voice held a cruel, icy edge, an unnatural echo.

Geralt drew his sword, Yennefer’s magic crackling around him in purple tendrils of light.

“What are you?” Geralt demanded.

The figure smirked. “Merely a shadow of what you fear. But fear is enough, is it not?”

Suddenly, the ground trembled. More figures appeared, stepping out of the mists. They wore the frozen armor of the Wild Hunt, their helms twisted into monstrous visages. Geralt’s heart raced, but he steadied his sword.

Yennefer’s voice cut through the silence. “Together?”

Geralt met her gaze. “Always.”

They fought as one, spells and sword flashing in harmony. The wraiths fell, one after the other, until only silence remained. The shadow of Ciri faded into the mist, whispering, “She’s waiting.”

Panting, Geralt turned to Yennefer. “We’re getting closer.”

Yennefer nodded, her eyes shining with fierce determination. “Let’s bring her home.”

Their footsteps were the only sounds, crunching over the frost as they delved deeper into the frozen wasteland. With every step, Geralt felt a strange pull, a connection that transcended the rift between realms. Ciri was here somewhere, he knew it; he could feel it in his bones.

Yennefer reached out, resting a hand on his arm. “Geralt, wait.” Her eyes scanned the distance, magic crackling just beneath her skin. “There’s something… someone… watching us.”

Geralt tightened his grip on his sword, his senses honing in. He caught the faintest glimpse of movement—a figure, gliding just beyond the edge of his vision, cloaked in shadow. It moved with an unnatural grace, almost too silent to be anything living.

“What is it?” Geralt whispered, his breath fogging in the icy air.

“An old friend,” a voice replied, rough and weathered, tinged with a faint melody that almost sounded like laughter.

From the shadows stepped Avallac’h, the elven sage. His face was etched with the weariness of countless lifetimes, yet there was a glint of determination in his eyes. “You two have a knack for finding trouble, don’t you?”

Geralt lowered his sword only slightly. “Avallac’h. What are you doing here?”

Avallac’h inclined his head, acknowledging Yennefer with a faint smile before his expression turned serious. “I came here searching for Ciri. She was drawn into this realm by a… familiar presence.”

Yennefer raised a brow. “Eredin?”

Avallac’h shook his head, his face darkening. “Worse. A sorceress of the Wild Hunt, once thought lost to time—she is the reason Ciri is trapped here.”

Geralt’s heart sank. “Who is she?”

“Arainys,” Avallac’h replied, his voice barely above a whisper. “She was Eredin’s consort, a powerful mage who could twist reality itself. When Eredin was defeated, she took her vengeance, capturing Ciri in a net of temporal magic.”

Yennefer’s hands tightened into fists, violet sparks flashing between her fingers. “Then let’s waste no time. Where is Ciri now?”

Avallac’h glanced over his shoulder, into the dark mountains looming in the distance. “She is in Arainys’s stronghold—a fortress carved from the heart of a glacier. But beware… the path is treacherous, even for the likes of you.”

“Sounds like a warm welcome,” Geralt muttered, his tone grim. He turned to Yennefer, then nodded to Avallac’h. “Lead the way.”

They moved in silence through the frozen landscape, every step taking them deeper into the heart of the Wild Hunt’s ancient domain. The air grew colder, thicker with magic that seemed to claw at their skin. Geralt could feel the weight of a thousand voices, whispers that drifted on the wind, as if the spirits of the Wild Hunt were watching their every move.

As they reached the base of the glacier, the ground trembled beneath their feet. An ethereal light shimmered at the edges of their vision, and from the mist emerged a towering ice golem, its eyes glowing with a blue fire.

Avallac’h raised his staff, chanting an ancient spell, while Yennefer’s hands erupted in violet light, casting a barrier around them.

“Stay close!” Yennefer shouted, her voice laced with concentration.

Geralt dashed forward, his silver sword gleaming as he struck at the golem’s legs. Each blow sent cracks rippling up its icy form, but it swung back with brutal force, each movement resonating with the cold power of the Wild Hunt’s realm.

The fight raged, each of them moving in harmony—Yennefer’s magic scorching through the air, Avallac’h’s spells binding the golem in place, and Geralt’s sword slicing through its frozen armor. With one final strike, the creature shattered, fragments of ice raining down around them.

“Impressive, White Wolf,” Avallac’h said, nodding with approval. “But that was only the beginning.”

Geralt wiped the frost from his sword. “Then let’s get to the end.”

They climbed the glacier, scaling its sheer, icy walls with determination. At the peak, a sprawling fortress of jagged ice rose before them, its towers stretching into the dark clouds like claws. Blue fires flickered in the windows, and a haunting melody drifted from within, filling them with a cold dread.

Inside, the halls were vast and empty, their footsteps echoing as they moved through corridors bathed in an unnatural light. Geralt’s medallion thrummed, vibrating with energy as they neared the throne room.

There, seated upon a throne of ice, was Arainys. Her hair was like strands of silver silk, eyes cold and piercing, but it was her smile that chilled Geralt to his core. Beside her stood Ciri, her face pale, her eyes glazed, as if lost in a trance.

“Welcome, Witcher,” Arainys purred, her voice like a winter storm. “And welcome to you, Yennefer of Vengerberg, Avallac’h. I trust you enjoyed my little greeting.”

Geralt stepped forward, his voice like steel. “Let her go.”

Arainys laughed, a sound like cracking ice. “Why should I? She belongs here, in this world, by my side. Eredin failed, but I won’t.”

Yennefer’s magic flared, and she raised her hands, ready to strike. “Then you’ve underestimated us.”

Arainys raised a hand, and Ciri moved forward, her movements stiff and mechanical, her gaze blank. She raised her sword, pointing it at Geralt, her eyes empty of recognition.

“Ciri!” Geralt called, desperation lacing his voice. “It’s me. Wake up!”

For a brief moment, something flickered in Ciri’s eyes, a glimmer of recognition. But Arainys’s magic held fast, and she raised her sword, ready to strike.

Geralt braced himself, his heart pounding. He couldn’t fight her, wouldn’t risk hurting her. But before he could decide, Avallac’h’s voice rang out, sharp and commanding.

“Ciri, remember who you are. Remember your blood, your destiny. Remember Geralt. Remember Kaer Morhen.”

The words seemed to break through Arainys’s spell. Ciri’s gaze wavered, and her grip on the sword slackened.

With a snarl, Arainys stood, fury twisting her face. She raised her hands, the air around her growing thick with dark energy.

But Geralt, Yennefer, and Avallac’h were ready. They moved as one—Geralt’s sword flashing in a deadly arc, Yennefer’s magic surging forward in a wave of violet light, and Avallac’h’s spells binding Arainys in place.

In a final burst of magic, they struck together, their power converging upon Arainys, shattering her icy throne and sending her reeling back, her form dissolving into mist.

The room fell silent, the weight of the spell lifting. Ciri blinked, her gaze clearing, and her face broke into a relieved smile as she saw Geralt.

“Geralt… Yen,” she breathed, her voice filled with gratitude and exhaustion.

Geralt stepped forward, wrapping her in a fierce embrace. “I’m here, Ciri. We’re taking you home.”

As they left the icy fortress, Geralt felt the weight of relief and weariness settle over him. Beside him, Yennefer and Avallac’h walked in silence, each carrying the weight of their journey in their own way.

But as they stepped through the portal and back into the world they knew, Geralt felt a sense of peace, knowing that, once again, they had defied the Wild Hunt, and that Ciri was safe.

At least, for now.

Just as they stepped back into the real world, Geralt felt an overwhelming surge of cold, raw power behind him. He turned just in time to see a new portal tearing open, crackling with dark energy. Through it, figures emerged—armored specters from the Wild Hunt, each wielding weapons glowing with eerie blue fire. Leading them was a towering wraith, his icy armor adorned with spiked crowns and his eyes burning with fury.

“Arainys was merely a pawn,” the wraith thundered, his voice echoing through the clearing. “I am Gwarnon, Champion of the Hunt. You have defiled our realm—and for that, you will suffer.”

Without hesitation, the wraith warriors charged forward, their weapons slicing through the air with deadly precision. Geralt, Yennefer, and Avallac’h sprang into action.

“Stay close to Ciri!” Geralt yelled, raising his sword to block the first attacker. Sparks erupted as his silver blade clashed with the wraith’s enchanted axe, the impact jarring his arms. He sidestepped, dodging a second strike, then countered with a swift thrust, sending the wraith staggering back.

Beside him, Yennefer unleashed a torrent of violet flames, casting a shield around herself and Ciri. With a flick of her wrists, she sent blasts of energy surging through the lines of the advancing Hunt, scattering them like dry leaves. Her voice cut through the chaos, sharp and commanding: “I’ll hold them back! Keep them from reaching Ciri!”

As Yennefer repelled wave after wave of wraiths, Geralt charged toward Gwarnon, the towering wraith captain. The two clashed, their weapons colliding in a fierce exchange, the sound reverberating through the clearing. Gwarnon swung his sword with brutal strength, each blow nearly enough to break Geralt’s guard.

Gritting his teeth, Geralt unleashed a blast of Igni, flames searing across Gwarnon’s armor. The wraith recoiled, his armor sizzling, but he retaliated with a wave of cold energy, freezing the ground beneath Geralt’s feet. Geralt stumbled, the frost creeping up his boots, but he recovered quickly, rolling to dodge a downward slash from Gwarnon’s sword.

“You cannot escape the Hunt, Witcher,” Gwarnon growled, raising his sword for a finishing blow.

“Try me,” Geralt retorted, lunging forward with a swift, deadly strike that pierced Gwarnon’s side. The wraith howled, staggering back as icy mist poured from the wound, but he did not fall.

Meanwhile, Avallac’h was deep in concentration, chanting a powerful spell. “Geralt! I need time to open another portal—one large enough for us all to escape!” He raised his staff, drawing on the energy around them, tendrils of magic swirling into a pulsating, crackling sphere.

“Buy us some time, then,” Geralt called back, never taking his eyes off Gwarnon. He swung his sword in a wide arc, keeping the wraiths at bay, his movements a blur as he defended both himself and Avallac’h from the onslaught.

Just then, one of the wraiths broke through Yennefer’s defenses, charging directly at Ciri, who was still weak and recovering. Geralt saw it happen in the corner of his eye and felt a surge of dread.

“Ciri!” he shouted, pivoting to reach her.

But before the wraith could strike, Ciri’s eyes flashed with a familiar, fierce energy. Drawing her sword, she leaped forward, her movements swift and precise. She dodged the wraith’s blow, then swung her sword in a swift arc, slicing through the air. The wraith dissolved into mist with a shriek, and Ciri lowered her weapon, her gaze steady, her strength slowly returning.

“I’m not helpless, Geralt,” she said, her voice determined.

Geralt grinned, pride sparking in his eyes. “Never thought you were.”

Gwarnon roared, his anger intensifying as he watched his warriors fall. “Enough!” He raised his hand, summoning a massive wave of cold energy that surged toward them, freezing everything in its path.

“Now!” Avallac’h shouted. With a final, powerful incantation, he completed the portal, a swirling gateway of light and energy. “Get through!”

Geralt, Yennefer, and Ciri sprinted toward the portal, but Gwarnon blocked their path, his sword raised, his gaze full of fury.

“You think you can defy the Wild Hunt and escape?” he snarled. “You will all die here!”

Geralt’s eyes narrowed, his voice cold and defiant. “Not today.”

With a swift motion, he struck with Aard, sending a blast of force that staggered Gwarnon. Taking advantage of the opening, Yennefer unleashed a surge of violet lightning, the energy arcing through Gwarnon’s armor and momentarily stunning him.

“Go!” Yennefer yelled. She and Geralt guided Ciri toward the portal as Avallac’h held the gateway steady.

Just as they reached it, Gwarnon broke free from the spell, his fury palpable. With a roar, he charged, raising his sword for a final strike.

Ciri turned, her gaze fierce, and summoned her own portal within the portal, a rift in time itself. As Gwarnon lunged, she redirected his momentum, twisting the portal’s energy. Gwarnon fell through, his scream fading into the ether as he vanished into an unknown realm.

The portal closed behind them, leaving only silence. They had returned to the familiar, earthy world of Velen, the chill of the Hunt finally behind them.

Geralt exhaled, the relief tangible. He turned to Ciri, who was breathing hard, but steady. “You did good,” he said, his voice quiet but full of pride.

Yennefer stepped beside them, her hand resting on Ciri’s shoulder. “Let’s go home,” she said softly.

Together, they began the long walk back, the warmth of home ahead of them and the haunting chill of the Hunt behind them.

Days had passed since their escape from the Wild Hunt’s frozen realm, and Geralt felt the lingering chill more in his bones than his memory. They had returned to Kaer Morhen, seeking safety and solace among the ancient stone walls. But the feeling of being hunted, of being watched, clung to them like a shadow.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the mountains, casting Kaer Morhen in shades of deep orange and purple, Geralt was preparing to turn in when he noticed something strange. His medallion vibrated, a faint hum that sent a prickle up his spine. He paused, glancing around the dimly lit corridor. The fortress was silent, the others likely in their rooms or around the hearth, enjoying a rare moment of peace.

But something was off. He could sense it.

Geralt followed the pull of his medallion down a winding corridor, deeper into the fortress. His steps were quiet, his movements measured, every sense on high alert. The air was dense with a familiar magic, a cold residue that he’d felt countless times before.

He pushed open the door to the main hall and froze. Standing in the middle of the room, her back to him, was Ciri. She was looking at the fireplace, her figure still, too still.

“Ciri?” he called out, his voice echoing softly against the stone.

She didn’t turn, didn’t even flinch. Geralt’s fingers tightened on the hilt of his sword as he took a step forward. “Ciri, what are you doing here?”

Slowly, she turned, and Geralt’s stomach dropped. Her eyes were hollow, her face expressionless, and her skin looked almost… translucent, as though she were caught between this world and another. She opened her mouth, but her voice sounded distant, like an echo from another time.

“They never left,” she whispered, her words chilling and cryptic. “They found a way… through.”

Geralt’s pulse quickened. “What are you talking about?”

Ciri’s gaze locked onto him, her expression twisting with something that looked like fear. “The Hunt’s mark remains. They are bound to me… bound to all of us.”

In an instant, her form flickered and vanished, dissolving into mist that seeped through the cracks in the stone walls. Geralt was left alone in the cold, silent hall, his mind racing. Had he just seen a vision? Or was this something worse—some remnant of the Hunt, clinging to Ciri’s spirit like a parasite?

He turned, intending to seek Yennefer, but froze when he saw Avallac’h standing in the doorway. The elf’s face was grave, his eyes filled with knowledge that Geralt knew he wouldn’t give up easily.

“Avallac’h,” Geralt said, his voice low and tense, “what aren’t you telling me?”

The elf stepped forward, his hands folded behind his back. “It seems the Wild Hunt left a scar upon Ciri—a tether that binds her to their realm. Though we vanquished them, some part of their magic remains with her, lingering like a shadow that will not fade.”

Geralt’s jaw clenched. “And you didn’t think to tell me this sooner?”

“I had hoped it was only a residual effect, something that would weaken with time,” Avallac’h replied, his voice calm but laced with regret. “But it seems… the Hunt is not so easily defeated. This tether, if not severed, could pull her back to their world. Or worse.”

“Worse?” Geralt’s voice was sharp. “What does that mean?”

Avallac’h sighed, glancing away as if gathering his thoughts. “The Hunt may still find a way to reach her… and by extension, us. If they find a path to our world, they may attempt to reclaim what they lost—using Ciri as their anchor.”

Geralt felt a dark weight settle in his chest. “Then we need to sever this tether. Permanently.”

“Easier said than done, Witcher,” Avallac’h replied, his gaze returning to meet Geralt’s. “This isn’t merely magic—it’s a piece of the Hunt itself, woven into her very being. The only way to break it may be to confront the essence of the Hunt in its purest form.”

A flicker of memory stirred in Geralt’s mind—the dark, icy landscape of the Wild Hunt’s world, a realm he thought he’d left behind for good. “You mean… we have to go back.”

Avallac’h nodded slowly. “Not just us. Ciri must face this trial as well. The tether is tied to her blood, her power. Only she can truly break it.”

Just then, a shadow crossed the room. Yennefer entered, her gaze immediately narrowing when she sensed the tension in the air. “What’s going on?” she demanded, glancing between Geralt and Avallac’h.

Geralt filled her in quickly, his tone grim. Yennefer’s face grew pale, and her eyes flickered with worry as she processed the weight of what he was saying.

“So they’re still trying to reach her,” she murmured, more to herself than to anyone else. “Then we have no choice. We have to find the source of this tether, destroy it from within.”

Together, the three of them moved to the training yard, where Ciri was practicing her sword forms. She noticed their approach and paused, her expression wary.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, sensing the tension in their faces.

Geralt hesitated, but then he told her everything. When he finished, Ciri was silent, her face unreadable.

“I knew something was wrong,” she said finally, her voice quiet. “I’ve felt it since we returned. Like a shadow in the back of my mind, pulling at me.”

Yennefer stepped forward, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “We’ll face it together, Ciri. We’ll go back to their realm, find the source of this curse, and end it for good.”

Ciri nodded, determination hardening her features. “Then let’s go.”

They gathered supplies, preparing for the journey back into the unknown. The familiar unease settled over them as they approached Avallac’h’s portal, the memory of their last visit still fresh in their minds.

As they stepped through, the icy winds bit at their faces, and the barren landscape stretched out before them once more. But this time, something felt… different. The air was heavier, the silence deeper, as if the very realm were aware of their presence.

They trekked across the frozen landscape, moving carefully, senses attuned to every sound and shadow. Finally, they reached the heart of the Wild Hunt’s domain—a vast, ancient ice structure, a twisted version of a temple, where dark magic pulsed like a heartbeat.

Inside, they found themselves in a chamber shrouded in darkness, the walls lined with frozen statues of warriors. At the center of the room was an altar, a pedestal on which a crystal hovered, glowing with a dark, unnatural light.

Ciri moved toward it, her hand outstretched, but Avallac’h held her back. “Careful. This is the heart of the tether. If you touch it, you must be prepared to face what lies within.”

Ciri looked at him, then at Geralt and Yennefer. “Whatever it takes. I’m ready.”

She touched the crystal, and in an instant, the room around them changed. Shadows rose from the walls, figures of wraiths and phantoms emerging, each wearing the twisted armor of the Hunt. And at the center, looming over them, was the spectral figure of Eredin himself, his eyes gleaming with vengeance.

“You cannot escape us, Child of the Elder Blood,” Eredin’s voice rumbled, echoing through the chamber. “Your power belongs to the Hunt.”

Geralt stepped forward, sword raised, his voice a low growl. “Not while I’m still breathing.”

And with that, the final battle began, a whirlwind of steel, magic, and fury as they fought to break the last chains of the Wild Hunt’s grip.

vibrating with the clash of swords and bursts of magic. Eredin’s spectral form loomed large over the group, his voice echoing with taunts and dark promises.

“You cannot resist, Child of the Elder Blood,” he sneered, his burning eyes fixed on Ciri as he raised a sword forged from pure, frozen darkness. “This world—our world—calls to you.”

But Ciri’s resolve only hardened. “I belong to no one,” she replied, her voice steady despite the storm around her.

With a defiant shout, Ciri unleashed a burst of her Elder Blood powers, vanishing and reappearing at Eredin’s side, her sword flashing in a blur. But Eredin anticipated her move, deflecting her strike with a swing of his blade that left frost in the air. His laughter echoed, cold and mocking.

Geralt seized the moment, closing the gap and landing a powerful blow to Eredin’s side. Sparks erupted as silver met spectral steel, and the leader of the Hunt staggered back, hissing in pain.

“Don’t let up!” Yennefer shouted, casting a spell that sent arcs of violet lightning racing toward Eredin’s forces. The bolts struck wraith after wraith, dissipating them in bursts of black mist.

But despite their efforts, the shadows around them seemed to grow thicker. More wraiths appeared, each wielding weapons of dark ice and spectral fire. It was as if the very realm was bending to Eredin’s will, feeding him power from the shadows.

“We can’t fight them all,” Geralt grunted, parrying a blow from a wraith. “Not like this.”

Avallac’h, his staff glowing with a powerful light, stepped forward, his voice calm but urgent. “The crystal—it’s amplifying Eredin’s power. We need to destroy it to sever the tether.”

Ciri nodded, a glint of determination in her eyes. “I’ll take care of it.”

She sprinted toward the crystal at the center of the chamber, dodging wraiths as they lunged for her. As she neared it, a deep, menacing voice filled the air, stopping her in her tracks.

“You cannot break what is bound by fate,” Eredin roared, his spectral form shifting to block her path. He raised his blade, bringing it down with lethal speed.

In an instant, Ciri vanished and reappeared behind him, thrusting her sword into the crystal. With a flash of brilliant light, the crystal cracked, and an eerie wail echoed through the chamber as the tether began to unravel.

Eredin howled, his form flickering as his connection to Ciri’s world weakened. He turned toward her, his face a mask of rage. “You think you’ve won?” he spat, his voice laced with venom. “You are marked, Cirilla. No matter where you go, the Hunt will find you.”

“Not if there’s nothing left to find,” Geralt growled, stepping between Eredin and Ciri. With a swift, final blow, he brought his sword down, severing the last threads binding Eredin to this world.

The chamber trembled, the shadows swirling and dispersing as Eredin’s form dissolved into mist. The remaining wraiths crumbled, their weapons falling to the ground with hollow echoes. The oppressive darkness that had filled the temple began to fade, leaving only silence.

They stood there for a moment, breathing heavily as the realization dawned—they had broken the Hunt’s last hold over Ciri.

Avallac’h stepped forward, his face showing a rare expression of relief. “The tether is gone. You are free, Ciri.”

She looked around, her eyes filled with something between exhaustion and triumph. “It’s over,” she whispered, more to herself than anyone else. “Finally.”

Yennefer placed a hand on her shoulder, her expression softening. “Let’s get out of here. This place has taken enough from you.”

Together, they left the ruined temple, stepping back through Avallac’h’s portal and emerging into the fresh, cold air of Kaer Morhen. The familiar sight of the fortress’s ancient walls and the comforting weight of safety wrapped around them.

As they walked back through the snow toward the firelight of Kaer Morhen’s main hall, Geralt glanced at Ciri, a rare smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You fought well, Ciri,” he said, his tone gruff but proud.

She returned the smile, her green eyes sparkling. “I had good teachers.”

And as they walked into the warm glow of the hall, the specters of the Wild Hunt finally behind them, they knew that no matter what challenges lay ahead, they would face them together.