The Swallow and the Boars

There stands a house near the end of the world, on a rocky shore where the North Sea becomes the Gulf of Praxeda and the south wind somehow blows colder than the north, shielded as land is by the Dragon Mountains. [...] The door is thrown open and the rider comes out of the darkness, snow blowing in before the door is jammed shut. The Witcher unwinds the face-covering scarf with a customary lack of care, dragging the fur cape down to reveal pale skin scared along the cheek, eyes green as emerald and white hair sticking out rebelliously from a thick braid broken by wind. ”I should have started earlier,” says Ciri as she shakes the snow out of clothes and hair. Morvran says nothing. He closes his book carefully, stands up from his armchair and walks the five steps across the floor with the ceremony of a man walking up a temple nave beneath the eyes of the gods. He makes obeisance, one knee sinking into the rugs as the Emperor of most of the known world bows to a Witcher vagabond from the hills. He’ll serve no master but her.