#granda

 Witchers weren’t taught to name their feelings, let alone express or manage them. Quite the opposite. Every school—no matter its methods—drilled the same lessons into their recruits: feelings were a weakness. A distraction. Better to bury them. Forget them. Feel nothing. The less you feel, the better a hunter you are, and the better you hunt, the longer you live.

 And sometimes, that worked. They said some witchers genuinely felt nothing. But for every one of them, there were dozens who weren’t hollow at all—witchers who felt everything too sharply, too painfully. And because they were never taught how to handle it, became dangerously unstable. Or worse, unable to read their own situation or the intentions of others, which could be deadly for them.

 Of course, the experience taught them fast enough when to trust and when not to, but even the oldest veterans, who’d seen it all and been burned more than once, still felt that emptiness. That hunger for something more.

 That’s why Lambert had never been able to define his bond with Aiden, but he knew that Aiden’s presence had filled that emotional void in a way nothing else had. It was as if some missing piece had finally clicked into place. And the best part? He didn’t have to explain it. He didn’t need words he didn’t have. Aiden just knew. He’d always known exactly what it was like.

 When he lost him, anger became Lambert's refuge. It was the only emotion he knew that didn’t leave him vulnerable, the only one sharp enough to keep the grief at bay. Fury pushed him forward, and gave him purpose, while sorrow? That was a slow poison, draining his strength. He’d thought vengeance might fill the void—killing the bastards who’d taken Aiden, recovering his swords—but it hadn’t. Neither had drowning himself in bottles until the world blurred. The emptiness lingered, gnawing at him with a quiet ferocity he couldn’t shake.

 It wasn’t until he met Keira that something shifted.

 Lambert never trusted sorceresses. Too many had danced around Geralt, weaving their webs of lies and manipulation, for him to think they were anything but trouble. They were proud, selfish, and maddeningly calculating—the kind of people who lit a short fuse in Lambert every damn time. And yet, Keira Metz had come to him, bluntly stating what she wanted. She was selfish, argumentative, and wildly ambitious, no doubt about that, but at least she didn’t try to pretend otherwise. She amused him, intrigued him even, but what really sold him on the arrangement was how clear she had been from the start: fun and a few samples for her experiments, nothing more.

 He could respect that. Hell, he could even appreciate it.

 And besides, he owed her. She’d saved his life during the fight with the Wild Hunt, and the debt still sat heavy on his conscience. It wasn’t like he had anything better to do, anyway. His world was unraveling, thread by thread. Vesemir was gone, and with both Geralt and Eskel deciding to leave Kaer Morhen for good, there wasn’t much left of his old life to cling to.

 So, when Keira offered him something—anything—Lambert figured, why not? He had nothing left to lose and, if nothing else, the sorceress knew how to keep things interesting.

 He hadn’t even noticed when Keira began to fill the void left by Aiden. He liked her company—her fiery spirit, her sharp tongue, even the way she fussed over him. Though he’d sooner swallow his tongue than admit it. For the first time since Aiden’s death, he’d dared to think that maybe, just maybe, life didn’t have to be completely terrible for a witcher.

 He wasn’t stupid enough to make plans, though. Life had a way of spitting in the face of optimism. Witcher's luck was notoriously rotten, and he figured his recent good fortune would run out sooner rather than later. He just hadn’t expected it to blow up in his face like this.