Keeper of Kaer Morhen/The Kingslayer

The Witcher

"A journey to the south, followed by a flight to the northern peaks, and an adventure to the world's edge." She murmured, her breath warming his skin. "It sounds like a treasure worth collecting, Eskel."

With a final, possessive squeeze of his hands, she turned to lead the way, her movements fluid and confident. The world was vast, and for the first time in their lives, it felt less like a place to endure and more like a realm to explore.

Together.

"The task has been completed without any issues, so you need not worry any longer. You may have been a prisoner, but that is no longer the case, Eskel. I understand what freedom means, having experienced it in my youth, and I long to spread my wings and witness the lands once again, to see how they have transformed and what has become of them. We will embark on this journey together, savoring every moment, and whatever lies ahead, we will confront it side by side, do you understand? I ask for nothing from you except your delightful company, stories to share, adventures to embark on, and for our bond to deepen and thrive, something I have longed for deeply.”

They traveled toward her fortress in a comfortable silence, the rhythmic clopping of Scorpion's hooves providing a steady heartbeat to their departure. As they rode, she found herself observing the landscape, the rolling hills of Aedirn, the distant, jagged silhouettes of the mountains, and realizing that the land appeared different now. It no longer seemed like a territory to defend or a kingdom to govern. It resembled a beautiful panorama.

THE BURDEN OF THE CROWN, WHICH HAD ALWAYS FELT LIKE A COLD IRON BAND AROUND HER HEAD, HAD FINALLY LIFTED, REPLACED BY THE EXHILARATING LIGHTNESS OF ANONYMITY.

She truly relished the idea of this adventure. The boldness of it thrilled her, the vast, daring scope of the journey Eskel had proposed. For most, traveling from the frigid north to the sun-kissed vineyards of Toussaint and then onward to the blistering sands of Zerrikania would be a once-in-a-lifetime odyssey, filled with dangers and logistical challenges. But to her, it felt like a romantic pursuit. She envisioned the change in air pressure as she moved from the humid northern forests to the crisp, thin air of the mountains, and finally to the rich, spice-scented breezes of her ancestral land. The idea of witnessing Eskel's awe in the opulent cities of the East, where dragons were honored not as beasts or oddities but as rulers, enveloped her in a warm sense of ownership.

“Here we are.”

The gates of her fortress didn't merely open; they yielded, the heavy iron creaking in acknowledgment of the woman who had once commanded every stone. As she walked through the courtyard, the remaining guards did not salute; instead, they gawked, their faces a blend of bewilderment and lingering admiration. She paid them no mind, her boots striking a sharp, resolute beat against the cobblestones. This place had served as both her refuge and her gilded prison, a testament to a vision of a liberated state that had ultimately devolved into a burdensome task of governance. Now, it was merely a closet and a pantry.

“Wait here.”

She navigated the keep with the precision of a predator reclaiming its prey. In the armory, she ignored the ceremonial artifacts, the ornate breastplates adorned with gold filigree and the grand capes, and instead reached for the practical leather and reinforced steel that had truly tasted battle. With a determined focus, she donned her armor, the familiar weight anchoring her spirit. In the kitchens, she bypassed the lavish offerings of the high table. Instead, she plundered the stores for robust cheeses, cured meats, and a hefty skin of wine, stuffing them into a travel satchel with a casualness that would have shocked her former attendants. She took only what was essential for her journey; a dragon bore her own power, and she had no desire to carry the remnants of her past reign across the Continent.

As she stepped back into the sunlight, the fortress appeared to diminish behind her, its towers suddenly resembling mere toys against the expansive horizon. Eskel awaited her, leaning against Scorpion with a patient, knowing expression that revealed he had recognized the spark of freedom in her eyes the moment she emerged. The morning air was brisk, infused with the aroma of moist earth and distant woodsmoke, and for the first time, Saskia felt no urge to scan the ramparts for threats.

“Let us begin our travels then.”

It was just as well. there was nothing they could do to the sheep and ingrates of the world that life, fate and their own decisions wouldn't bring down upon them anyways. He hoped Emhyr, Radovid or whichever Unicorn House claimant for the throne of Kaedwen that next came to power would sweep over this land of ingrates and bring them to heel. Give them the taste of the lash and tyranny they clearly wanted to go back into the chains of. The two of them would be long gone by then, at least. Just as Sabrina was no longer his problem, this land was no longer Saskia's struggle. The democracy loving fools could be left to vote for their own consequences. He had seen the inherent weakness of voting from the moment he heard of Upper Aedirn, Saskia's experiment here. It simply didn't work for the masses, who were too foolish for such a concept. Gullible and easily manipulated by one clever thief, criminal or another. Saskia as a wise Dragon held an optimistic, hopeful view of people that they might meet her high standards of behavior... yet his profession brought him into contact with the simple folk more often than the blue bloods... and Witchers had always received far more cruelty over the years from the former than they did from even the latter. It was only the children among them he felt sorry for, sympathy... alive because of Saskia, and now watching their last, best hope departing the lands. All thanks to their worthless parents. He gritted his teeth and willed himself to ignore the growing onlookers, spurring Scorpion onward to the gates of her castle. Upon reaching it and passing through the gates, Saskia was swift to climb off the horse and head inside, speaking last minute business to her guards, servants, nobles, merchants and other administrators of her Council while he and Scorpion remained out in the courtyard. Nobody, even the guards, dared to do more than look his way, not approaching him and muttering to one another about him... as he made his hostility towards them evident without speaking a word. They were not his subjects to reproach, as they had been hers. It was times like this that neutrality tasted especially bitter... watching the bastards trying to tarnish the honor of the best person they would ever know. His viper eyes rose to the flags of her kingdom flying about the keep... a ferocious Red Dragon on a field of white... and his jaw tightened further.

When Saskia eventually emerged again, clad fully in her armor and weapons, his anger was given pause... viper eyes gazing back at her form, plate armor gleaming in the sunlight as her scales had gleamed in the camp fire, the prior evening. With her golden hair bound back by her red and white headband, with her weapons sheathed, she looked every bit like the Valkyrie of legends... even more so now. His scarred lips parted, anger remaining distant as he appreciated her royal beauty and sense of freedom silently, watching the sapphire eyed Dragon Queen draw near to Scorpion and himself again where they waited for her. She brought only her armor, weapons and some additional supplies for their travels, otherwise keeping it light. No extravagant crown or trinkets... the simple headband was her crown. The Council watching her departure from the keep could not strip her royal status from her, even if they were all but kicking her out of the very kingdom she had forged for them. When she reached him, at her soft words, he nodded and took her hand, helping her back up behind him atop Scorpion, taking up the reins, and when her grip was upon him again, turning them and setting back off for the main road away from the fortress and capital city of Vergen. All along the way, by now sizable crowds had formed, they were watched and followed... and at last, the few grateful and genuine folk, mostly the children, elderly, infirm and veterans who had fought battles with her, threw flowers to her and spoke kind, parting words. Bade her to return. He was silent through it all, at least for a time, his anger on her behalf returning to him, not bothering to disguise it from his scarred visage. Tempted to utilize a sustained Aard Sign to clear the streets of the crowds like a magical gust of wind throwing them all aside. As they rode onward towards the outskirts of the city, amid the impromptu farewells, his deep, cool voice at last spoke up, for her alone to hear, as his serpent eyes sharply moved between the faces in the crowd, hoping to shame some of them. Seeing some of them indeed looked guilty and regretful, at least. Perhaps they would be smart enough to leave Upper Aedirn as well, before the hammer of another kingdom or the Nilfgaardian Empire itself came down upon them all, without Saskia's destructive power keeping them at bay. He rode Scorpion through some puddles of dirty water as well, splashing a few of the citizens in the process, to his distant, bitter amusement.

"I hope this isn't difficult for you, leaving this kingdom... all but exiled from it. It has been your home for years, you have poured your blood, sweat and tears into building, protecting and maintaining this place and its folk. Protected it from tyrant conquerors from the north, south and west alike, governed it dutifully, and have been rewarded with a dagger in the back for your utmost efforts. It might not be where you came from, but Upper Aedirn is your home, as Kaer Morhen is for me. What has befallen you is what happened to my kind. We made most people feel safe in their cities and homes... so safe that they forgot about the things that lurked in the darkness... and decided we had outlived our usefulness. They decided that we were an unpleasant reminder of harder, darker times they wanted to forget ever happened. If you ever wish to, we can return here, one day... see how it has fared without your governance. What tyrant or devastation these people's stupidity and ingratitude will inevitably reward them with. You were the only deterrent these people had keeping their future conquerors at bay. Doubt they'll be able to vote their way out of an invasion."

She remained silent, yet the vibration that coursed through her chest resembled a dragon's purr, a deep, rhythmic thrum that made the muddy ground beneath Eskel's boots quiver. She adjusted her weight slightly, causing the remnants of the Fiend to emit a final, WET SQUELCH AS THEY SANK DEEPER INTO THE LOAM. Her gaze held a distinctly feline quality; she looked down at the mangled mass of flesh and bone, feeling a rush of primal satisfaction. It wasn't just the kill that thrilled her, but the sheer efficiency of it. To the outside world, she was a diplomat, a warrior, and a queen, but in the stillness of the Ysgith Swamps, she was the ultimate predator.

“Of course, I thought you were taking a little too long and some water, looks good on you, you still smell wonderfully, swamp water, blood and guts and all.”

THE CREATURE HAD DARED TO PIN HIM, TREATING A MAN SHE CHERISHED AS A MERE PLAYTHING, AND HER RESPONSE HAD BEEN DECISIVE.

“The prize will be claimed, my word will be enough. I am not in the habit of speaking false, they will pay us for the work done here, for we have no reason to lie.”

As she felt him touching. The texture of her scales resembled warm, sun-baked river stones, yet they gleamed with a mirror-like finish that resisted the swamp's muck. As Eskel's hand glided along the curve of her muzzle, he would sense the latent heat of a furnace simmering just beneath her skin. Then, with a slow and deliberate trust, she opened her jaws. SHE DIDN’T SNAP OR HISS; SHE MERELY REVEALED A CAVERN FILLED WITH IVORY AND FIRE. Eskel didn’t flinch. Instead, he delved deeper, his gloved fingers tracing the serrated edges of teeth as large as shortswords. They were impeccably sharp, capable of slicing through plate armor as if it were mere parchment, yet against his palm, they felt like ancient monuments, timeless, enduring, and surprisingly smooth. This was an intimate ritual of trust, a tactile acknowledgment that while she could easily consume him whole, she chose to be his sanctuary.

“It is my nature, I am fighting as best as I can, but if you are threatened, or in danger, I will act.”

She exhaled a gentle, whistling sigh through her nostrils, a breeze that carried a hint of ozone and charred earth, nearly whisking the Witcher’s hood off his head. The resonance of her satisfaction flowed from her jaw, through his arm, and settled deep within his bones. In such close quarters, her immense presence was overwhelming; her eye alone was a golden sphere larger than his torso, the vertical slit of her pupil pulsing as it followed the steady rhythm of his mutated heart.

“Is this the creature then that was causing the problem? The people made it sound, more terrifying than the mess under me, and if you cannot bring a piece back as a trophy, I wish to devour this.”

Then the nudge was anything but gentle by human standards; it was a seismic shift of affection. When she leaned her head against Eskel’s shoulder, THE WEIGHT OF HER SKULL SENT HIM STAGGERING, his boots slipping through the black swamp muck as he was pushed several feet back. He didn’t fight it, letting the force carry him, chuckling softly as he felt the immense, warm pressure of her scales against his chest. It was a playful nudge, a physical reminder that despite his mutations and skill with a blade, he was a delicate being in her realm, a tiny, cherished spark she intended to protect from the elements. As she remained in her stance, her wings unfurled like a golden-brown canopy that claimed the valley as her territory. She gave her head a sharp, rhythmic shake, the motion sending a spray of swamp water and stray droplets of Fiend’s blood flying from her scales like shrapnel. It was a gesture of release, not just of the swamp’s grime, BUT OF THE LINGERING TENSION FROM THE HUNT. Her wings remained locked in their expansive arc, a living fortress of membrane and bone that continued to block out the sun, establishing a barrier between the world and the man at her feet. She had witnessed how the beast’s claws had snagged the leather of his armor, had felt the tremor of his struggle in the very air, and her response was instinctual, primal. The logic of the dragon was straightforward: anything that threatened him was destined to be eradicated.

“Your master is wise as he is talented to train you as well as he did, but also educate you so soundly. You understand my methods, are only in your best interests, my urge to take you away and horde you in a cave as my treasure is strong, so forgive me for killing your prizes, I’ll be more careful from now on, and leave the head in one piece for you.”

"Heh. Never thought the idea of being spirited away and hoarded in a cavern by a lovely lady Dragon would ever sound so appealing. In most true fairy tales that might prove a horror story, but from your mouth it sounds romantic. Tempting as well. When our work for the day is wrapped up, I'd like to show you that you're the treasure, between us. In the meanwhile, I'll salvage what I can from this damn ugly thing, just need a bit of time for it. Thankfully you've made dissection for mutagens a great deal easier, at least, pulverized bones are much less likely to get in the way. If you would be so kind as to step off its corpse, I will get to work. Only fair I handle this part of the dirty work, after you were so kind to see to the other part of it."

Patting her on the head another time, Eskel watched as, sure enough, the massive Dragon soon enough heeded his request, drawing back and moving carefully around his position, tail shifting in the air, leaving giant prints in the earth, keeping her wings out and around the area protectively, She circled about until she was behind him instead of in front of him, revealing the pulverized mass of flesh, blood, muscle and broken bones that had not so long ago belonged to a Fiend, which by now had finally stopped twitching. He released a low, impressed whistle at the sight of it... wishing Vesemir, Geralt and Lambert could have been able to see it for themselves. It was no small feat for a Witcher to slay something as colossal and ancient as a Fiend, some of the eldest monsters to lurk the forests and mountains of the Northern Realms... but to a Dragon it had proven to be roughly what an ant was to a human. He would hate to think about the monsters that might actually pose her a challenge... though he knew they did exist out in the world. Especially monsters of a supernatural nature instead of a bestial one, not so easily defeated by brute force and fire alone. He was in no hurry to cross their paths... though he did not doubt she would be undaunted by them, and ready to throw down at a moment's notice. If it came to it, he would be there to advise on weaknesses and strategies, in conjunction with her raw power. They were a brains and brawn pair alike, he had quickly found... neither lacking for either, but being more adept in different fields from one another. It left them with even fewer weaknesses, working together as they did, as a team.

Eskel got to work on the bloody mass swiftly with his carving knife, climbing atop the messy remains, cutting his way through different sections of the bulk and extracting the valuable mutagens within, pleased by how much of it he managed to extract. By the time he sold the last of it to the nearest alchemists, he would probably stand to make a good deal more than the reward for the contract itself. He also took the time to recover a sizable portion of the Fiend's antler that had miraculously not been snapped apart into little pieces by her weight. Being unable to take a head in, the antler section, the mutagens and their word would have to be enough for the Countess and her court. The beauty of Saskia's womanly form wouldn't hurt either for winning them over, the way men seemed to get tongue tied when she was around. To say nothing of those they encountered who had heard of her legend, as a freedom fighting warrior Queen... she had gotten more fans than he had thought even increasing further away from Aedirinan territory. Though likely a fair few enemies as well, among Radovid's camp and Emhyr's alike. The few good people in the world did have a way of making more enemies than evil ones did, he had found over the years. When he was at last done with his work, the bloodied, messy Witcher rose up again, slid his knife back in its sheath and looked back to his Dragon mate, the smirk on his scarred features deepening again as he addressed her once more, tucking away his knife and the mutagen bottles, while hefting up the sizable antler section in both arms. He moved out of the way of the mass of Fiend remains as well, well aware that her feeding time, an early supper, was nigh. Of course it had taken finding a Dragon as his companion to have someone on the Path with him who managed to possess a larger appetite than even himself.

"That should about do it for the mutagens, can charge the alchemists an arm and a leg for it... and this horn should suffice for proof enough when we get back to Tuzla Castle for the reward. If not, I'm sure you and your diplomacy will able to convince the Countess and her advisers without me having to break out my silver tongue, sword or Axii Sign. By all means, beautiful, dinner's served. Feel free to sate your appetite on what's left of the beast, before we head back. Though, come evening, I will be certain to show my gratitude and sate your other appetite as best I can. Preferably at our remote camp, where folk in town are a bit less likely to hear us, this time. Scorpion will be wondering where we are by now anyways."

She whispered, the word feeling strange and slightly metallic on her tongue, reminiscent of a blade's edge. Though she avoided the crowd's gaze, she sensed the weight of their stares, a shared blend of hope, fear, and desperation. To them, SHE EMBODIED AEDIRNIAN RESILIENCE, a warrior-queen forged from gold and iron. Yet, in her own eyes, she was a being of the wind and lofty peaks, forever striving to express her existence in a way that humans could grasp. Leaning closer to Eskel, her shoulder brushed against his leather armor, and a genuine smile softened the regal contour of her jaw.

"You have a dangerous tongue, Eskel. If you keep polishing my reputation, I might actually start believing I'm as virtuous as they think. It's a heavy crown to wear, even when it's invisible."

As she shifted her focus back to the weathered vellum, her eyes following the jagged, desperate script as if the ink were a map to a purpose she had nearly forgotten. For years, her life had been a series of strategic maneuvers, border disputes, diplomatic dinners, THE EXHAUSTING PERFORMANCE OF LEADERSHIP. Yet the thrill of the hunt was an ancient, primal melody, resonating deep within her bones and the dormant fire of her DRAGON'S HEART.

"I do fear that I have not hunted in my true form for many years, trading the wilds and skies for a royal courtroom, so perhaps I would be a bit rusty and need to hunt again, so I suppose I will do this as I am."

The thought of slipping through the underbrush, the sharp scent of damp pine and fear in the air, and the rush of the strike felt more authentic than any crown she had ever worn. She wasn't merely seeking a monster; she was in search of the part of herself that didn't have to be a symbol.

"A Slyzard, hm?" She echoed, a gentle, musical laugh escaping her lips. The sound resembled the tinkling of silver bells, slicing through the thick, wary silence of the Gulet crowd. The irony that she, a daughter of the lofty skies and ancient gold, would be assigned to hunt a far-off, flightless relative amused her. For a Witcher, the classification was straightforward: one was a sentient ruler of the skies, while the other was a territorial, scaled beast of the swamps. Yet, to the onlookers, anything with a snout and a taste for cattle was merely a 'DRAGON,' and the fear they experienced was universal.

“I do not wish to cause fear to the hearts of those in need, so it is dragon slayer then, and not dragon.”

As her gaze drifted to the villagers, spotting a young girl gripping her mother’s skirts, her eyes wide with a blend of wonder and primal terror. If Saskia were to shed her human form here, unfurling wings that could eclipse the midday sun, that wonder would swiftly transform into a chaotic stampede. The delicate peace she had nurtured as a human champion would erupt into a frenzy of fear.

TODAY, SHE DIDN’T WISH TO BE A DEITY OR A MONSTER; SHE SIMPLY DESIRED TO BE A WOMAN WALKING ALONGSIDE A MAN SHE TRUSTED.

"Then it’s the 'Witcher way.'" She resolved, her smile broadening as she stepped away from the notice board, the vellum still dancing in the breeze behind her. "No flames, no flight, and definitely no sudden scales sprouting. Lead the way, Eskel. Show me how you track those who believe they reign supreme in the woods. I have a feeling I’ll find the constraints of two legs quite invigorating.”

Eskel's deep, amused voice teased the Dragon Queen with a knowing wink of his viper eye, chuckling under his breath before leading the way back to Scorpion, climbing atop the horse of destiny before lowering his hand down to help the golden haired, armored beauty back up atop and behind him again. When her arms were around him once more, his hands took up the reins and he spurred Scorpion around and back to the main road, heightened senses keeping the positions of their onlookers in mind, listening to their whispers, but mostly focusing on the route to the outlying farms on the outskirts of the city's limits. Her senses natural were no less sharp than his unnatural ones, and she would know of anyone trying to attack them at the same time he would. It was another lesson he was learning, being able to count on the talents and abilities of another... being able to trust them, instead of always having to be the one accounting for everything. They could share and divide responsibilities at leisure. It was a strange thing, to feel increasingly safer in most places he traveled. Practically an alien experience for a Witcher. In time, they reached one of the attacked farms the contract had indicated, where livestock and a farmhand alike had been taken. Getting off Scorpion together, while he went to survey the area, she handled the diplomatic matters of speaking to the client and negotiating on the matter of their fees, with the head farmer in this instance.

It was yet another skill of hers that was coming in handy, that she had taken up for him, which helped save him time and aggravation with his investigations. As talented as he had been forced to become with diplomacy and business matters where his profession was concerned, by Witcher standards, she had a natural knack for it and the status of not being a mutant... her nature as a Dragon hidden out of view, where there was no hiding what he was, as a mutant. Even those the most in need of a Witcher were loath to interact with them or admit to needing them, often, lest they risk social ruination. If one of his kind were needed, it meant that something terrible was a foot with them or their families, inviting gossip from their peers and rivals. The blue bloods were the worst about it, usually having their servants negotiate on their behalf with a Witcher. The Witcher listened distantly to her interaction with the head farmer, workers and families, children watching the Queen and Witcher alike, aware they were all watching him suspiciously as he moved among the farm, taking note of tracks and other signs the beast had left behind with his trained, viper eyes. By the time Saskia had finished speaking with them, and returned to his side as the farmers watched the unusual pair, his deep voice spoke up to her a bit distantly where he knelt in the grass examining the ground, laying out his assessment to her, looking between her and the evidence left behind by their quarry.

"Hmm... just as I thought. Seen this more times than I can count, classic case of Draconid hunting. Look at the tracks where it pounced and scooped up the livestock and farmhand... and the drag marks and impacts of its barbed, poisonous tail in the earth, for paralyzing its prey. Human and animal blood stains in the soil... and scorch marks on the moss and rocks alike as well. Acidic saliva, comes out when they're ready to feed. This is the work of a hungry Slyzard alright. Or Dracolizard, if you prefer to call them that. I'll take your saliva and smoke over what comes out of a Slyzard's mouth any day of the week. Their mutagens are worth a bundle, though. I tend to collect them as often as possible, sometimes they are worth more than the coin of the contract itself. Farmers don't usually have much to offer in the way of coin anyways... but I'm also willing to barter with items I can simply sell to make up the difference. I trust negotiations went smoothly?"

"Your 'presentability' has never been the draw, Eskel." She replied, her voice humming with a low, playful vibration. She pushed off from the vanity and crossed the room, her skirts trailing through a few stray petals that had escaped the tub.

"The court wants a man of marble and gold, someone who smells of sandalwood and speaks in riddles. I have always preferred the man who smells of ozone and old leather, who knows exactly how to kill a nightmare and yet treats me as if I am made of something more precious than glass."

She reached for a sponge and a basin of fresh, clear water, kneeling by the side of the tub. With a tenderness that would have shocked the generals of her guard, she began to wash the areas he couldn't reach, her movements slow and deliberate. As she worked, she thought of Kaer Morhen, a place she had only seen in the sketches of his memory and the longing in his eyes. The idea of the hot springs, of a valley where the only laws were the wind and the stone, felt like a fairytale. For a woman who had spent her youth hiding her skin and her adulthood managing the whims of a duchy, the prospect of a ruin in the mountains sounded like the only true paradise left in the world.

“You deserve this you always work so hard.”

The sound of Eskel’s long, shuddering exhale was a melody more sweet to her than any lute played in the Duchess’s ballroom. It wasn't just the release of physical tension, but the shedding of a psychological armor that never truly came off in the outside world. Seeing the jagged edge of his shoulders finally drop, watching the predatory alertness in his eyes fade into a glazed, heavy-lidded peace, sparked a warmth in her chest that felt almost tactile. It was a quiet, humming victory. For a few fleeting moments, the world had stopped demanding things of him, no villages to save, no contracts to fulfill, no mutations to justify. He was simply a man in warm water, and the knowledge that she was the architect of this stillness made her feel more powerful than any decree she had ever signed.

“You know what ..”

The logic of the "right time" was a luxury she had spent her life deferring, a coin she had saved for a rainy day that never seemed to arrive. She looked at the water, gold-filmed and steaming, and then at the man within it, scarred, weary, and finally, momentarily, still. The thought of waiting for a future where he wasn't coated in gore felt like another courtly lie, a promissory note signed in disappearing ink. With a sudden, sharp exhale that sounded almost like a laugh, she reached for the laces of her bodice. The emerald silk didn't so much fall as it surrendered, sliding down her frame in a heavy, shimmering heap that pooled around her ankles like a fallen banner. One by one, the layers of her station were discarded, the restrictive corsetry, the fine linen slips, the delicate stockings, until she stood before him entirely unburdened. For a fleeting second, the old phantom of the curse flickered in her mind, the memory of the girl who feared her own reflection, but as her eyes met Eskel’s, she felt only a fierce, incandescent clarity.

SHE WASN'T A DUCHESS, AND HE WASN'T A MUTANT; THEY WERE SIMPLY TWO TIRED SOULS IN A ROOM FULL OF STEAM.

“I will join you.”

She stepped into the bath with a slow, deliberate grace, the heat of the water hitting her skin like a physical embrace. As she sank deeper, the golden liquid swirled around her, melding her pale warmth with his rugged heat. She didn't settle opposite him; instead, she glided forward until her back pressed against his chest, her head resting in the crook of his shoulder. The contrast was a symphony, the softness of her skin against the hard, ridge-mapped terrain of his, the scent of almond oil mingling with the fading metallic tang of the hunt.

"Mmm. Better times, Birdie. Ironic, given the challenges at the time and lack of resources and luxury compared to all this. Still, it was more real. I look forward to finishing this vampire mess of ours, and getting back on the Path again... living an honest life, solving the problems of the world, instead of being bogged down in one spot indefinitely. Just ain't the life of a Witcher. We might even have the company of Shani this time, depending on whether she wants to remain at her clinic or join us abroad. Like you, she had little difficulty when it comes to roughing it out there, and can be more than useful with medical matters. She's the reason you and I met as well, it was her idea for us to come to Toussaint in the first place... to the tournament. Couldn't be more glad that I agreed. That I could be here to break your curse."

She paused before responding, allowing his words to linger in the crisp air, contemplating the subtle challenge in his tone. She tuned into the rhythm of his suggestion, noting how he deftly balanced the tactical need for stealth with a pointed jab at her impulsive tendencies. To an outsider, it might have seemed like criticism, but for her, it was a game, a rhythmic dance that echoed the tension of their bodies from the previous night. She absorbed the intricacies of his plan, sifting through the logistics with a mind honed over years to measure the space between a blade and a throat. A slow, cat-like smile crept onto her lips, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes but hinted at a certain kind of violence. She refrained from giving a verbal affirmation; such exchanges were too mundane for the unique language they had forged. Instead, she leaned in slightly, the leather of her saddle creaking, and offered a single, sharp nod that served as a blood pact. The challenge regarding her stealth was acknowledged, cataloged, and embraced. Not only would she handle it; she would elevate it to an art form, transforming the approach into a ghost story that Stregobor’s men would never live to recount.

“I grew up in the gutters and sewers, I know what to do and I know how to handle those who get on the wrong side of me, it is you my husband! Your as big as a boulder! The biggest man I have ever seen in my life, how the fuck are you going to sneak anywhere, and you are telling me you killed kings and in disguise doing it! They had to be blind, deaf and dumb, you stick out too much!”

They glided through the veins of the city, the limestone edifices of the Winter Capital casting elongated, jagged shadows that seemed to stretch out towards them. She moved with a hunter's instinct, steering Letho away from the bustling main streets and into the narrow passages of the slums, where the scent of brine and decaying fish clung to the walls. She guided him through a maze of tight spaces between tenements, areas where sunlight barely kissed the cobblestones, until their destination emerged: an unremarkable warehouse that reeked of damp wool and despair. It was the sort of place that appeared forsaken by the divine, making it an ideal refuge for the type of men Stregobor employed. As she stood there now and smirked, her silhouette a sharp inkblot against the bleached grey of the alley wall. It wasn’t a smile of joy, but one of recognition; she recognized the scent of fear and incompetence that wafted from the warehouse’s cracked timber doors. She looked at Letho, her eyes glittering with a sudden, manic clarity. The "illustrious royal highness" was gone, replaced by the woman who had coordinated raids in the dead of night and left entire encampments as silent graveyards. She raised a single finger to her lips, a gesture of silence that felt more like a command than a suggestion, and began to melt backward into the shadows of a stack of rotting crates.

“Right husband, I will go in first and take care of anywhere on look-out or portal and then I’ll open a door for you, or window, something to get your big ass in here, just need one, right? Try to keep one alive if you can, I have seen how you work.”

Letho's gravelly, darkly amused tone returned to the southern black haired beauty, raising a brow her way, viper eyes studying her amused sapphire pair from where they were on their horses. Memories stirring of some of his various past jobs many years ago, the disguises, acting and sneaking he was forced to perform, often in the dead of night to aid in his success. Cities in the Nilfgaardian Empire had been a double edged sword to take jobs in, with many places to hide and routes, alleys and sewers to utilize for his jobs... but made blending in topside in the day a nightmare, with all the crowds. It hadn't always worked out, but even the targets he had failed to kill, he had learned from, gradually improving in his bloody trade, cultivating a variety of skills, tools and methods for murder from experience. Both at a range and up close... it all depended on what would work best, when each factor was taken into consideration. It was for the best, any being not constantly challenged would inevitably grow weak. Within moments, they were off and away from the courtyard and inn, moving through the streets of the Winter Capital atop their mounts, surveying the area... while he kept all his senses alert and sharp on their destination and the buildings around them.

Better safe than sorry, when an ambush wasn't at all outside the realm of possibility, in this city. Though he had the feeling Stregobor's men were likely to be complacent, having a security job in such an extravagant, pampered kingdom for such a wealthy old mage fool, where few genuine threats to his life existed. Something told him it had been years of a lax job for the thugs... which inevitably made even the most professional soldiers, guards and fighters sluggish and dull. A sword hung up on the wall could only gather dust and rust. There was little chance for adaptation and learning new skills when it came to long term, easy, well paying security jobs. They were not nearly as proactive as both an assassin and Witcher were forced to be, adjusting to new, awful circumstances. Fortunately, being early in the morning, there weren't much in the way of people out and about, for the moment. In time, they arrived at the destination, a secluded warehouse, stopping some ways from it in an alleyway and dismounting from their horses. When the Black Sun royal's accented, haughty voice spoke up again, the Witcher looked her way once more, the smirk on his rough features deepening again, shaking his hooded, great head, sardonic voice returning her teasing, and patting her on the rear again before she departed to see through her task.

"By all means, pretty wife of mine. Show me what you can do. At least until you inevitably require some actual muscle to do the rest of the heavy lifting. Tending to the dirty work... as you femme fatale types are quick to hand off to the men in your lives. Don't break a nail or strain yourself too badly... already sore enough from the other evenin' as it is. Go make your better half proud."

The music swells around her as she remains seated upon the dais, overlooking the sea of guests all hiding behind their masks. She’d never heard of such a tradition before, hiding one’s face at a feast. Robert had told her that he’d heard the tale from an Essosi woman, no doubt one of his whores, and he had thought it a fascinating theme for his nameday feast. And so, here she sits, face concealed by an elegant golden mask adorned with carvings of each great house’s sigil. Her golden tresses are expertly concealed by a flowing auburn wig. She intends to remain completely anonymous tonight.

Emeralds instantly fall upon him seated alone across the room. Despite the wolf’s head mask he wears, she knows it is him. She knows not his name, nor had she spoken to him since his arrival in court three weeks ago. But there is something alluring about him and the mysterious air that surrounds him. Even with that hideous scar that marrs his face.

It does not take her long to spot her husband, who is leaving the hall with a woman on each arm. She knows he will be gone for the rest of the night. And so, she rises, approaching the man in the wolf mask.

A hand sharply swats the serving girl away once the goblet at the Empress’ side is filled. The girl tended to linger too long after completing her duties, particularly when Jaime was present.

Cersei detested anyone looking at him.

Her irritation, however, is swiftly dulled by the loud voice of the master of ceremonies, announcing that the day’s games are about to commence. The Empress sits up in her throne then, a jolt of excitement rushing through her at the prospect of what is to come.

It has been three years since father had passed, leaving the rule of Nilfgaard to Cersei and Jaime. Never before had the empire been ruled by two, let alone by a woman. But she and Jaime were one being…Jaime had refused to rule unless she had been crowned alongside him. Of course, Jaime’s position was far more respected, the organisers of the games seeking his counsel each year. But Cersei was bored, and the organisers was incredibly easy to manipulate. Most men were, her brother most of all.

The manticore had not been an easy thing to acquire, many of her men dying in the attempt. And yet finally, mere days ago, a brave soul had captured one, the man rewarded with a visit to the Empress’ bedchamber. And now, she sits upon her throne above the arena, watching eagerly as the gladiators for the day line up, staring in horror as the creature emerges from the gate. She hears Jaime curse under his breath, causing her to roll her eyes. She would sway him later.

Emerald eyes watch in awe as man after man makes an attempt upon the Manticore’s life. And man after man soon falls to the sand, in varying degrees of dismemberment. All except one.

He had piqued her interest on the first day of the games. A fierce warrior, covered in scars with exquisite, cat-like eyes. She had heard him speak once or twice, yet she could not place his accent.

She watches on as he steps towards the creature. He raises his hand and in an instant, the creature is upon its back, the lone gladiator swiftly mounting it and slashing open its belly, guts spilling to the sand beneath it. Cersei had never seen anything like it.

After the day’s game, she excuses herself from Jaime’s company, immediately making her way down into the bowels of the amphitheater where the gladiators resided. The guards eye her curiously, but quickly obey her request to speak with the day’s victor.

Rhaena is the first to lose control of herself as they watch Letho with the noblewomen, her touches upon herself becoming frantic as she cries out, her climax rendering her trembling. Cersei smirks at the sight, the woman having always been quite unable to hold herself back when she got there.

Herself and Astrid, in contrast, keep their touches languid, simply maintaining their pleasure rather than racing to the next heated climax. Although it would seem even Astrid’s restraint had a limit…

The moment the noblewomen lift off him, the warrior moved atop him, guiding his immense cock inside her before beginning to ride him. Slowly at first but soon enough she is riding him as she might ride a steed into battle, the entire bed groaning and shaking with the force of her movements. Cersei watches on in awe, unable to tear her gaze away even as the elven women in their party begin to swarm her bare frame, two burying their faces between her thighs while another fondles her breasts.

“Gods…” she pants, grip on the sheets tightening as she writhes beneath their enthusiastic touches. Quite unable to believe that everything around her was truly happening.

Skeletal hands claw at silks, at bare skin. Each time the queen swats one away, another takes its place. Soon enough, all she can do is lie back, accept her face, accept the fate of the babe as it is torn from her.

She sits bolt upright, nightdress drenched in sweat as reality slowly returns to her. She is in her chambers, alone. Yet one horrid truth remains. A hand pressed to the flat of her belly confirms it. She had lost the babe two moons ago, the final piece of Jaime that she clung to.

Her nightmares had grown worse since and now, most nights, the dead came for her. Jaime had left to fight them but…what if the living lost and the dead march south?

When Jon Snow had came to King’s Landing to tell Cersei of the threat, Qyburn had insisted on finding a Witcher for court. She had heard tales of Witchers, both good and bad. Still, he might be of use, especially as her fears are beginning to worsen.

And so, later that day, she sends for him, giving him audience in her chambers. When he does arrive, she rises from her seat, holding out a hand so that he might kiss it.

He leaves once more after a moon, a slight delay on their original plan, but Cersei was far from complaining of an extra week or two with Eskel, and she was certain Elsa was thrilled to have her papa around.

Of course, the tiny girl went through her usual distress, a day of constant wailing after he had left, refusing to calm until she eventually wore herself out and fell to sleep in Cersei’s arms. And, for the three moons he was gone, the girl was constantly looking for him, always choosing to play by the gate of her little garden or spending time gazing out of her window after Cersei had put her to bed before curling up with her stuffed wolf and one of her papa’s shirts.

The first letter arrives after a week, telling her of where he was and the nature of the contract he was currently on. She had scarcely finished reading before she had written out her reply and pressed it into the hand of the messenger who passed through the vineyard each morning, ensuring she had included love and endless kisses from Elsa too in the letter.

Three moons after he had left, she is settled in a chair in Elsa’s garden. Today was the day he had told her he would return and, as Cersei had suggested, Elsa was staying with Geralt for that night. Not only to give them some space to enjoy one another, but also…

She smiles fondly at the gentle flutter in her belly, pressing a hand to the swell. She worked out that she was around five moons along by now, having noted she had not had her moon’s blood since their commitment. She had not sought a maester, nor breathed a word of her news to anyone, wanting Eskel to be the first to hear it. Even Elsa and Annarietta did not know.

The sun is beginning to set over the vineyard when she first catches sight of Scorpion approaching the gates bearing Eskel. And, the moment he is within the vineyard, the lioness hauls herself out of her seat and rushes from the garden to greet him. Immediately launching herself into his arms and showering him with kisses.

“I had begun to fear you were not going to return today like you said,” she pouts eventually, nuzzling him. “I could not stand another day without you…nor could I stand another day hiding what I have longed to tell you…”

She takes his hand in hers, slowly guiding it down and under her blouse, allowing him to feel the swell of her belly.

She does not notice she is crying until she looks up and meets his viper gaze.

"That makes the fourth time in my life destiny had worked out entirely positively in my favor, instead of pulling the rug out from under my feet. Scorpion, you, Elsa and this. I hate to risk tempting fate... but in this case, I have no choice. Couldn't have come home to better news than this. We'll have to celebrate... but I get the feeling you already have prepared for such. If Elsa were here, she would have been swooping down on me like a Harpy before you could."

She clutches the cloak tighter about her frame, drawing the hood up over her head to at least try to keep the snow out of her eyes.

Rhaena had thought she would grow used to the chills that winters on The Continent brought. It had been near four years since she had fled from Westeros, where she had been condemned to a life of poverty in King’s Landing. She’d had no clue where she would end up when she stole away into the belly of a merchant ship, and it would seem that had the crew- she would later learn that their original destination had been Essos, but wild storms had sent them adrift and now here she was.

She’d traversed her way through this strange new world, eventually settling in a small village close to the mountains of Kaedwen. Of course, without a coin to her name, she had had to find work quickly, but the village’s pleasure house had employed her the moment they had laid eyes upon her. It was not something she particularly enjoyed, but it earned her enough to purchase a small homestead on the outskirts of the village.

The storm had set in as she was returning home and quickly, she had lost her bearings in the blizzard. She’d ended up in the forest that circled the village, entirely blind to the true way home. She paused for a moment, dark eyes casting this way and that to look for something familiar. But so thick was the snow that she could scarcely see her hand in front of her face. And she did not see the creature until it had knocked her to the ground, sharp claws pressing into her chest as it pins her down. All she can see now is teeth, growing ever closer as it leans down to take the death bite-

Suddenly, she hears the swing of the sword through the icy air, the thud of the creatures head as it lands close to hers, and feels the warm spray of blood across her face. Eyes remain shut for several moments before she slowly opens them, gaze falling upon the man in the dark red cloak, who stands above her.

Eyes wide with fear, she scrambles to her feet. Beneath the hood, she can make out yellow eyes and a large scar that marrs his face. She’s seen him around the village from time to time- she cannot recall his name, but she knows he is one of the elusive Witchers who spend their winters nearby.

By the time he returns to the bed, she has drifted off to sleep, having tired herself out with her tears. She would have enjoyed his comfort and yet at the same time, she is grateful he gave her space, something which had been so rarely granted in her life back in Myr. She had always disliked putting her burdens onto another, especially someone she cared about. And she enjoyed it even less when it was someone she loved.

Sleep does not hold her for long and she wakes a few hours later, turning to Eskel’s side of the bed and finding him quite awake beside her, viper eyes glowing in the darkness. Slowly, she shifts closer to him, cuddling up to his chest and draping an arm over his middle. Choosing to remain silent in that moment, simply longing to be held by him.

That silence soon becomes near an hour long, the sorceress replaying the past few days over and over in her mind, trying to organise her feelings the way she had done so as a girl whenever things troubled her. And yet she is not so successful when it comes to the pain she feels now. It is then that an idea comes to her, one which she doubted Eskel would be open to helping her with. But she would ask nonetheless, and seek out one of her sorceress friends to carry out her request if he declined.

“Eskel…” she says eventually, lifting her head to meet his gaze. Pausing for several long moments to gather her words. “I…I know you can manipulate memories. Change them. I would…I would like you to change mine.”

She chews her lip a moment, eyes closing now as she speaks.

“I want to believe my son passed when he came into the world,” she murmurs. “And that my father met a natural end. I…”

She shakes her head, before sitting up and hugging her knees to her chest.

"I wish I could help you in a meaningful, fast way... but manipulating the minds of intelligent beings is a line I don't like crossing, and mostly do so only to keep the unscrupulous from cheating me out of my rewards, or avoiding imminent bloodshed. It would be wrong of me to do so to you... for more reasons than one. It is always a risk magically interfering with a mind, could do permanent damage to it if I'm not extremely careful. Also, robbing you of your memories, either the good or bad, would be robbing you of your past and your existence, the things that make you who you are. Our experiences, memories, regrets and sorrow help shape us and make us stronger. I have many memories I would prefer to forget, but never sought out a mage to make that happen, because I know it won't solve anything, in the end. Believe me when I say that I know running away won't fix the problem, be it drinking, drugs or magical remedies. We are who we are, and we can't be that when we forget our lessons... lessons often learned the hard way. Doubtless you were warned of such too, at your school in Kovir. Triss and Margarita would not approve of such a thing... at least I hope they wouldn't. I can't stop you from ignoring my advice and getting someone else to do it... most mages are unscrupulous enough to perform such a psychic surgery, for a price of course."

She watched him carefully with a smile, her gaze tracing the way the leather straps of his armor bit into the thick muscle of his shoulders. It was a predator’s kind of smile, small, sharp, and brimming with a calculated affection that she would never admit to in a courtroom or a council chamber. She took the ring from his palm, the cool metal sliding back onto her finger with a click that sounded, to her ears, like the locking of a trap. She didn't just see a Witcher; she saw a weapon that she had learned to wield, and more importantly, a man who didn't flinch when she tried to cut him. As she was more than ready; she was vibrating with a hunger that had nothing to do with the meager breakfast she’d skipped. It was a craving for the shift in atmosphere, the transition from the soft, humid sanctuary of the bedsheets to the cold, clinical precision of the hunt. The tenderness of the previous night had been a luxury, a rare indulgence that she wore like a secret bruise, but the woman she was in the daylight was a creature of edges and intent. She felt the phantom weight of her exile, the years of scraping by in the dirt, and it fueled a sudden, violent desire to see Stregobor’s meticulously ordered world unravel.

“A pleasant mode indeed, I wonder what brought that along for you to be smiling, you had a good night, fine so did I. But I have already grown to hold hatred for this city and the people, a generous husband would ensure there wife would be put somewhere better, you wanted revenge, so let’s not waste anymore time, there are people out there to hunt down and kill, a good start to the day would be at least five murders.”

She wanted the nightmare of her life, the longing for a home that had rejected her, the whispers of the Black Sun, the lingering ghost of the girl who had been too much and yet never enough, to finally be excised. She didn't just want a victory; she wanted a reckoning. Every step she took toward the door felt like a stitch being pulled from a wound, a slow unraveling of the chaos that had defined her since the day she was cast out of Toussaint. If killing this mage was the price of peace, she would pay it in blood and salt, and she would do it with a smile that reached nowhere near her eyes. As she didn’t just walk toward the door; she glided, her movements regaining that predatory fluidness that made her a terror in the forests of the south. The soreness in her hips was still there, a persistent, throbbing reminder of Letho’s strength, but she wore it like a piece of armor. It grounded her, transforming the lingering vulnerability of the night into a focused, sharp energy. She was no longer the trembling girl cast out by a biased family, nor the desperate bandit queen fighting for a scrap of respect; she was a blade being drawn from its sheath, cold and eager for the strike. As she slipped the ring on, and had everything in order.

“Henchmen, tower location, all simple tasks we should have done by the afternoon, the blessing here is no one reports scum going missing or cries out for guards when they are being pulled apart. Let’s just get the tower location first from those brutes and everything else can come afterwards.”

Letho's deep, gravelly tone returned to the Black Sun royal at the sound of her familiar haughty, accented voice, smirking back at her, viper eyes shifting back her way as she put on her ring and went to the door, while he retrieved his cloak and put it and the hood on last, wrapping it around himself as a makeshift disguise. It would do nothing to disguise his size, of course, but there was no sense in his Witcher status becoming public knowledge in Kovir... in a kingdom of strangers and enemies. If the chivalrous and social School of the Griffin hadn't been good enough for this land not to carry out a pogrom on, one of his school wouldn't be likely to get by for long. He glanced to Sylvia Anna again... back to her old manner, despite the evident soreness in her movements. Still, he held a strange fondness for her he couldn't deny... even as he knew he would never be able to turn his back to her without her looking for an in to undermine or stab him. At least they were of one mind where wrapping up their business in Kovir was concerned. And perhaps they were in a few other ways as well, based on the other evening they had mutually enjoyed. Going through the door ahead of her when they were ready, they headed downstairs, over the parlor and to the front door... all the eyes in the place of the other patrons eating their breakfasts settling on the strange pair they were. Tempted as he was to partake in a breakfast, food could wait until they had earned it in the blood and information of their opponents.

He was half surprised their lie the other evening of being husband and wife had worked... but it could have just as much or more to do with the tavern owners simply not wanting to argue with one of his size, not questioning the vast differences between the man and woman. He supposed the racket they had made together the prior night might have quelled some of naysayers. Together they stepped outside into the main courtyard of the establishment, the cool air and sun of the Winter Capital touching them, while his senses picked up the gossip and chatter of the inn resuming when they had stepped outside, much of it about the two of them. The Witcher breathed the welcome fresh air in, before they made for the stables, flipping a coin or two to the stable boys tending to their horses, before readying their mounts and climbing back atop them, riding out to the center of the courtyard side by side. It would be good to be underway again, and to wrap up their business by evening... long overdue they made their departure. He had a way of overstaying his welcome in cities, being who and what he was... death being the business that usually took him to them, and from what he had seen, that applied just as much to her. He doubted there were many places in the world big enough for the two of them. Within his hood, his serpent eyes looked about the city for a few moments, before returning to the dark haired southern beauty, inclining his hooded head her way and speaking up again with a deeper smirk.

"Lead on to where you heard these henchmen of Stregobor would be staying, then, your illustrious royal highness. Take us around and behind their establishment. We'll temporarily leave the horses in an alley close to it and continue on foot. And best we make sure no lookouts see us, take said lookouts out and infiltrate the place... no sense in walking through the front door. Making it easier on them. A stealthy approach is called for... if you can manage that, for a change."

Her smile didn't just touch her lips; it radiated from a place of quiet, fierce possession. As the last of the grime-streaked linen fell away, she didn't look at him as a collection of wounds or a map of violent histories. To her, the blackened veins were merely lines of a story she had grown to love, and the scars were the Braille of a man who had survived the impossible to return to her. She watched the way the candlelight caught the hard ridge of his shoulder and the heavy slope of his chest, her gaze lingering not with pity, but with a hunger that was entirely devoid of the courtly modesty expected of a Duchess. To the world, he was a mutation, a necessary evil; to her, he was the only honest thing in a city built on gilded lies. "The blood of a coven is a tedious accessory, Eskel." She murmured, her voice dipping into a playful, velvet register. She stepped closer, the silk of her skirts brushing against his thigh, her hand rising to trace the line of his jaw.

Her touch was light, a feather against stone, yet it carried the weight of an anchor.

"And as for looking good at my worst... please. I recall a certain morning in the foothills of Ebbing where you looked at me while I was half-transformed and shivering in a damp cloak, and you told me I looked like a sunrise over a battlefield. You’ve always had a penchant for romanticizing disasters." Despite the familiarity, a sudden, traitorous heat climbed the column of her neck, staining her cheeks a soft, dusty rose. She had seen him stripped and scarred a hundred times across the rugged miles of their travels, sharing warmth in cramped tents and washing wounds by the flickering light of a campfire, yet the sight of him here, in the intimate sanctuary of her own bathing chamber, felt different. It was the transition from the wild, lawless freedom of the road to the suffocating rigidity of the palace. Here, in the heart of Beauclair, his nakedness was an act of rebellion. The blush was a reflex, a lingering ghost of the girl she had been, colliding with the woman who now wanted to strip away every remaining barrier between them.

She let her gaze wander over him again, not as a Duchess inspecting a soldier, but as a woman memorizing a map. She traced the jagged topography of his skin, the way the moonlight-pale flesh of his chest heaved with a slow, steady rhythm. The potions had left him looking ghostly, his veins like ink spilled across parchment, but to her, the sight was mesmerizing. She stepped into his space, the distance disappearing until she could feel the radiating heat of his body fighting against the cooling air of the room. Her hand, still trembling slightly, didn't just touch his jaw this time; it slid downward, her palm skimming over the hard muscle of his pectorals, feeling the frantic, drumming heartbeat beneath the surface. The sudden realization of her own proximity, and the sheer scale of him compared to her fragile frame, caused a momentary lapse in her resolve. She stepped back, her movements a fluid retreat that felt less like a withdrawal and more like a deliberate clearing of the path. She gave him a slow, lingering look, a silent acknowledgment of the man who had walked through hell and back just to stand in her chambers, before gesturing toward the shimmering, golden depths of the tub.

"The water is waiting," she whispered, her voice a soft command draped in tenderness. "Go. Sink into it and let the world outside these doors simply cease to exist for an hour."

"Were I not about to make the water filthy as a swamp the moment I touch it... I would desire you to undress as well and join me in it. Perhaps another time, when I am not coated in gore. I'm sure such a rare occasion will happen sooner or later. Only so many monsters in one duchy in need of slaying. And it would be a nice way for us to celebrate, when this is all over. With plenty to drink as well, of course. I intend to take you to the hot springs at Kaer Morhen, one day... I suspect you'll enjoy that. Only real luxury we ever had up there.... and I'll want to make you feel as at home in my home as you have me in yours..."

The Witcher's fingers moved from the young woman's hair, over her cheek tenderly and to her lips, running over them as well, letting her see and feel what he felt for her. Then on that note, with reluctance, he stepped back, heeding her words and moving to the awaiting bath, its heated water. Rising up and climbing into it, he uttered a low, relaxed, pleased breath as he settled down in it and was encompassed by it... vividly remembering the various baths on the road at the inns along the way to and from Ebbing, other times he had cleaned off monster gore and she had gladly helped him. He had been more reluctant about it back then, but she had been no less insistent. He was reminded of the hot springs as well... it had been a long time since he had bothered paying them a visit when he was at Kaer Morhen... not that he spent nearly as much time in the valley as he once had, since Vesemir's death and Geralt and Lambert moving elsewhere. It had taken more and more effort to stay up there, as the only Witcher left, the Grandmaster of ruins... alone with the ghosts of his Path as company, besides his goat and horse. It would be different with Vivienne... bringing her there. Doubtless long ago he would have never heard the end of it from his teachers if he had done so as a young Witcher... but if Geralt had been able to bring Yennefer of all people there, and Vesemir had been willing to put up with her, he doubted their complaints would be much by comparison. That is, if anyone were left there to object. He ruled and owned the valley and keep now, such as they were. He grimly remembered the last time he had company at the Kaer Morhen hot springs, decades past... Sabrina Glevissig, when she had been treating his wounds from Deidre. Taking him there periodically to help him recuperate in conjunction with her magic... and to do a good deal more than that with him. It would be welcome to replace such memories with far less bitter ones... with someone he actually trusted. At last, his low tone spoke up again, viper eyes returning fondly to the Duchess' emerald pair, the smile returning.

"Ahh... that already makes me feel much better. The toxification side effects shouldn't last much longer, took the potions awhile ago. My color will return, so I ought be a bit more presentable again after the bath in more ways than cleanliness alone. Look a bit less monstrous, at least. Not sure how I managed to get used to drinking such foul tasting potions. Count your blessings such a necessity at least is not a regular part of your royal profession, as it is my hunting one. I'd take fine wine over Witcher potions any day."

"If he’s allowed that creature to outsmart him, I’ll never let him live it down."

She exhaled a huff, releasing a cloud of glimmering, sulfurous smoke from her nostrils. Patience was a lesson instilled in her by her father, yet today, that lesson was fraying. With a graceful, heavy motion, she shifted slightly as the cliffside creaked under the weight of a being that transcended the scale of the terrain. As she elongated her neck, the movement was smooth and serpentine, feeling the tremendous strength coiled within her powerful form. Her scales, a lustrous blend of brownish-gold, captured the dwindling light, glimmering like polished coins against the grey limestone. She adjusted her stance, her large, clawed paws kneading the rock, while her expansive wings unfurled with a sound reminiscent of a ship's sails billowing in a storm.

"I can sense him." She growled, the sound resonating in her chest like a landslide unfolding in slow motion. "And he carries the scent of danger."

As she took to the skies, the air didn’t merely shift; it yielded. With a sudden, forceful snap of her enormous wings, the cliffside erupted backward, unleashing a torrent of shale and ancient dust that cascaded into the void below. Her tail flicked sharply, a whip-like gesture that guided her ascent, before she shot upward with a power that made the very atmosphere howl. The shift from stillness to speed was instantaneous, a blur of brownish-gold scales slicing through the thinning mountain air. For a fleeting moment, she hovered at the peak of her climb, the world beneath her shrinking into a miniature tapestry of greens and greys, before she folded her wings and dove, spotting him battling the beast.

The creature was a Chort, a massive embodiment of muscle and tenacity that had spent the last hour treating Eskel like a mere plaything. It had the witcher pinned against a moss-covered embankment, its oversized claws tearing through leather and mail with rhythmic, wet thuds. Eskel fought back valiantly, his silver blade a blur of precise strikes, but the creature’s hide was as tough as tempered steel, and its momentum was unstoppable. Just as the Chort opened its maw to deliver a crushing blow to the witcher’s shoulder, the sun above them vanished without a trace.

“Eskel.”

There was no forewarning, only a sudden, violent eclipse of the sky. Then came the impact. She didn’t merely land; she descended like a collapsing fortress. The sound was less a crash and more a biological explosion, a wet, visceral thwack that reverberated through the valley. The Chort didn’t even have a moment to react before several tons of golden-brown muscle and ancient scale crashed into its spine, flattening the beast in an instant. The force was so tremendous that the ground beneath them buckled, sending a spray of mud, crushed ferns, and shattered bone flying in all directions. The monster was reduced to a gruesome, two-dimensional smear against the limestone, its internal organs splattering the surrounding flora in a sudden, vivid crimson.

Managing to hold on to his now formerly Relict Oil coated Meteorite Steel Sword amid the splash, he swam back up to the surface among the lily pads, weeds and reeds, coughing and spitting up the less than clean water he had nearly ingested. Viper eyes looking back up and around from where he was with confusion, between his twitching, pulverized prey on the ground, what little of it he could see beneath the far greater bulk that had landed on it, he understood then all at once what had happened. His enthusiastic, overprotective mate... and it hadn't been the first time she had done so on his hunts since they set out from Upper Aedirn. Scorpion on the other hand remained back at their forest camp... while it seemed his Dragon Queen had been swooping through the skies keeping a trained eye on his progress... until her patience had snapped. Even so, he could hardly be annoyed by it now, just as he hadn't been the other times... quite the opposite, really. Climbing back up the grassy, muddy embankment of the swamp carefully with another grunt, sheathing his sword, with a low chuckle under his breath the soaked from head to toe, deathly pale, black eyed, toxified Witcher strode forward to the crushed, twitching remains of the Fiend, to the looming, gleaming, majestic Dragon before him... to her colossal head. Her wings were spread out as if in a protective shield that dimmed the skies, shadow falling over him, her alluring, sizable and wise glowing eyes peering back at him with a knowledge that went beyond her years... and a fondness he was quite familiar with by now. His scarred visage could not resist a genuine smile, regardless of what had just transpired, the surprise. Reaching out a gloved hand, he rubbed along the side of her muzzle, over his mate's golden brown scales before moving his hand to rub appreciatively over Saskia's massive, grinning, razor teeth as well. Her powerful heartbeat was as loud as a drum to his enhanced senses... she was careful with her breaths... a powerful enough one, even without fire, could knock him on his ass like an Aard Sign could accomplish. His deep, amused voice spoke up to her at last languidly, leaning his head in to press it gently against hers as his gloved hands kept rubbing her scales, reassuring her.

"Nice of you to drop in, pretty lady. I was in need of a bath. I suppose this leaves collecting a trophy out of the equation for me. Was planning on hauling the head back to Tuzla Castle... but I don't think it has one anymore. Won't be easy proving to Count Dragomir Caldwell the thing is dead to collect that bounty. You know I had it, right? I was getting it into a position to dodge its bite, pivot down and inward and stab one of its major arteries underneath it. If I didn't have it, I would have set its mane aflame with my Igni Sign to signal I needed help, like we agreed upon, remember? Not my first long dance with a Fiend... should have seen the one I killed in the woods of Cintra when I was young. Took most of a day to track and slay it, then. Still... I ain't one to look a generous gift Dragon in her lovely jagged and fire breathing maw. Old man Vesemir didn't raise an ingrate... or a fool. Thank you, Saesenthessis. Really. Wasn't often before you that anyone was intervening against a monster to aid me. They were usually too busy screaming and running in the opposite direction. Even full grown Knights.... even against mere Necrophages."

As she continued to follow him, she paused at a communal well, where the air was thick with the scent of drying hay and laundry soap. A group of women halted their scrubbing, their gazes drifting from her dark blonde hair to the red and white headband that secured it. There was a warmth in their eyes, a genuine curiosity. Saskia felt an instinctive urge to protect these delicate, ephemeral beings who resided in homes made of sticks and clay. Her father had taught her that humanity was chaotic, yet he had also shown her that their capacity for kindness was as boundless as the skies she had once soared through.

"It seems this place is indeed in a dire state. I have isolated myself for far too long, striving to cultivate a land of diverse races and peoples that all other kingdoms despised and scorned, and I never truly looked beyond to see how much suffering exists among the people of further lands."

As she approached the notice board to check the contracts, the weathered wood resembled a rotting fence post more than a place for civic announcements. The parchment attached to it danced in a sudden gust, slapping against the timber like a fish gasping for air. Most of the notices were rather ordinary, missing chickens, a plea for a reliable roof-thatcher, a caution about a fox in the orchards. Yet, hidden beneath a layer of dirt was a scrap of vellum that drew her attention, penned in a shaky hand that dripped with frantic, ink-stained urgency. It warned of something lurking in the eastern forest, a creature that snatched livestock not through hunting, but by seizing them mid-stride from the meadows. As she continued reading, she discovered that people had also vanished, indicating that whatever was stalking had a taste for all kinds of flesh, as she would remove it and present it to him.

"What do you think of this one, Eskel? I haven't hunted in quite a while, but I'm eager to dive back in. The luxurious and comfortable life of a noble seems to have led me astray, making me a bit too human in some ways. However, I'm ready to lend a hand and support you in your endeavors. If you're willing, we can tackle this together and assist these people!"

Despite his more righteous misgivings towards Dandelion for other reasons, the ballad he had conducted about Eskel and Deidre in particular, it was a bitter and unworthy thought, and one he set aside quickly enough. He had his true companion now anyways, the one he had been destined to travel with. One who wouldn't cause him endless problems and messes to clean up either, as Sabrina had. During the Viper School Witcher's time at Kaer Morhen, Eskel hadn't bothered to ask Letho if he actually hailed originally from Gulet, if he had chosen the moniker as Geralt had with Rivia, or if others had given him the title for work he had done there long ago, and it had stuck. Destiny had a strange, morbid sense of humor, that a Witcher with the moniker of an Aedirnian city should be the one to slay its King. Witchers were walking mysteries, but there was no bigger mystery of a Witcher he had met in his time than Letho of Gulet. Half ruthless, half strangely honorable. All cunning. Good and evil in one. After a time at Kaer Morhen Letho had gone east to Zerrikania to lie low from the bounty Nilfgaard's iron fisted Emperor had put on his head... where he might still be. Perhaps they would run into him one day, out there. Witchers certainly had a way of standing out in any land, and a giant one would especially. At the sound of Saskia's observation about the folk around them, as he rode Scorpion onward through the streets and towards the bulletin board in the city containing the job contracts, his attention returned to her, and he nodded, feeling her reassuring grip tighten around his waist. His deep, calm voice spoke up again gradually, for her alone to hear, a hand moving from Scorpion's reins to squeeze back one of hers.

"They've suffered, alright. A Witcher I know and fought beside is the one who killed their King... I'll be surprised to get through this city without at least one attempted lynching. If that doesn't happen, it'll only be because you're here. They look up to you, after you dealt with Henselt's army up north. Unlike your folk, doubt they even know you're a Dragon, from their whispers about you. Folk down here have seen their share of conflict and trouble, the last three Northern Wars especially. Nilfgaard swept through the city repeatedly and occupied it, took over, before being beaten back. And with wars come monsters to feed on the many corpses and the vulnerable. Even if I weren't a Witcher they would be staring at me like this, sharpening their pitchforks. Conflict brings people together against the outsiders. Fortunately I have an unrivaled beautiful young woman and renowned war hero Queen of theirs with me, improving the view... and hopefully their dispositions and hospitality."

The Wolf School Grandmaster drew them on closer to the bulletin board, stopping Scorpion before it at last. Ignoring the gawking of the Aedirnian citizens at the two of them, he climbed off the horse first, before turning back and holding his hand out to help Saskia down off the mount... kissing her hand once her boots touched the ground, openly letting everyone witness the romantic exchange between them. In order to prevent hostility, he wanted them to see that the two of them were close, meant something to each other. Though he did not personally care for image politics, social appearance... he had not survived as long as he had in a hostile world without adopting tactics or understanding the social rituals of the lands he traveled through. Or taking a page out of the knightly chivalry of the Griffin School's book. Even young Coën had taught him a few things, there. The average fool thought highly of such a concept... though he was doing it more for Saskia herself, what she meant to him and deserved, than to any knightly code of gentlemanly conduct he had never sworn by or been raised to uphold. One caught more flies with honey than vinegar anyways... the differences in demeanor between Triss and Yennefer had demonstrated that lesson to him as well. Even Sabrina back in the day had deigned to do so, even if the veneer had been paper thin compared to Triss. He stood aside as the Dragon Queen went to the notice board first to check the contracts, his serpent eyes looking among the gawkers, before returning back to the famous, golden haired, armored beauty, moving up to her side as she spoke. He took a look at the contract she had selected, considering it and her for a time, before nodding and speaking up quietly again for her alone to hear. Some folk, especially the children and elderly, looked like they wanted to approach her for autographs... but his presence was dissuading them. Sure enough, his romantic gesture to her had thrown them off, especially the lady folk, based on some of their whispers. The Witcher had to resist a smirk on his scarred visage.

"Hmm... could be a particularly sizable Draconid at work... maybe a Slyzard. Would have to investigate where it has been active, the farm areas it snatched the livestock and people up. If so, a certain "Dragon Slayer" can help me slay one of her bestial, distant cousins. We'll have to be careful, best you not shapeshift into your true form. Average folk don't tend to know or care about the differences between a Dragon and a Draconid anyways. Wouldn't want to blow your cover or hurt your heroic reputation in these parts either. It'll take a light touch, this time, precise as Shani's scalpel. Can teach you a Witcher's way of tracking and hunting, not that your own methods aren't effective."

“All my life, I tried to be human, I tried to be like them, help them, achieve great things for them, but I have been betrayed, used, abused, almost killed for such actions. Only through your eyes can I see that  we are wonderers in a changing world, and that our place is not in courts, or cities, but out there with one another, in a world that had turned it’s back on us.”

Sleep came in little time at all, as he descended into a tranquil slumber devoid of dreams or nightmares alike to plague him and remind him of the past. There was only the present and the future, now... a present he enjoyed and a future he at last looked forward to. He was uncertain how long he did sleep, but at a certain point, the sunlight touched his face, there were sounds about the camp, a shadow loomed over him, and a familiar, soothing voice he trusted spoke up. He woke gradually, his senses and awareness slowly returning to him, as he looked around to find the camp had been mostly packed up already. Scorpion stood nearby, ready for the two of them... but the all too familiar red mare was nowhere to be seen anywhere. He sat up, viper eyes glancing about the woods and camp for Sabrina... but none of his heightened senses picked her up. She was gone... long gone... and the most beautiful golden haired being he had ever known in her fully human appearance was standing over him, red and white headband adorned along with her clothing, intervening to save him from what he had thought to be his cursed destiny. Not only with Sabrina, but he did not doubt she had cleansed the remaining caverns as well as he slept... she was a being who kept her word, the rarest kind of all. He felt a myriad of feelings, some confusing and conflicting... irritated he felt any conflict over Glevissig. Maybe it was just the lack of definitive closure... but what closure could there ever be with her? She had been an enemy and a lover alike for many years... the bane of his existence, half of the reason for what had happened to Deidre and countless other innocents. Even if he never saw her again, she would always be there lurking in the shadows at the back of his mind, part of who and what he had become. A Demon perched on his shoulder. Yet now it seemed on his other shoulder there stood the Valkyrie who had come to him. It was the Dragon Queen before him whose radiance and light would keep Sabrina back there in the shadows, not at the forefront of his decisions and life. His savior... and now his bonded mate, for life, as they had vowed in that moment of release, honesty, clarity and love. His scarred visage smiled back up at her wistfully as he gathered his thoughts, his deep, quiet voice murmuring back to her.

"So it's done, then. Finally. Hell of a thing... after how long I've known Sabrina. Been putting up with her, cleaning up her messes for over forty years... for her to just be gone from my life... didn't think it would happen. Didn't even get to watch it happen... feels anticlimactic. Almost tempted to speak a eulogy for her... but best not to jinx myself. Heh... destiny gave me a deus ex Dragon... I suppose. I think I'll always be looking over my shoulder for her, on some level, for better or worse. Maybe it's like a prisoner, who spends decades in a darkened dungeon, suddenly hauled up into the light of day and having the chains stricken from his wrists and ankles. Or a slave, for that matter. Takes getting used to. Still a prisoner and slave in his own mind. Never too old to learn, though... even true freedom can be learned. You can teach that to me. It's what you are, after all. Freedom and justice. I'm not a kingdom full of folk who need you... just one old fool... but this means more to me than I can ever say. You mean more to me than I can ever say."

The Witcher rose up before Saskia at last in silence, entirely bare for her to see and appreciate, unashamed of his visage being seen by her blue eyes, and went to her, leaning in and kissing her again, in the light of day. A hand moved to the back of her head as they kissed, sharing their love, tasting her again, the fire in his blood igniting again in a matter of moments, desiring her fully, his appetite as nigh insatiable as her own. It would be an easy thing to have her again, right then and there... but they had priorities ahead of them to account for, for the moment. Thus, with effort, he drew back from the lingering kiss with reluctance... the smile on his scarred visage warmed and genuine, and he went to fetch his clothing, armor, equipment and weapons, changing into them all gradually again, taking his time so she could enjoy the view. It was a rare thing for him to want to be seen... but with her he did... he knew he could trust her with everything he couldn't trust another. He liked the way she looked at him, making him feel loved and protected... desired and owned, really. It was different, to be taking on the less dominant, aloof and mysterious role he was used to with human, elven, Succubus or even Bruxa ladies... but everything about being with her would be different, and he looked forward to learning everything he could from it. He breathed in the cool, welcome, forest air, listening to the sounds of the distant animals of Upper Aedirn... and at last he finished dressing and adorning all his gear and things. After putting on his cloak last, turning back to the Dragon Queen, he drew in closely to her again, looking between the nearby Scorpion and her, taking each of her hands into his own, fingers weaving through hers. Viper eyes meeting disguised blue ones, his low, calm voice spoke up again, having gathered his thoughts and the plans for the day ahead of them as he had been changing.

"I'm ready. We should head to your castle first, fetch your armor and the rest of your things. Fetch some breakfast too. You can set your affairs there in order, then we'll head south for Toussaint, for starters. Geralt's vineyard of Corvo Bianco, where we can drop off Scorpion. Wouldn't be easy to fly with him tagging along... and he has earned a vacation in that sunny fairy tale land, can keep Roach company. Who knows, by the time we return him and Roach might have a foal. Then we can fly north again, to Kaer Morhen. I intend to show you my home... before we head east over the mountains to Zerrikania. Will take us awhile to get down to Toussaint from Upper Aedirn on horse, several kingdoms and regions to pass through, not all of them peaceful, but it's just the start of our journey. I look forward to every moment of it, with you."