Chapter Text
“Yen.”
Geralt drops from Roach’s back and crosses the courtyard. Yennefer folds her arms, fixing him with a dry expression as he approaches.
Yen. Ciri feels a flash of annoyance. He has never once called her anything but her full name— sweet girl, sometimes, when she’s falling apart by his hand, but that’s not a nickname. This woman? Yen, immediately Yen. Instantly familiar.
“Geralt,” Yennefer responds once he is standing in front of her. Her tone is flat but carries a hint of warmth. “You took your time.”
“We had business.”
Her violet eyes flit over his shoulder to where Ciri is still mounted on her horse, shoulders stiff and reins clutched in her hands, her gaze lingering on the sword strapped to the girl’s back. “So I’ve heard.”
“Why are you here?” Ciri blurts out. “I mean… why now?”
Yennefer’s plump lips part in a smile. “Because of you.”
“I asked her to come,” Geralt says quickly, anticipating Ciri’s indignation. “She’s who I’ve been trying to contact.” He frowns at Yennefer. “Not that you made it easy.”
“Can you blame me, Geralt?” She pats his cheek, blood red nails a stark contrast against the white hair at his temples. “We didn’t part on the best of terms.”
“We usually don’t.”
Ciri’s stomach rolls. A click of her heels urges her horse forward, and she races past them without a word and heads to the stables.
They have a history. A long one, by the looks of it. If Ciri hadn’t known that small fact already, it would have been glaringly obvious. But what kind of history? Friends, lovers? From what she knows of Geralt, and what his witcher brothers had teased after one too many pints of ale, he has had little of one and many of the other.
She slides from her mount and rests her forehead against her horse’s neck. The black mare has no name— it’s silly to name animals, she had always thought— but the urge to call it something comes to her now, the desire to have a relationship with something that is all her own, even if it’s one-sided.
“I don’t want her here,” she murmurs, stroking the horse’s nose. The mare chuffs in response. “You can sense it, can’t you? Geralt always says horses are smarter than people. You know that it’s a bad sign, her coming here?”
The mare chuffs again, nudging Ciri’s shoulder.
She sighs. “Oh. Right.” From her saddlebag she produces a handful of sugarcubes, and the horse makes quick work of them. “Nevermind. You have no idea what I’m talking about.”
She’s gorgeous, Ciri thinks miserably. She’s gorgeous and grown and much more a woman than me. Geralt will come to his senses soon, there’s no doubt about it. He’s going to realize, now that Yennefer is back, what he has been missing this whole time, and he’s going to leave me, too.
Suddenly, the hair on the back of her neck stands up. Ciri stills, catching her breath, listening for the shift in the air. There, there it is, the faintest sound of footstep—
“Easy, little cub,” Lambert says when she whirls on him, sword to his throat, his hands in the air. Ciri exhales and lowers the blade, and he throws an arm around her shoulders. “A few weeks alone with the white wolf and you’ve lost all your pretty little manners. Such a shame.”
“I need you to be honest with me,” Ciri says, ignoring his gentle ribbing. “Do you promise?”
Lambert’s grin falters a bit. “I’ve never lied to you, cub. Cross my heart.”
“So tell me. What do you know about Yennefer?”
The redheaded witcher sighs. “Come on.” He squeezes her shoulder, guiding her out of the stables. “Let’s go have a drink.”
“What happened to using her as bruxa bait?” Yennefer murmurs as Ciri rides off, her face red and twisted into a scowl.
Geralt huffs. “Who says I don’t?”
“The way you look at her says you don’t.” When he averts his gaze, Yennefer rolls her eyes. “I’ve heard stories, you know. Of the famed white wolf, suddenly traveling with a mysterious companion. A young woman, often rumored to be the first daughter of a witcher. Imagine my surprise when I heard that.”
Geralt stiffens. “I’ve never told anyone that I’m her father.”
“You didn’t have to. People make connections, draw their own conclusions— even without the insipid bard spoon feeding them into their minds.” Yennefer smirks. “I’m just saying, you haven’t exactly been keeping as low a profile as you thought. The second I heard the rumors I knew that it would just be a matter of time before you sought me out.”
“She needs help, Yen. Help that I can’t give her.”
“I know.” Yennefer softens a bit, taking a step closer. “You know what that means, though.”
“I do.”
“Does she?”
Geralt shakes his head. Yennefer sighs.
“Well, I’m certainly not going to be the one to tell her. She already looks ready to flay me alive.”
“She’ll come around. She just doesn’t—”
Yennefer raises her hand, silencing him with a tiny shake of her head. “I want to help her, Geralt. I do. And if what I know about her mother is true, then she’s going to need all the help she can get. But you must tell her soon. She has to understand what it means. It has to come from you.”
Geralt sighs. “I know.”
It’s bright. Too bright. So fucking bright— who allowed this? Why don’t they have better curtains? Why is she even awake?
Ciri buries her face in the pillows and groans. Not even Geralt’s lingering scent can soothe her, can assuage the tumultuous roll of her stomach as she moves. The night before comes back to her in bits and pieces.
Lambert topping up her ale, the bitter taste of it now sour on her tongue.
Geralt’s disapproving frown when he found them together, slinging her into his arms and carrying her off to bed when she tried to stand up from the table and her coltish legs failed her.
The questions she had slurred at both of them, the ones they never answered. Why is Yennefer here? Is she going to stay for good? Do you think she’s prettier than me?
Geralt’s side of the bed— which is most of it— is cold, which only makes her feel worse. He’s probably already gone to find Yen, leaving Ciri alone to nurse her hangover like the pathetic child she is.
She hauls herself out of bed, jaw clenched tight and breathing through her nose in a futile attempt to keep the contents of her stomach where they are. Throwing on a loose tunic and trousers— Geralt must have stripped and redressed her in her nightclothes, something she wishes she remembered— she stomps downstairs.
Stops short at the entrance to the main hall, where Yennefer is alone in the room, sitting at one of the tables and looking forlornly into her bowl of porridge.
The woman looks up, and Ciri curses herself from not moving on before they locked eyes.
“Good morning,” Yennefer says, sitting up and pushing the bowl away. “Or afternoon, rather.”
Is it that late already? Geralt is going to have her head, they were supposed to train more on the pendulum—
“Come. Sit with me for a moment.”
Ciri doesn’t move. “I’ve really got to get to training.”
Then her limbs lock. Her blood feels like molasses in her veins. A scream gets caught in her throat at the foreign sensation, and Ciri is rendered completely paralyzed as her body lifts from the ground and drifts forward into the hall. Only when she reaches the table does the spell break, her limbs falling loose as she collapses to her knees with a startled shout.
“What,” Ciri gasps from the floor, glaring up at Yennefer, “the fuck was that.”
“That was magic,” the sorceress says simply, eyes alight. “Would you like to learn it?”
Ciri never manages to make it to training. Instead, she and Yennefer spend the rest of the afternoon in the library, poring over ancient texts and spellbooks, the woman providing as much of an abridged history of sorcery as she can. When Geralt finds them later in the evening, the sun long having set and their bellies whining, he almost has to peel Ciri out of her chair.
“But we were just—”
“You need to eat,” he says, firm but fond, and gives Yennefer a pointed look as he tugs Ciri to her feet.
“Yes, I’m starving,” Yennefer says, standing and cracking her neck. “But there better be something more appetizing than that foul mush you left for me this morning.”
“A chef from Novigrad arrived this morning at your behest.”
“Fuck off.” She rolls her eyes. “Perhaps adding a bit of richness to your diet would make you seem less constipated.”
Ciri giggles, and Geralt shoots her a surprised look. It had not taken long for her frosty disposition toward Yennefer to thaw— in fact, all it had taken was the swiftly brewed potion that made her hangover disappear.
She pesters the sorceress with more questions about magic all the way to the main hall, where the rest of the witchers were well into their dinner already. Yennefer answers them all with tact, except for the last one— How long are you staying to train me? — which is thankfully cut off by Lambert’s bellow as they arrive, a taunt about Ciri’s inability to hold her drink which makes her race over and put him in a headlock.
“I’ll tell her tonight,” Geralt murmurs to Yennefer as they sit down.
“You better. It’ll be worse the longer you let it go on.”
Three steaming bowls of stew are lined in the center of the table. They each pull one towards themselves, leaving the last and fullest one for Ciri, who makes it over to them a few moments later, red-faced and with ruffled hair. Yennefer starts to scoot over on the bench but pauses when Ciri plops down next to Geralt, tucking into her bowl with a satisfied hum and leaning against his side.
His arm lifts to settle over her shoulders, absentmindedly fixing the flyways over her hair with one hand while the other brings a spoonful of stew to his mouth.
Yennefer wills her face to remain impassive as she takes in their easy familiarity. It makes sense— he has been raising her for the last four years— but there’s something about it that gives her pause. Perhaps it's the way his index finger lingers on the curve of her jaw, the way she tilts her head to bare her neck when he does so.
The sorceress forces herself to swallow a mouthful of her stew, the taste of it now sour.
Geralt clears his throat, wiping his mouth with the back of his free hand. “Cirilla, you—”
His words are cut off by the tense silence that falls over the hall as a portal suddenly sparks to life in the middle of the room.
“It’s not me,” Yennefer announces when everyone turns to look at her. But she stands, hands outstretched, ready to close it if need be.
There is a hoarse shout and then a man is falling through, collapsing on his knees. He face is ashen, his clothes stained with blood and something darker, something that reeks—
“Please,” he gasps, looking around the room, “witchers. I have been sent by one of your own. Eskel. We were working together in Skellige and came across a leshen—” The mage coughs, splattering blood onto the floor. “He’s been gravely injured. I cannot fight it alone. Please.”
Ciri has never faced a leshen, but from what she’s read in the bestiary they are no easy foes to face. And by the sight of the mage, the leshen is not all they were battling.
Geralt stands. “I’ll go.”
“Me too,” Ciri says, starting to stand, but Geralt’s hand on her shoulder forces her back down. “What? Geralt, come on—”
“No. I owe Eskel a debt I have yet to repay. It must be me.” He looks to Yennefer, and something passes between them that ignites a spark of fury inside Ciri. “You must stay with Yennefer. She will train you in my absence.”
“Geralt—”
A demonic shriek echoes from the portal, whose edges are starting to flicker. The man frantically motions to them. “We have to hurry!”
Geralt races from the room, coming back just a moment later with his swords and travel bag. Ciri starts to protest again but he cuts her off by tugging her against his chest, wrapping her in a tight hug. Ciri whimpers against his armor and when he pulls back he crouches down slightly, a hand at the base of her neck to steady her head.
Yennefer watches his lips move, but she can’t hear what passes through them. It must be enough to satisfy Ciri, because her apprehension shifts into determination, a brave face replacing her fearful one, and she nods. Then Geralt does something that Yennefer never expected to see.
He kisses her.
Briefly, but passionately. A solid and sure press of his lips against hers, the young girl’s back bowing slightly with the force of it. Yennefer blinks and they’re pulling apart— Geralt rests his forehead against Ciri’s and for a moment they breathe together, then he turns without another word and leaps through the portal. The mage follows, and then they are both gone.
Ciri stands in the empty space, shoulders sagging.
“Not to worry, little cub,” Lambert says to her, purposefully light, breaking the tension. “He’ll be back before ya know it.”
Ciri turns around, looking for Yennefer. But all she sees is the back of the woman as she stomps out of the room.
The sorceress does not appear for the rest of the night. Ciri tries to approach her room, but whenever she gets close to the door all of a sudden she blinks and finds herself ten paces back. It takes her nearly a dozen tries before she gives up, dejectedly returning to her room— Geralt’s room— and wondering, as she sulks under the sheets, if she will ever be able to do magic like that.
Geralt does not return in the morning. Granted, if something had happened to the mage then he wouldn’t exactly be able to portal back and it would take him a while to get home from Skellige, but Ciri can’t help but feel disappointed. And like it’s all her fault. If she hadn’t been upset about him leaving, then he wouldn’t have kissed her, wouldn’t have made Yennefer upset and caused her to shut Ciri out—
She doesn’t know what part of it has upset Yen. Did she want Geralt back for herself? Was she upset about the age difference? Hardly a factor, when her and Geralt are both pushing a century. Did she think Geralt took advantage of her? If only she knew how reversed their roles have been.
Ciri tosses and turns all night, thinking of ways to plead their case.
Finally, in the morning, she approaches Yennefer’s door again. She doesn’t get turned away this time, and instead barges right in.
Yennefer is just in a slip, winding her hair into an elaborate braid. She looks at Ciri in the mirror and arches a perfect eyebrow.
“I could have been naked.”
Ciri splutters.
“Don’t worry,” Yennefer says, standing and turning around. “You would have been better off for it.”
Ciri falters. “You’re not mad?”
“No,” Yennefer says breezily, putting on a dress. “Not at you.”
“You can’t be mad at Geralt,” she blurts out, frantic. “You don’t understand.”
Yennefer laughs. “Sweetling, I have been getting mad at Geralt since before you were born. It’s nothing new.”
“But he didn’t—”
“Ciri.” Yennefer puts a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t work yourself up. I was mad. I got over it. We’ll be fine.”
“But...don’t you want to know…”
“All the sordid, dirty details?” She smirks. “In time. I’m sure we’ll have loads to talk about. For now, I’m just happy he claimed you in some way. I should have expected it, honestly, given your parents…Anyhow, don’t worry about me. Geralt does not take his word lightly. If he’s with you, he’s with you until the end.”
Ciri’s heart flips in her chest. She hopes Yennefer is right. In the past few months Geralt has been more attentive than she expected, but she is still waiting on some sort of verbal confirmation of his feelings. It’s not like she’s looking to get married— absolutely not — but an I love you every now and again might make a girl feel special. It’s not as if she doesn’t feel the same.
“Come.” Yennefer claps her hands, beckoning Ciri along. “We have lots to go over today.”
The days wear on and Geralt does not return, and Ciri distracts herself from her growing worry by throwing herself into her magic training. It is equally exhausting as training with Geralt, except all she has to show for it is a searing headache and not new muscles.
Ciri tells the sorceress everything. All the times when she felt out of control, her screams that seem to break the world, all the power that she feels bubbling up inside her, desperate for a way out. The times fighting with Geralt where she feels like she wants to reach for something but doesn’t know what is there. How she holds herself back because she has heard stories of her mother, of others with Elder Blood, and is scared of what she can do.
“Lean into it,” Yennefer keeps telling her. “Your Chaos is glorious. It is just as much a part of you as the blood in your veins and the breath in your lungs. Let it guide you.”
After a week, Ciri finally makes progress. They had spent the better part of a day hunched over a yellowed leaf, and after hours of straining— even sweating through her shirt— the leaf in Ciri’s hand finally turned back to green, flush with life.
“Incredible,” Yennefer breathes as she watches Ciri do it again to another. “You have so much potential.”
“It took me forever,” Ciri says, panting a bit.
“Quicker than most of the girls at Aretuza,” Yennefer mutters under her breath.
“Is that where you learned your magic? Or— Chaos?”
“Yes,” Yennefer says slowly. “It was.”
“Did you like it there?”
“Some parts of it.” Yennefer hesitates for a beat, then takes Ciri’s hand. “Ciri, there’s something you should kn—”
Lambert bursts into the room, face lit up with excitement. “Guess who I just saw riding up to the gates,” he says. Ciri gasps and immediately bolts, shoving past him in the doorway. Yennefer waves her hands, the dead leaves vanishing, and follows a few steps behind.
“I’m alright,” Geralt grumbles as he eases into bed. He’s sporting a sharp cut already scarring on the right side of his face, numerous scabs on his left shoulder, and a freshly reopened wound across his torso from riding all day— eager to get back to her. “Just need to rest.”
“Will you let me heal you?” Yennefer asks from the doorway. She has barely crossed the threshold, hanging back as Ciri fusses at his bedside.
“S’fine.”
Yennefer rolls her eyes. “Let me know when he’s done being stubborn,” she says pointedly to Ciri, before leaving and closing the door behind her.
“You really should let her take care of you,” Ciri says as she brings a cup of water to his lips.
Geralt sips, his hand settling on the dip of her waist and squeezing. “I will,” he says, the rasp of his voice lessened by the water. “Just want you to take care of me first.”
A knot loosens in Ciri’s chest. He’s back, he’s here, he’s alright. She giggles, tucking into his side.
“I held up my end of the bargain,” she says, mindful of his wounds as she peppers his stubbly cheek with little bite-kisses. “Now it’s your turn.”
The bargain. Those words whispered before Geralt disappeared into the portal, the promise that if she stayed behind and trained with Yennefer, he would finally give her what she wants when he returns.
“Easy.” Geralt laughs with a huff. “Patience, Cirilla.”
“Wouldn’t have to be patient if you’d let Yennefer wave her hands and fix you.” But Ciri listens, cuddling up beside him with a huff.
Geralt drops a kiss to the top of her head. “In a little while. Just let me hold you for a moment. Tell me what you’ve learned.”
He is quite impressed with the leaf trick, jokes that she could practice more on him. Ciri tries— earnestly, eager to impress him, sweating and panting until she manages to heal just one of his scabs.
“You’re extraordinary,” he tells her, wiping a bead of sweat that drips down the bridge of her nose. “If that’s just been a few days, think of what you’ll be able to do in a month.”
“Is that how long Yennefer plans to stay?”
Geralt tenses.
“No. She’ll be leaving soon, actually.”
“Oh.” Ciri deflates a bit. “Will she come back? I still have so much to learn.”
“Cirilla…” Geralt eases himself into a more upright position, turning so he can look directly at her. “You’re going with her.”
“Oh. We’re going to Aretuza? All of us?”
“No.” He cups her face, thumb stroking her cheek. “Just you. This kind of training I cannot help you with.”
Ciri pulls away. “But– but can’t you still come?”
“There’s no place for me there.”
“Well they can make a place.” She leaps out of the bed. “There was no place here for me either, was there? Don’t make up stupid excuses, Geralt.”
“It’s not an excuse, Cirilla–”
“Do you not want me anymore?” She hates the way her voice sounds, the way it cracks as her long-buried fears burst back to life in her mind. “Is that it? Ready to go back to your old life? Just tell me, Geralt. If you want to be rid of me just say it.”
“Hey.” Geralt’s voice is sharp, piercing. He twists to grab her wrist as she paces by the bedside, wincing as he does so. “Don’t talk like that. Come back here.”
He tugs her back into bed, tucking her red face into his chest and holding her as she shakes.
“I’ve been looking for Yennefer since before we— for a while. I didn’t expect her to show up now. I thought we’d get more time. It upsets me too, Cirilla, but there are things you need that I cannot give you.”
“But Geralt, don’t you see?” Ciri says, looking up at him with glassy eyes and a pout that makes his heart ache. “You’ve already given me everything.”
She’s dripping.
Tears from her eyes, sweat down her back, sweet nectar from her too-small cunt. Geralt— freshly healed and reenergized— sits back on his heels and sucks his fingers into his mouth, relishing in her sharp taste.
“I’m ready,” Ciri says, voice already hoarse from the two orgasms he had wrung out of her. “Please, Geralt, I’m ready.”
“I know you are,” he grunts, grabbing her around the waist and hoisting her up onto his lap. He wraps her loose limbs around his body— arms around his neck, legs bracketing his sides— and gives her a slow, grounding kiss. “You’ve done so well, Cirilla. My sweet girl.”
She preens at his words. Who needs a nickname when he already owns her so wholly?
His cock is thick and burning hot between them, bits of his seed smearing on her soft belly as she grinds against him. With one hand steady on her lower back, Geralt grips the base of his cock and teases the tip at her entrance.
“Slow,” he cautions her when she gasps, her hips shifting eagerly as he slides in. “That’s it. Almost halfway.”
Ciri whines into his neck, nails digging into his shoulders. She can’t breathe, can’t move, just has to be still and take it as Geralt breaks her open. It’s more than she ever thought it would be— the fullness, the stretch. It is torture and divinity all at once, and when he finally tugs her hips down the last inch and pulls them flush together, all Ciri can manage is a relieved sob.
“Fuck,” Geralt groans into her hair before looking down at her. “Are you alright?”
She sniffles and nods. “It’s good.”
It is. He’s been right to prepare her all this time. What would it have felt like if he hadn’t? If he had been boorish and rash and ripped her apart? It certainly wouldn’t have felt like this, this mind-numbing pleasure cut by the most delicious pain. Never in her life has she felt so full, so whole.
So loved.
“Don’t move,” Geralt says, slipping his hand between them. Her clit is already all puffy and sensitive, so it doesn’t take too long for him to work her up again, and it’s the third orgasm that does the trick— relaxes her enough so that he can start to thrust a bit, to clutch her little ragdoll-body and guide her up and down on his cock.
“Is it good?” Ciri asks, a little deliriously. “Do you like it?”
“Do I like it?”
Geralt rolls them over, pinning her on her back. He somehow feels even deeper this way, like he’s in her throat, and Ciri yelps.
“Do I like it?” One sharp thrust sends her halfway to the headboard. “Do I like feeling you tremble underneath me? Do I like the feel of your little cunt squeezing my cock? Do I like knowing that it was made for me?”
“You were made for me, too,” Ciri whispers. Her hand slides down from his shoulder and to rest above his heart, the familiar, too-quick thumping steady beneath her palm. “This is destiny.”
Geralt tries to be gentle— a noble notion that Ciri quickly banishes. She wants to be broken in, to be bruised. Wants to carry the reminders of his love on her skin when she leaves him. Wants to be shattered and destroyed and rebuilt by his hands.
He fucks her on her back, then on her knees. That way makes her scream into the pillow, the window glass trembling in its frame when she comes so hard she soaks the sheets. Doesn’t have time to be embarrassed by the mess before Geralt is flipping her onto her side, curling his hulking frame around her back and bucking into her like an animal, her head cushioned in the crook of his arm, her small breasts cupped tenderly in his hand.
Ciri babbles and drools onto his bicep, squirts another time— “Filthy girl. So desperate for it.” — before Geralt’s thrusts start to stutter and then he’s filling her up, his cock pulsing and spurting inside her, his guttural goan ringing in her ear.
“Don’t move,” Ciri begs, reaching back to clutch at his hip, to keep them pressed together. The warm drip of his seed is already starting to leak down her thighs, but she doesn’t mind it. “Stay with me.”
“I’m not going anywhere, Cirilla,” he huffs. Leans over to kiss her tear-stained cheek, the tip of her red nose, her sweaty hairline— and then, finally, her swollen lips. “I’m right here.”
After, Geralt traces patterns on her back and works the tangles from her bed-matted hair.
“Am I to expect love letters?” she jests, playfully biting at his chest. “Sealed with a kiss and sent to Aretuza?”
Geralt chuckles. “And with a lock of my hair enclosed.”
Ciri hums in approval. Her initial despair has faded into resolve. She wants to be a witcher, but she will never be Geralt’s equal without learning to master the most powerful part of herself. And Yennefer is the key to that.
“I’ll be waiting with bated breath.”
Geralt does not cry, which shocks no one.
Lambert does, which shocks everyone.
The portal is shimmering behind Ciri as the redheaded witcher pulls her into his arms, careful to avoid the sword strapped to her back— Geralt insisted she take it, along with a bag stuffed full of potions and books and one of his shirts, tucked carefully away at the bottom— as he sniffles into her hair.
“I’ll be back before you know it,” Ciri says, her voice a bit watery. “You won’t even have time to miss me.”
“Who says I’ll be missing you?” Lambert swipes at his eyes roughly. “Been needing some peace and quiet around here.” He steps away, and then Geralt is in front of her.
They said their goodbyes the night before— she’s walking a bit bow-legged this morning, inner thighs still slick with his seed after hours falling apart on his cock— and so now she just lets herself be folded into his arms. Ciri inhales deeply. She already memorized his scent long ago, but she wants to take as much of it with her as she can.
His words from the night echo in her mind, the way he had held her so tenderly as he told her how much he loves her, how he will always carry her in his heart, and how the day he sees her again will be the happiest day of his life.
“Don’t get yourself killed while I’m gone,” Ciri says when she pulls back, wiping her eyes. “You need someone to watch your back.”
As if he hadn’t managed all those years by himself.
Geralt kisses her forehead, and when they step apart he even pulls Yennefer into a hug.
“Take care of her,” he says.
Yennefer smiles. Pretends she didn’t feel the way he is shaking. “As if she’s my own.”
They step through the portal, Yennefer’s hand gripping Ciri’s and giving her an encouraging squeeze.
Ciri doesn’t look away from Geralt until the portal closes.
Two Years Later
“Two pints of ale, please.”
Following the barkeep’s dubious gaze, Ciri smiles.
“Don’t worry. We’ll take them outside.”
Grumbling, the barkeep acquiesces, and Ciri leaves a handful of coins on the counter before turning and heading back to the door, where a mud-soaked Geralt is waiting with a sour expression.
“Don’t be such a baby,” she says lightly, holding out a pint for him. “A little mud never hurt anyone.”
“No, but I’d prefer not to smell like chernobog guts all day.”
“I told you I could handle it by myself. No one asked you to play the white knight.”
“We didn’t know there were two of them.”
Ciri licks the foam off her upper lip. The day is warm, the sky is cloudless, and their pockets are heavier than they were this morning. “I would’ve been fine.”
“But if you weren’t, Cirilla—”
Groaning, Ciri waves her hand, and in a blink all traces of mud and guts vanish from Geralt’s body. His words cut off as he blinks in shock.
“Neat trick, right?”
His now-clean jaw tightens. “It took us an hour to walk back to town.”
“Give or take a few minutes.”
“An hour, Cirilla, that I walked with monster blood in my fucking ears, and all you had to do was wave your hand?”
She smiles innocently. “Surprise.”
Geralt chugs the rest of his ale and tosses the pint to the ground. He takes a menacing step toward her.
A portal sparks to life a few paces behind them.
“Don’t,” he warns, taking another step forward. Ciri takes a big step back. The silver wolf medallion on her chest glints in the sunlight.
“First one back gets to be on top,” she says, and Geralt lunges for her.
Ciri shrieks and runs, but he catches her in half a second, and then they’re tumbling through the portal together, stomachs swooping and reality melting until they’re landing in the soft grass and the air is rich with the smell of brimstone.
For a moment they catch their breath and Ciri revels in the feeling of being pinned beneath him, but then she’s wriggling out of his grip and taking off, racing toward the castle of Kaer Morhen, the sound of her bubbly laughter ringing out in her wake.
Geralt takes a second to climb back to his feet. He watches his Child Surprise as she races toward their home, and then— a smile on his face— he follows.