Smoke and Mirrors

ACT I
A Cinderella Story

Chapter One
A Favor for a Favor


Lightning flashed through the window, briefly illuminating the tavern while the rain poured mercilessly outside. Just as the thunder boomed a moment or two later, the door opened and in staggered a young ashen-haired woman, clutching a bloody gut.

The barkeep and two patrons stood up, while a third remained calmly seated. He was bald, clad in yellow robes, with eyes that were far more piercing than the rest of his features would suggest. They made eye contact just before she collapsed to the floor and began staining it with blood.

Though they had been quick to help just a second earlier, the three of them took a step back, eyeing the young woman cautiously. She was still breathing, and barely conscious. The man stood up, making his way over to her with no great hurry.

"Oh dear," he said. "Someone picked the wrong place to camp."

She mumbled something, and while none of the others heard the words, the man understood perfectly. He turned to address them.

"Help me get her onto one of the tables. I will require some clean rags, a needle, and some sewing thread. And a bottle of dwarven spirit, if you don't mind."

The two patrons helped lift the barely conscious young woman onto the table, hastily clearing away the drinks and food that they had long since finished. The barkeep attended to the bottle of spirit and the rest of the required items.

"Thank you," said the man. "Now go in the back, if you please. I must concentrate."

"Are you certain, sir? I was a medic in the last war. I could help."

"Thank you, but I will manage just fine."

The three men shrugged and went into the back room of the tavern, leaving them alone.

"I'm going to disinfect the wound," he told her, lifting up her blouse enough to see the small hole in her abdomen from which blood was currently leaking. "This will sting a bit."

She maintained enough awareness to give her consent with a few vigorous nods. He poured a bit of the alcohol into the wound, and she screamed, then let loose a long string of curses.

"My, you've a well developed tongue," he said, grabbing one of the rags and placing it over the wound, then pressing into it hard. "I know none who can tell me to plough myself with my own severed cock in such beautiful Elder Speech. Keep pressure on that."

The woman complied.

"Now, I need you to stay conscious, so talk to me. What is your name?"

"C-Ciri."

"Very nice to make your acquaintance, Ciri. What happened?"

"Bandits," she hissed through clenched teeth. "Snuck up on me while I was sleeping. Stabbed me in the belly while I lay there, the whoresons. Took my horse, my purse… and my sword."

"And left you something to remember them by."

She nodded.

"Once you've stabilized I'll begin with the sutures," he said. "But we have a little time before that. Tell me, will you be seeking retribution?"

"I just want my things back." She grimaced and hissed in pain through clenched teeth. "They took all I had."

"I can tell you where the bandits are." His voice took on a serene, otherworldly tone, the kind that hid an entire world of meaning behind an inviting curtain just begging its listener to reach out and touch. "I can ensure that you're back in fighting shape by the time you face them. In return, I'll need your help with a problem. A problem which, it turns out, concerns these same bandits."

Ciri opened her eyes a little wider, lucid for the moment.

"Do we have a deal?"

After thinking it over for a few moments, the young woman nodded. "Yes. Yes, we have a deal."

"Excellent. Now hold still. This next part is going to hurt."

The smell of seared flesh filled the air as Ciri cried out in agony, and the wound in her belly began to cauterize. At the same time, two marks appeared on her left temple, lit by the same fire, indicating the contract had been sealed.

A minute later, when the pain no longer made her gnash her teeth, she looked up at the mysterious man. "Who are you?"

"I go by many names," he replied, still speaking in that strange, hypnotizing tone. "Some know me as Master Mirror. Others as the Man of Glass."

Her eyes fluttered, and she began to drift away.

"You may call me Gaunter O'Dimm."


The next day, Ciri awoke in a clean bed above the tavern, still missing all of her belongings. She lifted up her blouse and confirmed that, yes, the scar was really there. The room was not fancy enough to have a looking glass, but after touching her temple she discovered that the arcane marks were real as well. It had not been a dream.

Details of the night before began flooding back into her, and she cursed under her breath. She'd been foolish and careless, and she had paid for it. If she'd gone just a little further up the road, she could have paid for this room herself without getting robbed. At the very least, the bandits had been in too much of a hurry to get away to try taking anything else from her. And her clothes were still in one piece.

The midday sun drifted into the room, and Ciri donned her boots and gloves, which were the only articles of clothing that had been removed. After tidying the bed, a task she never left to servants, Ciri made her way downstairs with a serious appetite.

Gaunter O'Dimm was waiting for her.

"Ah, Ciri! I'm truly glad you're awake. Come and sit."

She obeyed, sitting at the table, where a plate of breakfast and a drink had been left there for her, still warm.

"Thank you," she said, breathlessly. "Not just for the breakfast, either. If not for you I might not have woken ever again."

"A little gratitude goes a long way," O'Dimm replied with a knowing smile. "How do you feel?"

"Embarrassed, really. Normally I don't let bandits sneak up on me like that. I figured no one would be foolish enough to try robbing me in that downpour."

"Greed overcomes many inhibitions. Even those that relate to robbing a witcher."

Ciri quirked an eyebrow. "How do you know I'm a witcher?"

"They didn't take your medallion."

Her hands went to the cat-shaped medallion that hung on her hip. She wished she still had Vesemir's medallion. It was far more comforting than this one. She released it and went back to eating her eggs.

"I suppose that's true."

"Bandits like that have always prowled this area," he said. "But they haven't been quite so brazen in a long time."

"How do you mean? And where is here, exactly? I'm afraid I don't know how far I wandered after being stabbed."

"Well, you're still in Ebbing of course. This is merely a tavern by the road, the only real building for miles other than a small farm a few acres away. The nearest town is Fano, but if you're that hard up for civilization you could always try the village a few miles up the road. What was the name of it?"

He appeared to deliberate for some time, before an unsettling smile crawled across his features and something dark flashed in his eyes. "Ah, yes. Now I remember. Jealousy."

Ciri turned white.

"Have I upset you?"

After taking several deep breaths, she finally managed to convince her hands to stop shaking. "Sorry, it's not you. It's just…"

"Ah, the village. Well, you needn't go there anyway. It's certainly seen better days."

Her voice was still a little shaky when she replied. "Before I do anything else I must get my things back from those bandits. You said you know where they are."

"I do indeed. And I trust you remember our bargain?"

"Of course. I wouldn't expect this sort of help for free, and I've naught to offer you except my services."

"If half the things I've heard about you are true, that should suffice."

She squinted as she knocked back a sip of her drink. "What do you need me to do?"

"First, the information you require. Fortunately for your mental wellbeing, the gang is not in Jealousy. All gangs in the area have given that place a wide berth since the second Northern War. All you must do is head east for five miles or so. After that, they'll find you."

"Living in the forest? What, are they Scoia'tael?"

"I doubt they'd have left while you were still alive were that the case. No, they have a different name."

"And what name is that?" She took another sip of her drink.

"The Rats."

Ciri almost choked.

"That's impossible," she rasped as soon as she finished coughing, trying vainly to scoop the spilled portions of her drink back up to her mouth before finally grabbing a rag and rubbing her face clean. "The Rats are dead."

"Certainly that doesn't preclude another group from taking up their name."

"I suppose not."

"Your task is simple. Find the leader of the gang. Then bring them to a trading post twenty miles from Jealousy, tomorrow at midnight. I'm sure you know the one."

Ciri set her mug down and leaned forward across the table, glaring. This man knew too much to be entirely innocent in this. "How are you sure?"

"You will have the answer to that when next we meet. Or possibly sooner, if you're clever."

"And how am I to convince this person to come with me? I'll be lucky if they don't kill me as soon as I get near their camp."

He smiled again. "You're a capable young woman. Having a bit of rough luck, yes, but nobody's perfect. I have faith that you'll figure something out." He stood, then walked past her. "Until we meet again."

"Now wait just a—"

She rose and turned around, but he was gone.


"This is stupid," Ciri muttered to herself. "Utterly, irredeemably stupid."

It was bad enough that she had found herself back in Ebbing after so many years. She hadn't intended to venture so far south, closer to Nilfgaard, but given that the Empire occupied almost all of the Northern Realms at this point there was practically no place she could go without running afoul of some kind of black uniform. And witchers were needed no matter where they went.

Her hands were still shaking. They shouldn't be. Years had passed since the slaughter she had borne witness to, watching her companions butchered before her very eyes while she watched helplessly, tied to a post. Leo Bonhart was dead, at her hand. She wasn't in danger anymore.

But her body hadn't yet realized that. And so she trembled.

It would be easier to deal with her nerves if she had her sword. Zirael always centered her, helped her focus, tamed the fear, even though she had acquired it from the man who was paid by one party to kill her, by another to be delivered alive so she could be flayed, and did neither, exploiting her for his own benefit instead. But thanks to that sword, he had died like everyone else who thought of her only as a tool to further their own ends.

And now it had been taken from her.

The forest was thick, but she remembered it well. Even now. Even though it hurt to recall. Even though her hands wouldn't stop shaking because every thought led to the same memory. She walked on, knowing how this could end, and hoped she could at least take a few of them with her.

She had fulfilled her destiny already. Did it really matter what happened to her now?

After an hour or so, she saw smoke passing through the canopy, just a few hundred paces away. She didn't bother sneaking, because even among common bandits, the scouts had likely spotted her already. Thus Ciri walked into the camp, her hands above her head.

There were five of them. Three sat around the fire, roasting a hog on a spit. The other two watched the perimeter, and currently had their bows pointed at her.

"I just want to talk."

The scout on the right kept his bow trained on her. "So talk."

"You took something that belongs to me. I'd like it back."

They laughed.

"And why should we? If you failed to defend your belongings, that's your own fault."

"My fault for being stabbed in my sleep? I don't know what's changed in the last few years, but the original Rats always faced their prey while they were awake, and armed."

The other scout laughed. "Shows what you know, you stupid bint. Who'd be fool enough to do that?"

"Horace, shut the fuck up. And give the lady her stuff back."

The decidedly female voice came from the tent behind the scouts. The scout named Horace lowered his bow, but didn't lose the sneer. "Why? She someone special?"

"You mean you don't know who that is? That's Falka, last surviving member of the original Rats."

Ciri's eyes went wide, and she stopped trembling. Instead she went entirely still. No one knew her by that name. No one except…

The apparent leader of the gang stepped out from the tent. She was tall, with blonde hair shorn on the sides and a ponytail in back. She smiled covetously at Ciri. "Falka! Long time no see."

This wasn't real. This couldn't be real. Ciri's blood froze and she stood there, stunned, staring in utter disbelief. After what seemed like an eternity, she finally convinced her mouth to say her name.

"Mistle?"


"I'm sure you have questions," said Mistle once they were inside the tent, alone. She grabbed a bottle of wine and sat on the ground, taking a swig before passing it to Ciri.

She drank as substantial portion of the wine as well. "You could say that." Ciri shook her head, pressing her fingers into her temples.

"Well? Out with it."

"You're dead!" Ciri exclaimed. "I saw Leo Bonhart kill you! He made me look at your guts while they spilled out of you and then he tied me to a post and made me watch while he cut your head off!"

There were tears in her eyes. She made no effort to wipe them away.

"That's true," she replied, taking back the wine. "I was dead. But now I'm not."

Ciri shrunk back. "How do I know you're really Mistle? You could be a doppler, or an illusion."

"I think your witcher's medallion there would be vibrating something fierce if I were an illusion," the woman claiming to be Mistle replied, reaching out and stroking the medallion with her fingers. "But it's still as a gravestone. Where'd you get it, anyway?"

"Bonhart. He collected them from witchers he killed. I had another but… it was taken from me."

"I thought I told them to give you all your stuff back."

She shook her head. "They did. I lost it a while ago."

"I see. You mentioned something called a doppler. What's that?"

"A shapechanger. They can look like anybody, down to copying their thoughts and memories. No one's really sure how they do it."

"Alright, I can see how you'd jump to that conclusion. Still, from the time you met me until the time I died, do you remember running into anything like that?"

"Not really. There aren't many dopplers this far south anyway. They're native to the land surrounding Novigrad."

"It's really me, Falka. I'm really here. And I know you believe me."

Tears still gathered in her eyes, she shook her head and stared, knowing that she shouldn't believe, but wanting to desperately. Ultimately passion won out.

"How?"

Mistle smiled sadly. "There's a story behind that," she said before drinking more of the wine. "That I don't want to get into right now. Tell me about you. What have you been up to?"

"Me? Who cares about me? You're alive!"

"I care, Falka. Tell me."

"Well, first things first. My name's not really Falka. It's Ciri."

"Ciri? You mean that princess of Cintra or some such that Hotspurn told us about?"

"That's me."

"Ha!" Mistle slapped her knee. "No wonder you called him a liar." She glanced away. "And rode after him."

"I was stupid. He got killed by bandits a few miles up the road. When I realized what a mistake I'd made I took his mare and rode back to Jealousy to try and stop you from facing Bonhart." She looked down. "I got there just in time to watch you die."

"You'd not have stopped us anyway. What happened then?"

Ciri was shaking by this point, leaning forward and wrapping her arms around her knees. "As I said, Bonhart tied me to a post and made me watch while he sawed off all of your heads. Then he took me inside the tavern, made me strip in front of everyone to check me for magical charms, then kept me tied up with a collar."

The other woman raised her eyebrows when she noticed Ciri's condition. "Are you okay?"

"No." The tears flowed freely now, and she rocked back and forth. "Hold me, please. So I know you're real."

Mistle did exactly that, embracing Ciri from behind and giving her the wine again.

Over the course of the evening, Ciri related the rest of her tale, about how Bonhart had refused to either kill her or claim the bounty from the Baron of Casedai, but gave her a sword and brought her to an arena. How she got the scar on her face courtesy of Stefan Skellen, the Tawny Owl, who had sent Bonhart after them in the first place. How Bonhart met his end at Stygga Castle, by her sword. And then everything after that.

"Shit," the other woman summed up rather succinctly when Ciri was done. "Always knew you were more than you let on."

"Sorry I didn't tell you back then."

"It's alright. I forgive you."

"I still love you, Mistle. I don't think I ever stopped."

"I love you too, Fal… Ciri."

They kissed. It wasn't the same as when they were younger, two children playing at being adults, showering one another with affection for fun. This was different. But at the same time, it was familiar enough to erase all doubt. This was Mistle. This was real.

The wine bottle was empty, and thus did not spill any contents when Ciri knocked it over as she turned around in Mistle's embrace to avoid craning her neck. Mistle was busy moving too, her nimble hands weaving deftly under Ciri's blouse and exploring the skin underneath. She stopped when she reached the scar.

"One of many," Ciri explained, not caring that the woman underneath her led the gang that had given her that scar. Nothing else mattered now. Only Mistle.

She removed her top entirely, giving Mistle a full view of the scars she'd accumulated over the years. The other woman leaned upward, placing her mouth over one of Ciri's soft breasts and running over the nipple with her tongue. Ciri moaned, and felt warmth between her legs as Mistle continued her ministrations.

Soft wisps of hot air danced like tiny fires against cool skin as they continued making up for lost time. Sharp claws raked across her back, tracing shallow, evanescent scars like shards of silver moonlight. She let her hair down, and it soon grew soaked with sweat in the warm night as the tension continued to mount.

They separated, and Ciri removed Mistle's top with practiced ease. She knew what she was doing now. She wasn't being guided along like some child anymore. Now Ciri knew what she desired.

That didn't change even when Mistle took control, locking their lips together and rolling over so that she was on top. Ciri let it happen and reveled in exploring the other woman's skin, the burning, animal need inside her short circuiting the parts of her that would have otherwise questioned this circumstance. That didn't matter right now. Thinking could wait.

Fire. Blood. Lust. Primal forces weaving a tapestry of subconscious thought that left no room for words. She expressed what she wanted through a series of sighs and moans. Mistle knew her well. Even after all these years.

"Aw, you kept it," the other woman cooed after removing Ciri's trousers and confirming that the rose tattoo was still there. She planted a kiss directly on top of it, and Ciri moaned. She was practically gushing down below, and those lips set off fireworks with every touch.

Mistle moved her attention a little to the left, finding her target and slowly, methodically sucking on her clit. As she moved her tongue in circles Ciri sputtered and bucked her hips, unable to contain the mounting ecstasy. It was never like this before. She simply wasn't ready then. But now she was.

This continued for several minutes. Mistle alternated between sucking her clit, sliding her fingers back and forth, and doing both at the same time, until finally, Ciri burst.

The orgasm exploded through her as the tiny fires burning beneath her skin became raging infernos, spreading through her with a sensation so pleasant it was just shy of painful. Suddenly she seized, leaning back unnaturally far while her lower half remained in the same position. A green aura surrounded her, and she began to babble in the Elder Speech, which Mistle had no way of understanding. To her credit, she did not flee, but simply watched in wonder as Ciri lost control in the most spectacular way.

"Gwy'liwch rhag ef sy'n rhoi dy'muniadau! Gwy'liwch rhag y dyn aep wydr!"

Finally, the glow subsided and the afterglow spread through her like water, cooling the fire to embers and causing her to fall back, serene, and stare at the ceiling in a daze. Mistle quickly cuddled up next to her.

The moment was interrupted by Horace, who stood outside the tent but did not enter, understanding what doing so would cost him. "You alright, Mistle? We heard some kinda demon in there!"

"No demon," Mistle replied. "Get back to your post; I'll not be surprised in the middle of the night again by those damn Black Ones."

Ciri chuckled. "So you aren't the only ones who ambush people while they sleep."

"Sorry about that. If only I'd been with them we could have avoided this whole misunderstanding. If you'd like you can punish the ones that robbed you."

"I'd rather not bother," she said, snuggling closer. "I just want to stay here with you."

Mistle wrapped her arm around Ciri, pulling her in close. "So do I."

They kissed again, and she closed her eyes, content.

"Falka?"

"I told you, it's Ciri."

"Sorry. Ciri?"

"What is it?"

"What did you say? When you were spouting all that gobbledygook?"

"Gwy'liwch rhag ef sy'n rhoi dy'muniadau. Gwy'liwch rhag y dyn aep wydr," Ciri repeated. "Beware the Granter of Wishes. Beware the Man of Glass."

Before Mistle could ask her anything else, Ciri fell asleep.


Morning arrived, wiping clean the slate of the previous day. Here, in the twilight between sleep and wakefulness, Ciri could forget about everything other than the warm body that she clung to as tight as she could without waking her.

She didn't realize how much Mistle's loss had truly affected her until she had her back. The memories surrounding her were the only ones Ciri cared to remember from that time, when everything she had been promised burned to cinders and she was left to survive on her own. When her world had shattered so completely that she wished to be somebody else, and thus became Falka.

What she felt back then for Mistle wasn't love. Not really. She just didn't want to be alone again. Not ever again. Even that turned to ashes in the end.

But things were different now.

A dull throbbing in her left temple reminded her of why she'd set out on this journey in the first place, before she'd become distracted. But there was time. The trading post was twenty miles from Jealousy, sure, but only ten miles from the camp. Even if they left in the afternoon they could easily make it there by midnight. That left plenty of time to catch up, and simply enjoy each other's presence. She snuggled up closer to Mistle and wished that this moment would never end.

But it did.

"Mmm…" Mistle began to stir. "Good morning."

"Good morning."

They lay there for another few minutes. Finally Ciri broke the silence.

"Mistle?"

"Hm?"

"When did you come back to life?"

"I'm not sure. But it was sometime in the past two years."

"I see. I was… somewhere else."

"You told me. Traveling between worlds. The places you must have seen."

"I could talk for weeks and not tell you all I witnessed," she said, her hand moving further down Mistle's stomach and continuing to descend. "But I couldn't really appreciate it. I was always on the run."

"We were always on the run back in the day," Mistle replied just as Ciri's hand reached her clit. "Mmm. Never stopped us from appreciating things."

"Yes, but only fleeting things." Slowly, she slid two fingers inside the other woman, and received a pleased moan for her efforts. "Nothing permanent."

"That only makes it more special. Permanent things can be taken for granted."

Ciri began to fondle Mistle's breasts with her other hand, as she deftly moved her fingers back and forth. Mistle bit her teeth and began to grind against her.

"This feeling, for instance," she continued. "It only lasts a moment. But it's special. And it can be had more than once."

She flipped Mistle around and kissed her, continuing to thrust in and out, occasionally curling her fingers inside her, which elicited a deep groan. Ciri moved her attention to the other woman's neck, kissing and biting in equal measure. Mistle writhed the entire time, enraptured by Ciri's touch.

There wasn't any great trick to it. After a few minutes of this she brought Mistle to climax, and her shrieking woke the whole camp. Mistle once again had to call off the alarm.

"Oh, that was amazing, Little Falcon."

"It's Swallow now," Ciri corrected her.

"What?"

"My name. Zirael. It means Swallow."

"I see. I'm not as learned as you are."

"It's not like you didn't have the opportunity. Your family was rich."

"As I said, some things you just take for granted."

"Mm."

They lay there for a while longer, before finally accepting that no moment lasts forever.


"Your turn," Ciri said as she pulled on her boots.

"What's that?"

"I told you everything that's happened with me last night," she explained. "Now it's your turn."

"Ah." Mistle frowned and sat, cross-legged, staring possessively at her. "Very well. I was dead. Now I'm alive. As for what happened in between... I'm not entirely sure how to describe it."

"Do try."

She smirked. "Impatient, are we?"

"Mistle," Ciri said gravely. "Please."

"Alright." She sighed. "I made a deal. I got in deep, with someone you don't get in deep with. He brought me back to life, gave me a new body, helped me set up a new gang, and said he'd come for his payment in two years' time." She laughed bitterly. "I actually believed he wouldn't come to collect. And then you showed up."

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"I don't believe in coincidences," said Mistle. "And I know there's no way you recovered from a stab wound in one night on your own. Not to mention…" She pointed to her left temple, where Ciri could make out similar marks to the ones she bore, hidden just underneath Mistle's shorn blonde hair. "Which leads me to believe you've already had the pleasure."

The dots connected.

"Gaunter O'Dimm."

"That's the one."

Ciri frowned and glanced away. "He wants me to bring you to a trading post. The trading post. The place where it all went wrong. We're to meet at midnight."

"I see."

"Can't avoid it, can we?"

Mistle shook her head. "He's not someone you break a promise with."

"I was afraid of that."

"Come." She stood up. "There's still time. I'll introduce you to the gang."


The gang had assembled in a loose formation, by no means a perfect line, but it was to Ciri's satisfaction. Mistle went down the line and introduced them one by one.

Sheana Glaszwic was, like Mistle, of noble birth. When Nilfgaard took dominion over her family's land, they had prospered at first, until an unforgiveable breach of etiquette at an imperial ball by her drunken father had blacklisted them for good. The family fell out of favor, and her father fell deeper into drink, eventually hanging himself from a tree that was planted before their family ever settled on the land. Her mother was driven insane and committed to an institution. The house fell into ruin and became worthless. Sheana had simply run away, making use of her education in swordplay to pursue the life of so many fallen nobles. She had been the first recruit.

Faloanthír hailed from Dol Blathanna, the Valley of Flowers, and served as part of a Scoia'tael commando for two wars. When the rest of his commando was dead and he found himself on the run, he chose the life of a brigand, preferring to kill for himself rather than some damned ideal that in reality only served the goals of Nilfgaard. He was instrumental in helping the latest incarnation of the Rats hide in the forest.

Resilda Trevohort had a hideous burn scar covering her entire face in a pattern that reminded Ciri of Eskel. If she had been pretty beforehand, none knew, and she wasn't in any hurry to enlighten them. Her village was burned by the North, specifically by Lyrian and Rivian partisans led by the White Queen. She had been trapped inside a burning hut and was only saved by the fact that the stone hearth that collapsed on top of her shielded all but her face from the flames.

She'd been an orphan and outcast ever since, and decided that if the world was to going to treat her like a monster, then a monster they would get. According to Mistle, she had limited control over fire, and could either generate it spontaneously or direct the course of an existing blaze. Pyromancers had gotten increasingly rare in recent years, and Ciri suspected that she'd never had anyone teach her to control it. She knew how dangerous that could be, from personal experience.

Then there was Stephanos. Formerly of the Nilfgaardian Imperial Army, Stephanos had fallen victim to a lycanthropic curse and fled in shame. No contract had ever been taken on him, since the army didn't typically make use of witchers this far south and considered deserters to be an internal matter, be they werewolves or not. According to him, he had sought the aid of a witch specializing in blood magic who had helped him to tame the curse, and since then he had been able to shift form at will, without succumbing to the bloodlust. At least not until he'd gotten hit a few times.

And finally, Horace. Horace was a simple farming man whose life had been shattered by war. His home in ruins, his wife and children dead, he took his bow and his anger and fought his own private war against the unit that burned down his home. Once he had tracked down and killed every last one, he had no idea what to do with himself, and had accepted Mistle's invitation to join the new version of the Rats.

With the introductions complete, Mistle stood in front of the group and stared hard at them.

"Two of you," she began, pacing back and forth, "snuck up on Falka here in the dead of night, and made off with her things. Not only that, she was also stabbed in the belly and very nearly bled out until she reached a tavern some five miles from where she'd been camped."

Ciri had insisted that Mistle still refer to her as Falka in front of the others. Even after everything she'd been through, all the pursuers she'd shaken, she was still sought after by Nilfgaard. And she was understandably uncertain of the loyalty of the bandits in front of her.

"Now, there was no way any of you could have known that she was a member of the original version of the Rats. That said, we don't rob to get rich. We don't use cheap tactics. We don't attack women and we definitely don't stab them in their sleep. We're sporting and fair."

A few of them started to snicker, but she silenced them instantly with a glare.

"Which of you was it?"

Nobody moved or said anything for a few seconds, before Sheana and Faloanthír stepped forward.

"Which of you decided to stab me?" asked Ciri, placing her hands on her hips.

"I did," Faloanthír replied, but Sheana shook her head.

"He lies," she said. "Out of some misguided attempt to protect me. I know well what I did. And I am prepared to suffer the punishment."

Ciri was silent for several moments, debating what any of her mentors would do. Triss would let them go. Yennefer would make them grovel and lick her boots for a few days, before banishing them from her sight. Lambert would behead them both and be done with it . And Geralt… well, even on his good days, Geralt never had mercy on those who stabbed or robbed him.

Still, there was greater discipline on display here than there had been when she was part of the roving gang made of children of contempt. Ciri had surmised that there was still much of that family camaraderie, but it was mainly between those five, with Mistle holding absolute authority. They weren't even close to equals with her. Other than Ciri, her family was dead.

Aside from which, these were adults. They knew what they were doing far better than children. And so they deserved to be treated accordingly.

"My sword."

Mistle handed her the sword, which she drew slowly to draw out the tension and let the two thieves sweat.

"Let me ask you a question, Sheana."

"Yes, Lady Falka?"

"Just Falka will do. Are you pregnant?"

"Am I what?"

"Pregnant. With child. Expecting."

She stared at the ground. "No, Falka."

"Look at me."

Sheana obeyed.

"I ought to make it so you never can," she said, with a venom that came from a place she thought she'd left behind long ago. She idly twirled her sword, pacing in front of the woman who kept her gaze like her life depended on it. "I ought to spill your guts and watch the piss and shit come oozing out of you. Have you ever seen that? Have you ever seen someone die in their own piss and shit while their guts pour out of them?"

Mistle remained quiet, but her eyes grew visibly wider. Sheana started shaking.

"If you're going to kill me, please do so quickly," she said. "I'd hate to go out the way you describe."

"Answer my question."

"No, Falka. I haven't ever seen that."

"I thought not. You've killed a few people in your time, I'm sure. But you don't really know what death is. You don't know true misery. I do."

"I've seen it," Stephanos said suddenly. "Caused it, even. During my, uh… episodes."

She gave a nod of acknowledgment.

"Here is what will happen. In thirty seconds, I will thrust my sword into Sheana's belly. Exactly as deep as the wound that was dealt to me. If Sheana tries to move, I will take her head. Anyone wishing to prevent harm from coming to her should act now."

She turned her back and closed her eyes. At the count of ten, she turned around and thrust, and connected with something soft and yielding.

Damn. Someone really had gotten in the way. With the force behind her thrust, the point of the sword should have stopped less than an inch from Sheana's belly. It was probably that damn elf who wanted to take the blame for her. Ciri opened her eyes.

And saw Mistle.

Her face betrayed no pain, even as Ciri yanked the blade out instinctively. Blood gushed and stained her boots, but Mistle didn't move.

"Why?"

"Simple," said Mistle. "Actions taken by members of my gang are my responsibility. And I shoulder the punishment for it."

"You didn't used to be so noble."

She smiled sadly. "And you weren't always so soft. I know you planned to miss her."

"You've seen right through me." She sheathed the sword.

"Don't fret," said Mistle, lifting up her tunic. Where there had once been a fresh wound there was only a scar. "Like a distant memory."

Ciri nodded absently and staggered away, her thoughts pinwheeling out of control. Once she was out of sight, she braced herself against a tree and threw up her breakfast.


The woods were dark and foreboding, even from the road. But it wasn't the mist or the gnarled branches or the distant howls that unsettled her. It wasn't the will o' wisps that tried to tempt them away from the main path, or the hanged bodies of local bandits decorating the side of the road. Ciri wasn't afraid of any of it.

They had set off on the trail shortly after Ciri had passed her judgment on the thieves, and after she apologized to Mistle, who insisted she had nothing to apologize for. At their current pace, they would arrive at the trading post well before midnight. She wasn't afraid of what they would find there either.

Ciri wasn't afraid of the words she had said, or how they were likely to think of her now. She had put on that performance on purpose in order to intimidate them, to teach them a lesson when it came to stealing from sleeping travelers. Mistle's interference actually made it more effective, and reinforced their loyalty to their leader. None of that scared her.

What frightened Ciri was that she had enjoyed it.

After travelling between worlds for so long, after being reunited with Geralt, Yennefer, Triss, Dandelion, and all her other friends and allies, after defeating the Wild Hunt and saving the worlds from the White Frost, she thought that she had left Falka behind, a distant if unpleasant memory. But something about this place, and all the memories it stirred within her, brought that side of her rushing back to the surface, and what terrified Ciri the most was that she hadn't even tried to stop it.

"Mistle?"

The other woman looked over at her from her horse. "What is it?"

"What we did back then... the people we stole from, the people we killed... do you regret any of it?"

Mistle's eyes hardened as she stared straight ahead, not making eye contact with her. "Honestly? No. I regret going after Bonhart, but that's about it. We were living free. Doing what we wanted."

"Even though it came at the expense of others?"

She shrugged. "I didn't care about that then and I don't care now. What about the things other people gained at our expense? Where was the fairness in that?"

Ciri didn't answer.

"If you want to feel guilty about it, that's your business," she finished. "But I remember how much you enjoyed yourself back then. You still do, I think."

"You're probably right."

They continued riding in silence.


They arrived at the trading post a few minutes before midnight. They hitched their horses and waited by the entrance. The streets were eerily empty. True, it was the middle of the night, but the stillness was unnerving. Neither of them spoke.

The postal station was still intact, as were the buildings surrounding it. The memories wracked her again and Ciri shuddered. She wondered how the tattoo artist they'd commandeered, Almavera, was doing these days. She made a mental note to look into that once this was over.

Finally, at exactly the promised time, Gaunter O'Dimm appeared, as if he had always been there.

"Good of you both to make it," he greeted, rubbing his hands together. "I trust you spent the day making up for lost time?"

"You right bastard," Mistle snarled. "I asked you to bring me back my Falka, and you send her as your proxy?"

Ciri's head whipped around to face her. "I was part of your deal?"

"Indeed," said Gaunter O'Dimm. "And now that we're all assembled, we can discuss what happens next."

"What does he mean by that, Mistle?"

Mistle seethed quietly for a minute before answering. "You're to serve as his proxy and grant me three wishes, so that he may collect his payment."

"Well now the marks make sense." She rubbed her temple and frowned. "But how am I supposed to grant wishes? I'm not a genie."

O'Dimm grinned knowingly and glanced between the two of them. "Ask your old friend Geralt of Rivia. He performed a similar service for me once."

"What?!"

"Shh." He raised a finger to his lips. "It's the middle of the night. Have some courtesy."

"To hell with courtesy! What did Geralt do for you?"

"He helped me track down someone who tried to avoid paying me," the merchant answered. "In the end, he was marvelously helpful. I got what I came for and we parted as friends."

Ciri glared. "That seems bloody unlikely."

"Believe what you wish. But I never lie."

"What happens if I refuse?"

He turned to Mistle. "Tell her."

Mistle looked at her. "If you break your contract with him, he collects the payment from you instead."

"I was afraid of that."

"Don't worry," said Mistle. "She'll do it. Or at least try."

"Excellent." He clapped his hands together. "I really must be on my way. You'll find Geralt in Toussaint, at the Corvo Bianco vineyard."

And then he was gone.

"Toussaint?" Mistle repeated. "That's ages away. How are we supposed to get there? And who's Geralt?"

"An old friend," she answered, walking over to the horses. "And don't worry about getting there. Just let me concentrate. I haven't done this with horses before."

"Done what?"

"Grab my hand."

She obeyed, and Ciri closed her eyes. In a flash of green light, both they and the horses disappeared.


Author's Notes: I got a lot of positive responses to the last story I published in this fandom, and I'm ready to start publishing this one. It's a fair bit darker, and delves heavily into book continuity. If you're unfamiliar with something, you can probably find it on a wiki or by googling it, but you can also just ask me and I'll do my best to answer. Chapters will be released once a week, on Sunday. I've got nine written so far, which should give me a decent buffer. In the meantime, I welcome your feedback.