It was another day before Jaskier felt well enough to stand and move about the cabin on his own.

He was weak, timid and shaky like a fresh foal, and he lost his breath quickly. But the sharp wrongness in his back and wrist had dissipated, replaced with a dull throb that he could bear easily. And it didn't matter. It was absolutely secondary to his thoughts and confusion and careful planning.

Jaskier hadn't been tended to by Tildan since he'd awoken. He believed that was a blessing. The shaman had spent enough time around him to recognize the shift in his demeanor. Instead, some of the tavern maidens had taken turns bringing him food and checking his bandages, replacing them with shaky hands and watery smiles. He flirted with them as well as he could, bribing extra food and two travelling flasks from the inn's supplies. He hoarded the dried meats and breads safely away in a cloak, and filled the flasks with water from the pitcher that was always present. If anyone noted his excessive appetite or thirst, they likely put it down to recovering from such a fever.

It didn't much matter. The bard was moving with memory he didn't have, hands sure and careful as they wrapped the food in small, tight bundles, protecting it from as much air as he was able. When night fell, he lit the dimmest candle he had and returned to the chest under the table. He sorted the gear on the floor, driven and nearly mindless with the utter routine of it. He took a handful of minutes to quietly unsheathe the shining silver sword and polish it clean, the act oddly profound, full of trust and gratefulness he didn't recognize in himself.

It was only with the hyperaware hearing of someone fearing to be caught that he heard the steps approaching the cabin with heavy deliberateness. Shoving the gear under the bed and hurriedly sliding the candle atop the beside table, he sat with careful movements, wincing slightly at the pull in his back, and waited.

It was only a few seconds, but the mind works fast. And he wondered, shockingly, how he'd managed to get himself in this situation.

Before, anxiety and worry had been nearly choking him on the regular; now there was something cold and shrewd sitting atop those feelings, weighing them down with startling effectiveness. He remembered his life at Oxenfurt University and the darker years that preceded it. He knew he'd spent his fair share of time dodging angry husbands, brothers, nephews and sons. He'd had to successfully duel for his honor and sometimes his life on a number of occasions. He had a particularly memorable scar under his collarbone from his thinnest victory, and he hated the way it ached on cold, damp mornings.

But he had survived because he had been trained, and trained well. His father had seen to that. And though he had the distant understanding that he hadn't used much of that training in maybe decades, there was one thin glimmer of bright lining in the clouds. With his memory snuffed out or torn away or hidden in shadows, there were far fewer years between that training and his mind. Jaskier could remember the feel of steel in his hand, callouses over his palms instead of on his fingers, the smell of the courtyard and the scrape of blunted tips against his leather jerkin.

He didn't know why or even how he was so calm. The absolute terror of the time before his fever seemed to have burned away, the lingering effects brushed out of existence by a ghostly hand on his brow, the temperance of his attitude solidified by the order, the unvarnished plea, to survive, and do so well enough for two.

Jaskier remembered his father's tone when he abdicated his title, the harsh dismissal of his desires and dreams spurring his heels hard into his horse's sides. The words themselves were lost to shuttered pain, but he remembered the absolute, unequivocal disbelief in his success.

Well, here he would succeed. Not for the monst – no, Geralt? – and not for some nearly forgotten specter of his past. No, he would succeed here, if for nothing more than the recovery of his memory and the unravelling of the mystery surrounding him and the creature. Silencing the old criticisms was a minor, wholly pleasing, but unnecessary objective.

There was no warning knock this time, but Jaskier didn't really expect one. The door swung open slowly and loudly, and he didn't have to reach far for the confusion that crossed his face. He expected one of the tavern maids. Maybe even Tildan, if the man was done relegating him to a passing concern only. He didn't look too hard into the fact that his heart leapt and not with terror at the thought that the white-haired warrior would be on the other side of the door.

No, it was Med and Hather. They didn't speak much, only Hather inquiring after the state of his health, and he offered a shoulder that Jaskier gladly used. It would save his strength, and maybe present a different visage to the townsfolk than was truth.

They escorted him along the lighted road to the end of the lane, and he could see that the entire town was turned out for whatever event was forthcoming. Jaskier caught sight of a tall, solid post in the middle of the road, the shackles already hanging from it swaying gently in the night breeze, and he shifted deeper into his doublet. It was an old pillar, dry and stripped of bark, and he had no illusions as to what – or who? – would soon be bound to it.

He was led to Tildan, who was leaning on his yew staff as usual, but there was an energy in his old bones that made Jaskier hesitate in his greeting. If the shaman noted his stumble, he didn't comment on it.

"Child, it gladdens me to see you nearly whole, if not in spirit. I apologize for my absence; there were concerns that had to be tended to," he said calmly, and there didn't seem to be terribly too much apology in his voice. But Jaskier shrugged it away. "I'm sorry, actually, for becoming such a burden. I am truly grateful for the kindness of your people." His words were honest; he would be dead without the villagers, and that was something he wouldn't be able to willingly ignore. Then he asked, "Have you spoke to the monster again? Did it…did it say anything about releasing me? Did it say anything?" The bard knew his true question had shined through clearly: did it seem remorseful for the situation it had placed the man in?

There was open condensation on Tildan's face as he shook his head with a tutting noise, his aged hand carding through Jaskier's hair. The bard felt a tremor shake through him under his skin, and it wasn't pleasant.. "Oh, sweet child, these things are monsters. They don't pity. They don't regret. They don't feel. They spread death and pain. They are harbingers of destruction and chaos. Speaking as a man to them does nothing but get you under thrall and in soul-debt to demons. You must address them in the only language they know."

Jaskier blinked at the coldness in the shaman's voice, so unlike the warmth and gentle help he'd displayed towards the bard so many times, and he unconsciously pulled his jacket sleeve down over the thick bandages on his right wrist.

But he nodded like he understood, even though, if he was honest with himself, he didn't.

Tildan took his acceptance at face value and turned to the rest of those gathered. He raised his staff slightly for silence, and his voice warbled with his years as he spoke.

"My friends, we come together to confront this evil as one person, with one mind. The creature has denied even the most fervent demands to release this young man from its control. During our recourse, I discovered hidden magic in its possessions, glass tubes of dark poisons that would kill any of us in a blink!"

Jaskier felt some strange, hidden part of his mind suddenly and absolutely agree that such a statement was true. He knew it to be so. But he bit his lip and dropped his eyes, keeping his silence. Tildan held up a hand, the shining clear bottle in his fingers nearly glowing in the firelight beside him. He shook it as he spoke, and the bard felt an odd thrill run through him as the red liquid inside seemed to spark and churn of its own will.

"These are the potions that remove the glamour of man from its form! These are the drops that strip its farce from the world! These are the vials that bring the monster to light, in its true and terrible form!" He slammed his staff into the ground, and torches behind him moved, a mass of the menfolk striding quickly into the center of the square to the post.

Children screamed. A woman fainted. Two men turned and heaved into the tall grass behind them.

Jaskier stared.

The monster was being dragged along the road by five chains, one at its collar, one on each limb. Only protected from the cold and muck of the ground by its trousers, its feet slipped in the mud unsteadily. Its pale torso was on vivid display, the scars and marks that the bard had studied almost hidden in the dark coloration of bruises and dried blood that spanned its skin. Its dirty hair had been tied back, the long lengths along the sides of its head shaved away to completely expose its face.

It was terrifying.

Its eyes were of the darkest, blackest pitch, and thin veins of inky blood crossed its white skin like rivers in the earth. Its fangs were on full display due to the unjointed snaffle bit that had been forced behind them, the left canine broken in half but still sharper and longer than a man's. The leather straps that held the bit were pressed firmly against the longest cut on its face. There, and where the shackles dug into its skin, and where some lucky strike had broken the heat seal on its flank, it bled a nauseating, otherworldly mix of black and red.

The menfolk brought it to a quick, hard stop by the post, and it fell to its knees heavily. They shouted at each other and hauled on the chains, immobilizing it without resistance. It was heaving, lines of ribs expanding and contracting in an uneven pattern. It reached for its right arm with its left and both limbs were immediately pulled away. A full shiver coursed down its spine, the muscles in its back flexing, and it dropped its head and vomited past the bit. Something high pitched, something animalistic and agonized, rose from its chest with the act, and it hung against its bindings as it retched again and again.

Jaskier couldn't fight the way his body twisted two different directions at once.

His feet took him a step back, but his right hand raised of its own volition, fingers grasping the air towards the creature. He had the presence of mind to realize he should be grateful that Tildan didn't appear to notice his reaction, but that was where rational thought fled.

This…this was wrong.

Beast or man, monster or human, to willingly place anything in this much pain was wrong.

But he was frozen, held in place by fear and confusion that wasn't easily cowed under his training as a Viscount. The hand that had raised abruptly pressed back to his side, and he felt the itch of new scabs under the bandage. The cool air made an uncomfortable sweat rise on the back of his neck, and he trembled from neck to tailbone. He was distantly aware that the shaman was speaking and waving his staff, and he noted, oddly, that the stone atop it had been replaced. The previous smokey quartz point was gone, and in its place was a dark black hunk of shimmering rock.

The color was so like the monster's blood.

When the men moved again and hauled it against the post, chains and shackles wrapped and clicking into place, it made that keening sound again. It was bound with its arms above its head, elbows slightly bent, its back presented to the town. Jaskier swallowed bile as he realized the scourge he'd seen in the cellar was now in another man's hand. He didn't know this one, didn't recognize him even in passing, but the look on his face was utterly cold and brutal. His long coat and armor were unfamiliar, the strange symbol on the left breast that was half staggered line, half broken eagle proving him an outsider. But his grip around the long scourge was sure, and he didn't seem to hesitate in the face of his duties.

"We've seen this creature, the trueness of its condemned soul, for ourselves," Tildan was saying, Jaskier's hearing suddenly clicking back in place. "Such monstrous features reveal the depths of its evil. Its very existence blasphemes the natural law!" Someone murmured an agreement nearby, but the bard didn't try to identify the man.

When Tildan tilted his staff, and the newcomer raised his arm, Jaskier found he couldn't look away.

The leather lines raised in the air like a snake preparing to strike, and the thick, weighted knots at their ends snapped forward at the punisher's command. The first blow seemed to take the monster by surprise. It stiffened, reared and arched its back, and it tossed its head back with a gasp. The next, it was prepared for. It braced its arms against the post as well as it could, pressed its forehead into the wood, and the trembling in its legs ceased all at once.

The flail fell, repeatedly, unending, and Jaskier found himself moving around the edge of the lighted circle. Each snap of leather on skin felt like an explosion in his ears, and as the sound grew wet and sharp, it stung his mind. The cracking of the scourge was in line with his heartbeat, and his sight wavered as he stepped carefully between villagers. He mindlessly timed his movements to the falling of the leather straps, realizing distantly that everyone gathered in the torchlight was just as gruesomely enraptured as he was.

The overwhelming understanding that there was something more than…than thrall, than spell, than pain and disorder, between him and the creature, it stoked a fury within him he didn't recognize. If this was all for his sake, he didn't want it. Had never wanted it. Would deny to the sky and the earth the spilling of blood in his name. He hadn't been asked his will, not by the shaman or the villagers or anyone involved.

None except the monster seemed to care his thoughts on anything. Even when it had told him to leave, it hadn't actually ordered him to do such. Suggested, firmly stated, advised clearly – sure. But there had been no force. Just a tired consideration for the bard's welfare.

The bard had come all the way around to the other side of the post, the disturbing image of the monster's flayed back hidden from view. But he could see its face, now, or at least part of it. The more injured side had been spared the post, the inflamed wound seeping black blood and yellow pus in nearly equal parts. Hiding a wince, he still couldn't stop his sharp inhalation as he understood, abruptly, just how beaten and weak the creature was.

The sound he made was negligible. It was hidden in the gasps and cries of the people surrounding him, in the swishing crack of leather on blood and skin, in the murmured prayers to deities he didn't know being raised to the heavens.

But still, it was heard.

In the breath of time between one strike and another, it opened its eyes, and unfailingly, immediately fixed the blackened hollows on Jaskier's face. He had the presence of mind to realize that this empty stare didn't afear him as much as the one from the dead deer hanging from the village's entry. But maybe it was because the gaze wasn't entirely empty.

In the depths of those voids, there was a thin ring of gold, sharply pointed, narrowed and focused. That color flashed in the torch light, and the bit in its teeth creaked as it clenched its jaw hard. Abruptly, Jaskier found himself flashing the thing a feral smile of his own. This thing – Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, the holder of his memories – wasn't beaten. Not by a long shot.

"Don't give up, Wolf," he murmured softly, ducking his head to hide the movement of his lips against his palm. The word spilled from his mouth without a thought. "Save your strength. We'll make it through this yet."

He risked a glance back up at the creature, worried he'd spoken too quietly. But there was a strange, faint mix of weary understanding and fierce fondness on its face. It blinked at him once, the edge of its lip easing up in a slight, wild quirk of a something that was either a smile or a grimace. There was some familiarity in the act, and Jaskier swallowed back the rightness and unease the swirled up through his chest.

He remembered the words of the redheaded woman in the depths of his fevered dreams, the assurance that the White Wolf wouldn't bite.

Jaskier darkly hoped it would devour their enemies, though.

He wasn't surprised to be left on the post.

None wanted to come near his toxic blood, not without glove or gauntlet, and they weren't willing to sully their gear with his life fluid. It was far easier to test his chains with rough hands, tighten the bit in his mouth to cutting, and return to their warm homes without fear of his escape. The post was sunk deep into the ground and the bindings were firm and there was little he could do against any of it for the moment. It didn't matter to them that he had vomited and bled enough of the potions for his eyes to return to their usual gold, outer edges blood-red from busted vessels, or that his skin had grown slightly more tan and warm. They had refused to even acknowledge it and instead had left him to the forced solitude of his open prison. At least, left alone, he was able to sort through his agony and worry and the number of other unfamiliar emotions that had bubbled up through him.

But the fear and stress that had poured through him as they forced potions down his throat was absent.

There had been a long minute, a hard and terrifying moment, between his skin paling and his eyes darkening, that he'd worried they'd take the last one and tip it into his mouth as well. He had seen the other two decoctions only briefly – Thunderbolt and Noonwraith – and the third he'd left in his pack was Swallow. Healing tonic though it was, it would kill him if given atop the other two. That had been an agonizing wait as he was wrestled to the ground and the effects were observed. If the shaman hadn't been satisfied by his changed appearance, he likely would've unwittingly ordered his death.

As it was, the visage he'd presented to the town had apparently been monstrous enough.

Resting his forehead on the post, he kept his knees locked and relished the dimmed sensation caused by the strangled blood flow. It eased the agony in his back and side, nearly numbed the constant ache in his arm, and quieted the loud pain on his face to whispers. While not a long-term solution, it was all he could do for himself for the moment.

It also gave him time to think about the strange interaction he'd had with Jaskier during his flogging.

He hadn't doubted Triss when she'd said the bard had remembered enough to realize the danger he faced. He wondered if she had something to do with that, if she had influenced his dreams or pushed thoughts into his head. But Triss was not an oneiromancer, and though he'd felt the telltale tingle of Yennefer's magic in the communication, proving the more powerful sorceress had been involved in reaching him, he doubted she had done so, either. How the bard had broken through the stranglehold on his memories, Geralt didn't know. Perhaps from the dimeritium still choking his own system – maybe it was weakening the overall constriction on his mind. Maybe from the natural miracle of the human body, how it managed to overcome even the most trying of injuries in some cases. Maybe whatever strangeness in Jaskier that gave him his long life was breaking the rebound spell.

Whatever the cause, he had been drowning beneath the cheers and screams and his own thrumming nerves, and the bard's soft gasp had been a lifeline he hadn't known he could grab. Years to listening to the man sing and hum and talk – gods, he could talk a chort to death – made him overly sensitive to his particular voice, and he'd picked it out of the crowd easily. When he'd opened his charcoal eyes and Jaskier had been staring right at him, the bard hadn't flinched, hadn't moved, and his face had been…well, yes, disgusted and terrified and horrified. But it was clear that the emotions hadn't been towards Geralt the monster but towards the townspeople around him.

That had been unexpected.

Even though an escape plan was still questionably stable in his mind, Geralt had never considered that the bard would willingly come with him. Instead, he'd figured he would arrive at the point of driving the man away from the town by word or deed, or he'd have to practically kidnap him into the wilds. After Triss' visit, that concern had dwindled but still remained present. After all, the shaman had spent a significant amount of time and effort putting misinformation in the younger man's head. Even though he'd tried to combat what he could of the falsehoods, Geralt knew his attempts had fallen short. He was a weapon, an accurate and lethal instrument against darkness. He had no skill or talent for speech.

But maybe, Jaskier did indeed remember enough to where he didn't need speech.

Over their travels, Geralt's rigid soul had been deliberately but inexorably eased open. It had taken years, and fights, and wounds and fevered dreams where whispered terrors spilled from his cracked lips. It had taken harsh words and stumbled apologies, ageless eyes crinkling under brown curls or white locks, fanged and fangless smiles and smirks revealing what couldn't or wouldn't be said. It had taken one delicate person looking at him, black-eyed from potions and unchanging after a century, and calling him human in both words and actions. It had taken twenty years of the lack of the smell of fear on the bard for Geralt to start to believe it, even if only by a bit.

So maybe that was what Jaskier was remembering.

He didn't know, and he couldn't puzzle it out in his pounding head. The Noonwraith decoction had removed most of the confusion and fuzziness from his concussion but had done nothing for the pain itself. The Thunderbolt potion had given him nearly enough strength to dent the steel in his mouth between his teeth. He would trade both of them for one sip of the Swallow that the shaman had raised like a flag. The wrongness in his side and behind his ribs had grown, stealing anything more than a shallow breath from his lungs. His arm had been twisted and wrenched so many times in so many directions that it was a constant source of white agony against the muddled canvas of his body's hurts. The slice on his face pounded in time with the feel of his heightened pulse in his back. Small burns from the forest's fire shot little shivers of pain whenever he moved. There was little he could do about any of it except pray that his friend wouldn't suffer the same fate. Worse, even.

And then, abruptly, the bard was there.

He'd come up beside Geralt with quiet steps and held breath, moving in time to the distant laughter echoing from the lit tavern. There was a thickness about his body that spoke of unmeasured armor, and a long, thin glint of metal was slung low around his waist.

He wasn't alone.

Geralt blinked hard, trying to verify the sight before him, and his eyes widened even against the swelling in his face.

Jaskier had Tildan in front of him, a familiar dagger sure in his hand where it was pressed firmly against the shaman's exposed throat. The elder was silent and seething, his eyes flashing in the dim light spilling from the dying torches, and his hands were empty.

"Key, old man," the bard hissed quietly, the edge of the blade shifting slightly, and Tildan didn't move. "You foolish child, I will not release him!"

His voice was brought low by the pressure of the blade, and the shaman glared at Geralt with hatred. "You chose instead to raise the thralldom to full force, beast? You could not escape otherwise? How pathetic," he spat, and the Witcher shook his head slowly against the post, unable to respond.

But whatever was driving Jaskier, it was angry and violent. A trickle of blood slipped down the wrinkled skin below the dagger, and he whispered harshly, "You do not speak to it. You've spoken enough for the both of us, Tildan. Produce the key or I will show you exactly what this monster's travelling companion can do to a human."

He tried not to, but Geralt still flinched at the words. There was no warmth in them, no gentleness, and he knew that what he had seen and heard during the flogging was nothing more than a trick of light and his desires.

But then the younger man looked at him for the first time since his unannounced arrival, and there was something desperate in his gaze. It begged him silently, though for what Geralt didn't know. But he'd never been one to deny anything of the bard, so he shifted enough to relax his stance, and he nodded slightly. Apparently satisfied, Jaskier turned his attention to the shaman, who had finally moved one hand slowly to his robe. He palmed the key placed there and held it up, mouth already going again.

"You are losing your one chance at freedom, child. This creature will have you at its beck and call for the rest of your days should you leave with it."

Geralt wanted to deny that, wanted to explain the shaman's true intent for the bard, but the bit in his mouth prevented him from doing more than stiffening in disagreement. Jaskier didn't seem to care about the man's words, nonetheless, and he simply swiped the proffered key and started to work at the Witcher's left manacle one-handed. The other held the dagger still and sure at the old man's throat, and nothing changed until the creaking metal finally gave way.

As his arm dropped, numb and nearly boneless from muscle spasms and gravity, Geralt saw the tells for the movement before it happened. And as Tildan spun and a dark blade appeared in his hand, he lunged towards the two as much as he was able and grabbed the shaman's robe with a stuttering grip. It was enough, though, to haul him back toward the post bodily and press his whole form against the trembling man. Tildan was pinned between the rough wood and Geralt's considerable weight, the two of them facing each other. The black dagger he held was clenched tightly, and his fingers were ground into the hilt with Geralt's own grip. The blade was dangerously angled, the tip just an inch away from the Witcher's damaged flank, but it was unmoving.

Jaskier inhaled sharply at the flurry of movement, but didn't waste anymore time. With the shaman controlled, he immediately reached for the second binding. There was still metal encircling Geralt's biceps and ankles, as well as his throat, but they were untethered. He left them alone for the moment. Hissing as his right arm fell free without support, Geralt didn't move from his position, choosing instead to stay where he was, letting his golden eyes burn into the shaman's, all manner of death and pain he could imagine swimming in his gaze.

Lithe fingers moved across the back of his head, and he managed to constrain the automatic recoil. Moments later, the leather holding the bit was loosened, and his jaw ached like nothing he'd felt before as he worked to push it from his mouth. But those fingers moved again, this time where he could see them, and they eased the metal from behind his teeth. He couldn't help the low groan that crossed his lips as he tried and failed to work the overall twinging from the hinges of his bones.

"Easy, Wolf," the bard murmured quietly, and Geralt exhaled silently with relief. He could hear the familiarity in Jaskier, even though it didn't present itself in any way but his tone. So he locked his knees again, put as much strength as he could into the hand restraining the dagger, and forced himself to delve into the well of energy the Thunderbolt had provided.

As he did, the bloody whites of his eyes turned an odd grey color, though didn't go fully black, and his skin paled as his heart slowed. "You've a plan?" he growled, refusing to turn his attention from the shaman in case he had another weapon. Tildan glowered, unusually silent, and Jaskier's answer was sharper than he expected.

"In a moment," he bit out, and his hands moved quickly and surely in the tight space between the wood and the shaman. Within a minute, he had divested Tildan of his blade and strung him up in the same bindings he'd released Geralt from. Without hesitation, he also wrestled the unjointed snaffle bit into place, forcing the metal into the old man's mouth, not bothering to wipe the bloody saliva and acid from it. He wrenched the leather tightly, as tight as it had been on the Witcher's face, and blood flowed freely from the corners of his lips.

All this, Geralt watched with distant shock. He swayed on jelly limbs two feet away, but it felt like the entirety of the Continent separated him and his bard. The level of savage movement in Jaskier's hands was…uncomfortable to witness. The other man had never shown this level of violence or grudge, not even upon Geralt himself during his more trying, emotionally-repressed days. But here he was, forcing an elderly man into tight bindings, drawing blood, his gaze sharp and full of rage.

The shame from before rose within him again, nearly sweeping aside his tenuous hold on consciousness, and Geralt swallowed a whine. This was his fault. All of it.

The shaman was trussed and silent, though not comfortably in any measure, and Jaskier took a step back, his shoulders finally slumping as he slid his silver dagger into his belt. He glanced at Geralt for a moment before turning his attention back to the elder.

"We will not kill you, Tildan," Jaskier finally said lowly, and his voice was deadly calm. "You and your town saved my life, and many of you were kind." He touched the hilt of his rapier like a reminder, but then he shook his head.

"But your treatment of the Wolf has removed any chance of mercy from me." His words were darker than the night they stood within. "I promise you this: I will gut you in song. I will damn you with every word I've ever learned. I will slaughter the footprint of your forefathers so fully that none will dare come near you again."

He paused, scowled, and then leaned forward slightly. "And if you ever raise a hand to another being, human or otherwise, as you've done to the Wolf, as you no doubt planned to do to me, I will bring the entirety of the evil you believe lies upon me to your doorstep."

Tildan blinked, eyes wide, and he shook his head and grumbled and grunted something unintelligible through the metal in his mouth. But Jaskier just shrugged and murmured, "I'm sorry, old man. But you're making no sense. You sound…like an animal."

Then he twisted towards Geralt, his face stern and focused but seasons warmer than it had been, and he gestured in the direction of the main gate. "After you, Wolf." The fact that neither hand drifted towards the dagger or thin sword at his side as he spoke made something old and abused thaw in Geralt's chest. It made his throat tighten beneath the dimeritium collar, and robbed even the barest ability to speak. So he inclined his head slightly and turned.

His feet nearly immediately went out from under him, and the bard was suddenly there, bracing him with both arms. Vision going white, black stars bursting against the nothingness, Geralt couldn't find the voice to cry out at the pressure on his wounds. He could feel the press of armor and metal against his skin, and he shivered at the sensation. Above his own ragged breathing, he could hear Jaskier's rapid heartbeat.

Above that, voices. Close, confused, angry.

And then someone screamed.

End Chapter 7