Thank you again for the support! Means a lot :)

"On your right!"

Ciri wobbled on one leg when Geralt called out to her. She stood on a stone peg that came up to Geralt's waist as she tried to maneuver around a large, swinging pendulum.

The heavy bag of hay nearly brushed her side as she regained her balance. Ciri locked her ankle and ducked when the pendulum swung toward her once again. This time, a wide girth of space stood between the bag and her body.

"Keep moving!" Geralt called out to her.

Ciri looked up at the pendulum as it slowed before swinging back down again. She hopped over to the second-to-last peg and arched her back just enough so that her body bent out of the pendulum's way. Her foot had only touched the peg for a moment before she turned around, taking off running over the pegs again and swerving out of the pendulum's path.

"She's getting good," Jaskier said from beside him. The bard had come outside to watch Ciri train not long after they had finished lunch.

"She'll need to have quicker reflexes before she moves on," Geralt grunted.

Jaskier's eyes widened. "You don't mean that she'll move on to the other, incredibly more scary pendulum, right? That girl isn't allowed anywhere near that deathtrap so long as I-"

"Blindfold," Geralt said. Jaskier went silent for a moment.

"Blindfolded? Are you out of your fucking mind? You want Ciri to dive out of the way of a spiked pendulum that could send her a thousand feet off the side of a mountain blindfolded?"

Geralt looked away from watching Ciri to give the bard something between a confused gaze and a glare.

"The next step in her training is for her to use a blindfold. Here," Geralt explained.

Jaskier seemed to settle at this. "Oh. Well, that's not too dangerous, I suppose."

Geralt shook his head once they had both turned back to watch Ciri, who was running over the pegs without pause even when the bag of hay came uncomfortably close to her side. The girl was a fast learner, Geralt noted. She listened to every instruction and piece of advice he shared, and worked hard to perfect whatever lesson he threw at her.

But they had only been at Kaer Morher for a few weeks. While she was progressing in her training quicker than he expected her to, she still wasn't anywhere near ready for the real pendulum yet. The one she was using now was an easier, safer version witchers had used to train their youngest recruits on when they first arrived at Kaer Morhen.

Geralt wasn't sure how long it would take for her to be ready for the dangerous equipment he and his brothers used to keep in shape. Or how long it would take for him to come around to the idea himself.

"Come down, Ciri."

The girl looked down at him with several strands of her ashen hair sticking to her damp forehead, despite the cold chill in the air. She hopped off a peg that was slightly crooked with age and landed in front of Geralt with a light thud on the packed snow and cold stone.

"Better?" she asked through tired breaths. He nodded.

"You're getting faster. And more agile," he started. "But you need to be weary of your left side. You react slower when the pendulum comes at you from that direction."

Her face was red and wet with small trails of sweat (she had been running the pegs for nearly three-quarters of an hour, after all) but she still took her cloak from Jaskier and wrapped it around her as if she had spent the afternoon stuck in an icy storm.

"Did I stumble as much as yesterday?" she asked as she pulled the heavy fabric tighter around her. Geralt inwardly frowned. She had kept herself wrapped in a cloak almost every minute she wasn't training for the last few weeks, even when they sat in the great hall at dinner or relaxed in an old study and traded stories from their travels with Jaskier and the other witchers.

"No. You seemed more sure on your feet," Geralt said. Ciri smiled widely, even if her teeth did chatter slightly. Jaskier swooped in and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her against him. Geralt felt a small feeling of relief spread through him when she seemed to shake less with Jaskier blocking most of the cold breezes from hitting her side.

"I thought you were absolutely marvelous, dear! You dodged that bag of hay as if it were a regular foe," he grinned.

"A regular foe would have a sword," Ciri said, looking up at Geralt. That was another thing he had noticed recently; her frequent hints at wanting to use a weapon.

"Hmm," Geralt grunted in agreement. "Though that foe could have been a striga. Those kill quicker than any man with a blade."

"Or woman," she added with a slight tilt of her chin. Geralt felt his mouth quirk into a small smile.

"Or woman."

He heard footsteps crunch near the far wall of the courtyard. Vesemir's unmistakable scent of smoke, pine and old paper reached his nose shortly after.

"You'd better hurry inside before Vesemir finds that you're late for your lesson," he said.

"Can we train more after supper?" she asked.

"It will be dark then, Ciri," Jaskier added, looking down at her.

"Geralt trains at night with Eskel and Lambert all the time. Besides, if I'm learning to fight in the day, I should grow comfortable doing it in the dark. Vesemir said most monsters hunt at night," Ciri said. "Human and beast alike."

Geralt was quiet as he thought over her words. "We'll see. Go inside before Vesemir finds you. He's about to round the corner."

"But he can probably already sense that I'm here."

"Better run fast then."

Ciri huffed and pulled away from Jaskier. She quickly ran toward the keep's large front door and slipped inside just before Vesemir appeared from behind a stone wall.

"Keeping Ciri late again?" Vesemir said as he approached them.

"She'll be in your study when you get there," Geralt said.

"She'd better. The girl was nearly late twice last week. Once because of you and once because this one decided to torment the pigs," he said, gesturing to Jaskier.

"We were just feeding them," Jasier said.

"You don't need to ride the fattest hog's back to do that, bard."

Jaskier shifted on his feet. "I was just showing Ciri a trick."

"Hmm. A very necessary one, too, I'm sure," Vesemir shook his head. He looked over at Geralt. "Did you help Eskel fix the fence in the gardens? I saw a gnome eyeing the gate again this morning. Don't want the fuckers ruining the last of my winter squash."

"Finished this morning."

Vesemir nodded. "Sounds like you have some free time on your hands then. I heard Eskel and Lambert bickering over Gwent earlier. You and the bard should join them. Lambert could use a proper beating - something tells me this one could give it to him," the old witcher nodded toward Jaskier, earning him a smile from the bard.

"That's a proper assumption, indeed," Jaskier grinned.

Geralt didn't disagree. If there was one thing Jaskier was good at other than singing and thoroughly talking someone's ear off, it was any kind of game or gamble.

"I'll watch later. I need to head down to the old armory," he said. Vesemir stood up straighter, his face and shoulders growing just the slightest bit more tense. Geralt didn't blame him. He had felt a similar sense of unease crawling in his gut since he woke up this morning.

"You think she's ready for a sword?"

"Not quite. Just wanted to get it out of the way," Geralt said, taking a deep breath that was barely noticeable.

"Well, while you do that, I'll be whipping Lambert's ego into dust," Jaskier smiled and clapped a hand on Geralt's shoulder as he started to walk toward the keep. Neither of the witchers spoke until he was a few yards away.

"When was the last time you were down there?" Vesemir asked. Geralt didn't meet his eye, instead choosing to stare at the treeline.

"You can guess when."

They stayed quiet for a long moment. The sound of birds and the breeze swaying in the bare trees filled the space between them until Vesemir spoke again.

"I'd give you some metal to forge one if we had any to spare. Eskel was supposed to buy more on his way here but was chased out of Waeken before he could. Those bastards never liked witchers."

"It's fine. Won't take long," Geralt said.

"Hmm," Vesemir grunted. "I'll see you at supper then."

The older witcher nodded and headed inside. Geralt's eyes roamed around the bright courtyard. The cold breeze brushed against his cheeks and made the last of the tall grasses that hadn't been covered in snow sway toward the mountains.

He didn't linger long, not wanting to push off his task anymore than he already had. He quickly made his way back inside the keep and stalked down its long hallways. Each one became more decrepit, dark and cold than the last. His breaths were coming out in puffs of white clouds by the time he descended down a dark stone staircase that was so thick with dust and dirt that it crunched under his boots with each step.

Geralt's eyesight adjusted to the darkness soon enough. The musty dampness of the keep's lower level filled his nose, and the sounds of mice and other small creatures scurrying across the floors that hadn't been covered with caved-in stone and debris rang in his ears.

He stepped forward and pulled open a rotted wooden door. Burying any hesitation deep into his gut, Geralt pressed forward and walked through the room with large strides.

He kept his eyes focused on the second door ahead of him, not wanting to see the small armor that was strewn about the floor or leaning against the walls. He especially didn't want to see the even smaller skeletons still resting inside them.

Vesemir said it would be wrong to move the bodies after the Sacking of Kaer Morhen. The boys had stood their ground and fought even after the elders sent them to the basement for protection. Geralt never knew any of them; he had been on the Path for years without pause when the mages attacked Kaer Morhen and nearly wiped out his school - the closest thing to family he had since his mother abandoned him as a boy.

Part of Geralt's stomach still rolled with unease when he thought about that night. He had been resting in a tavern in Kaedwen when a group of soldiers wandered in with the news. Never before had he ridden Roach so hard and so fast as he did on his way back to Kaer Morhen after the soldiers told the innkeep of how the mages and a mob of hateful fanatics had slaughtered the witchers and destroyed the keep.

The soldiers weren't entirely right, in the end. Most of the keep was still standing when Geralt arrived not three days after the attack. But the bodies of graying witchers and boys almost old enough to leave for the Path were rotting in Kaer Morhen's courtyard and battlements like soldiers who had fallen in battle. The stench of their slaughtered bodies reached him even before he arrived at the keep's battered gates.

He still remembered how the crows and vultures circled their corpses before pecking off chunks of their pale, bloodied skin. He remembered seeing Vesemir's broken face when he walked into the courtyard. The older witcher had muttered something about how he had traveled down to a village for supplies the night before the attack. He told Geralt he didn't know what had happened until he arrived back at the keep with bundles of metal he planned to use to make swords for the new boys who had just arrived.

It was the only time Geralt had seen Vesemir look like anything other than the stoic witcher he was raised by. That day, he seemed as if his mind was a thousand miles away from his body. Geralt hadn't felt much different.

Looking upon his friends as they lay in pools of their own blood was bad enough. But Geralt had never felt his body go as numb as it did when they found the slaughtered remains of small boys in the lower level of the keep.

It was clear the boys had tried to fight against whoever had brutally cut them down. The short hilts of small swords were still pressed against the palms of their limp hands when Vesemir and Geralt walked by their bodies. He could tell they had hastily tied on armor as a desperate attempt for protection by the way chunked knots of string held together their too-large breast plates.

Many of them hadn't been much older than Geralt was when he had first arrived at Kaer Morhen. They weren't even close to becoming witchers. And yet they were still killed all the same.

Geralt yanked open the door at the end of the room and closed it with a soft click. He looked around at the rows of small weapons on top of the tables that lined the room's walls.

Geralt didn't know why the witchers had kept the children-sized equipment down here exactly. He guessed it had something to do with keeping dangerous weapons that weren't too heavy for the boys to wield out of their reach when they weren't training. Melitele knew how often Geralt longed to sneak away from his chores to practice with a blade as a boy.

The corner of his mouth turned upwards into a sad smile when he noticed a certain sword sitting in the corner. It had a litter of dents in its dull metal blade; many of which were put there by his own sword when he trained with its owner as children.

Geralt and Fredrik practiced fighting after they finished whatever tasks or school work they were assigned nearly every day, once Vesemir deemed them old enough to keep their weapons with them. The red-headed boy often tried to get Geralt to sneak away from their lessons or disregard their chores. It was no surprise Fredrik had gotten more scoldings from Vesemir than anyone else Geralt grew up with. The boy was known for wandering about the keep with a mischievous glint in his eye.

A slightly larger sword leaned against the wall across from Fredrik's blade. This one had far fewer dents and scratches on it. Partly because Antoni usually knocked the other boys down before they could get any good blows in against the blade, and partly because the blonde Redanian had cared for and cleaned it religiously.

Geralt and Fredrik had teased him about it often. But Antoni never minded. Vesemir always praised him for the attention he showed his sword, while Geralt most often got a light cuff to the side of his head for leaving his own about the courtyard after they were done training for the day.

Faint memories of exploring the keep or sneaking into each other's rooms to play knuckle bones after curfew started to drift into Geralt's mind. He hadn't thought about his old friends in years. Or had tried not to, at least. Both boys were Geralt's closest companions growing up. And both had perished during their trials.

Geralt didn't look around at the other blades. He didn't know who most of them once belonged to, but it didn't matter. They were down here for one of two reasons; either the boys who owned them had outgrown them or never lived long enough to need a bigger blade.

He stepped forward when he saw the weapon he was looking for. It was somewhat dented but still in good shape, and looked to be about the right size for Ciri, if a bit bigger than what she might be ready for. He gently picked it up and ran his fingers over the cool blade.

The first time he held it was shortly after his 12th birthday. It was the first silver sword Vesemir had given him, and he cared for it just as religiously as Antoni had with his blades. Silver swords were the most important tools witchers had, other than their own knowledge and senses, after all. And they were often the difference between life and death when it came to battling monsters.

Another sword next to where it had rested on the table looked like it might be better suited to someone of Ciri's size and stature, but Geralt couldn't bring himself to choose it for her instead. Or any of the others. It would feel too much like he was desecrating a grave if he did.

Geralt slid the weapon into his belt and grabbed a small wooden practice sword from a pile of them in the corner before leaving the room and going back inside the makeshift crypt. He kept his gaze fixed straight ahead as he once again walked passed the dozen or so small skeletons at his feet, and did his best to ignore the nagging thought that some of them weren't much smaller than Ciri.

Cahir's boots pressed into the snowy ground with a resounding crunch each time he stepped forward.

Dim light from torches that had been unceremoniously shoved into the frozen ground flickered against the right side of his face as he stalked through the rows of soldiers. The hem of his oil-black cloak was coated with a frosting of snow and ice, and large clumps of snowflakes stuck to his greasy hair.

Cahir stared impassively at the soldiers as he moved by them. He had done his best to mold them into the unflinching soldiers he needed them to be, but many still shook so hard that it sounded as if their ribs knocked together each time the howling wind brushed over them.

There was a time in his life where he wouldn't have faulted them for this. Many of his men had been little more than southern boys who had never known a brutal winter storm, or had never even seen snow before they trekked north as Nilfgaardian soldiers.

He remembered the first freezing night he had spent as a soldier sleeping in a thin cloth tent that barely kept out the snow, let alone shrieking winds. His limbs had been so chilled that it felt almost impossible to move them enough to march closer to the battlefield with his fellow soldiers the next morning. He had feared his shoulders would be too busy shaking from the cold to help lift his arms high enough to swing a sword.

He was a different man then. Rather, a naive boy who didn't know how to knock down fear and discomfort when it threatened to stand in the way of his duty.

"Stand taller!" he barked. The sound of metal grating against metal rang through the air as the soldiers around him straightened up their stance.

"The emperor would be ashamed to see his men buckle under something as trivial as a winter storm," he continued, calling out over the winds. "So tell me, if an army as impenetrable and unprecedented as our own could defeat one of the greatest kingdoms to have ever ruled on this continent, why can't we last three days in a bit of cold without men deserting our ranks? Dishonoring our ruler?"

Cahir turned and pointed at three spikes that stood at the front of his troops. A bloodied, frostbitten head had been jammed through the sharp top of each one.

The men the heads once belonged to had been found camping deep inside the nearby forest with two week's worth of rations they had stolen from the army's cooks. Cahir had joined a group of scouts to help find them once one a patrolman reported seeing them run into the brush with bundles in their arms early this morning.

Tracking them down took up the majority of his day, but that was alright. It was important that he made example of them; showed his men what would happen if they turned their back on their empire when it needed them most.

He craned his head to his left when the sound of someone running toward him reached his ears. A skinny, short soldier stopped beside him.

"Mistress Fringilla said it's ready, Sir," the boy said through heavy breaths. Cahir felt his heart start to pound faster in his chest.

"Keep them here until the last flake has fallen," Cahir said to one of his generals. "They'll need to learn to weather this storm if they hope to beat the next."

He continued through the row of men and quickly walked toward an unsuspecting tent in the middle of the camp. He pushed open its gray flap to reveal a large, intricate laboratory filled with potions, herbs, and a warm mist wafting from a dark cauldron in the middle of the room. A woman in silver robes stood beside it.

"You've finished?" he asked, the reflection of the room's candles glimmering in his cold eyes.

Fringilla scooped up a ladle-full of milky liquid from the cauldron and poured it into a vile.

"Take a look for yourself," she said, holding it out to him.

He took the vile from her hand and stared at the contents inside. A pale blonde hair swirled in the liquid when he held the vile up to a light.

"I would have finished the potion much sooner if our source had collected the final ingredient more swiftly."

"Don't fault him. It can be difficult to come across wolfsbane in winter. Especially during a full moon," Cahir said.

"Mousesack likely would have had some we could have taken, had the men not burned his stores. He was always a fanatic when it came to the supernatural," Fringilla drawled.

"That explains why he stayed in Cintra to help raise a child as unique and otherworldly as Cirilla," Cahir said, still looking at the vile. "Have you found her location yet?"

"No. I thought you should be here," the mage said with a hint of a smile. Cahir nodded.

Fringilla took back the vile and held it in front of her. She closed her eyes and waved a hand over its open top.

"Ujawnij miejsce tych, których nie widać," the mage said, her voice soft enough to almost sound like a gentle hum. "Połącz ich ponownie z ich losem."

The vile in her hand began to glow as she spoke the last word. Her eyes fluttered opened and she stared at vile, the liquid's white light shining bright in her round, dark pupils.

After a long moment, the brightness faded away and the flames of pale candles once again became the room's only source of light. Fringilla corked the vile and set it down on her work bench.

"The princess is in a keep hidden deep within the mountains of Kaedwen," she said. "The pass that leads to it starts near the Gwenllech river."

Cahir felt a small smile form on his thin lips and he turned to leave. "I'll tell the generals to ready the men. We'll leave at dawn."

"The pass is long and treacherous. Nearly 50 feet of snow will fill its trails by the time we reach it, and ten more would fall on our soldiers before they reached the keep," Fringilla said.

"You could remove it with your magic."

"Not before half our forces froze from the cold. Even the witchers avoid the mountainside in the dead of winter, fearful of the brutal storms that whip against it."

Cahir paused. "Where is Cirilla exactly?"

"She's hidden at Kaer Morhen, the home to the witcher school of the wolf," Fringilla said. "A dangerous place, if we aren't properly prepared."

"What's a few witchers compared to our 40,000 men?" he shrugged.

"The mountainside is hardly suited for soldiers when it isn't thick with ice, snow and horrid storms," the mage said. "If our lord hopes to keep the most impressive army this continent has ever seen in tact, I advise we wait until after the trail thaws."

Cahir walked over to the table and picked up the vile. He stared at the long, ashen hair inside of it once more.

"And if this delay keeps us from our fate for too long, we won't have an army to preserve," he said.

"Waiting a season won't make any difference. We have some time on our side, even if it doesn't seem to be much," Fringilla said. She stepped forward and placed a cold hand on Cahir's armored shoulder. "It is vital that our forces be strong both in body and in number by the time the Wild Hunt arrives. Otherwise, our work will waste away to nothing before our eyes."

Cahir continued to stare at the vile as he mulled over the mage's words.

"He won't be pleased to hear of a delay," he started, setting down the glass container on the wooden table with a soft clink. "But if what you saw is correct, we have no choice but to wait."

Fringilla nodded. "I'll send word back to court."

The mage dipped her head once more before she stepped forward and disappeared through the tent's thin flap. Cahir didn't bother to follow her right away.

The sound of the potion bubbling as it continued to brew over crackling flames filled the room. But instead of allowing himself to focus on the white noise coming from the cauldron and the storm as it whipped against the tent - allowing himself a moment to regroup after his task changed yet again - his mind was already busy planning for the battles ahead.