"Can you pass me a spoon, dear? One of the big ones."

Ciri handed Jaskier the utensil with her hand that wasn't kneading dough. Or trying to, at least. The thin, sticky substance wasn't doing too well at doing anything other than deflating into a puddle of goop instead of rolling into a thick loaf that would be baked for breakfast the next morning.

Ciri leaned over and peered into the pot, basking in the warmth of the flames that brushed over her chilled body. She hadn't been able to shake said chill in weeks.

If she wasn't wrapped in her cloak, a shawl was draped over her shoulders when she wasn't training or busy doing chores. And if she wasn't nestled deep under her bed covers as flames lapped against the inside of her hearth, it was nearly impossible to ignore the chills completely, even if she was able to keep herself from shivering.

She wasn't used to the harsh cold of the mountains, but didn't think much of it. She figured it took every new recruit at least some time to adjust to the beating winds and bitter temperatures that came with living at Kaer Morhen.

Several bubbles slowly expanded before they popped through a green film that covered the top of the stew. She looked over at Jaskier with a raised brow.

"Did you make this right?"

"I'm sure of it. Smells good," he said, putting his head closer to the stew and inhaling deeply. His eyes widened and he blinked a few times. "More or less."

Jaskier stared at the pot in silence for a few seconds. His fingers tapped on the table and Ciri could tell he was biting down on the inside of his cheek. Without a word, he grabbed the pitcher of milk that sat near the edge of the table and poured some of it into the pot. Ciri quickly grabbed his wrist to stop him from adding more.

"Geralt said too much milk would spoil it," she said.

"Geralt hardly has a leg to stand on when it comes to cooking. Do you know how many times I had to suffer through the sickly vermin he caught and roasted on the road?" the bard gently pulled his hand from her grasp and continued pouring in the milk until the stew neared the brim of the large pot. "I'll never forget when he decided to try to season a particularly plump pair of charred rabbits for the first time. The damn witcher gave me a whole bundle of thyme to chew on, instead of cutting the leaves up like a sane person. The roots even still had dirt on them!"

Ciri giggled. "It's nice that he tried. Even witchers must get sick of plain, tough meat."

"Probably had something to do with the witch being there," he muttered. "He always tried to impress that cranky bitch."

She looked up at Jaskier while he kept stirring the stew. She wondered if the witch he meant might be the same mage whose name had been tucked away in the back of her mind since she had found Geralt. She was about to pry for more information when something ignited over the other side of the fire.

"Jaskier-"

"Shit!" he nudged Ciri out of the way. He used the bottom of his heavy apron, which had been stained with just about every ingredient they had used so far, to pick up the pan that held a now flaming hunk of deer meat. Ciri grabbed a pitcher of water and doused the meat with it after Jaskier dropped the pan on the table with a loud clang.

"For fuck's sake," he sighed and put his hands on his hips. He quickly lifted one again to point a finger at Ciri. "You didn't hear that."

She rolled her eyes before looking down at the black meat. How it had burnt so quickly, she wasn't sure.

"I'm proposing a new rule tonight. Eskel isn't allowed to go hunting with the others unless dinner is already prepared beforehand. Melitele knows he's the only one around here with a decent aptitude for making meals. Why they thought we could cook - really cook - is beyond me."

"Is the deer ruined?" Ciri asked.

Jaskier picked up a forked and poked it. "Hopefully not. We'll have to eat it either way, I suppose. They'll be back soon and want dinner right away. I would be lying if I said it isn't fun to poke at Lambert, but I don't dare do it when he's hungry after a hunt."

Ciri nodded. Lambert, Geralt, and Eskel had left just before dawn for a day-long hunt. Geralt said they needed more meat for the winter, but with the storehouse packed with skinned deer carcuses and hunks of frozen meat, she assumed it was more of a chance for the witchers to catch up with each other after spending at least several seasons apart. Or more, in Geralt's case.

Vesemir had yet to come out of his study all day, leaving Ciri and Jaskier with nothing to do for the first time since they arrived. They had taken advantage of their rare day off from chores and training, first exploring parts of the grounds they had yet to wander into (while still staying near the keep's many walls) before settling into the library for the afternoon to read books and listen to the sweet sound of Jaskier strumming his lute.

Ciri had enjoyed lounging about the keep and relaxing - truly relaxing - for the first time since they had arrived. But part of her longed to join Geralt and the others. If she was training to be like a witcher, she wanted to see just how they moved, stalked, and killed their targets in real life.

"Do you think Geralt will let me hunt with him?"

"Maybe someday. While you're progressing beautifully on that mini deathtrap-"

"-pendulum."

"-deathtrap," Jaskier repeated. "I think cooking this deer is the closest thing you'll get to hunting one for a bit longer."

Ciri frowned as she kept kneading the dough. The worked in silence for the next few minutes, with Jaskier cutting bits of carrots and dropping them in the stew while Ciri worked away at the sticky mess in her hands. No matter how hard she tried to shape it, the dough wouldn't do what she wanted it to.

"This isn't looking the way Eskel said it would," she huffed. "I think I need to start over."

"Nonsense. I may not be a master chef, but I know better than to give up on a dish and waste good ingredients. You have the base of what you need here already," he said, taking the dough from her hands. "You just need to give it a little more of what will help make it stick together and rise," he took a handful of flour and dropped it on the dough.

Jaskier rolled the dough onto itself and pressed his palms into it to mix in the white powder. After repeating the motion a few times, it finally seemed like the dough could be properly shaped. He handed it back to her with a grin.

"See? Perseverance: an important trait. Not that I need to tell you that."

Jaskier turned away just in time to miss Ciri's smile. She kneaded the dough together several times more before she picked it up again and plopped it into a pan.

"This is shite," Lambert sputtered, dropping his spoon down on the table with a clang.

"It's not that bad," Eskel said, taking another bite. He didn't wince like Lambert did, but he didn't dip his spoon back into the bowl for more right away, either.

Geralt put his first spoonful to his lips. He knew it was all wrong before he even put it in his mouth - he could smell how sour it was as soon as the bard put the pot on the table. He turned to look at Jaskier, who was sitting across from him, once he had finished swallowing the chunky, greenish broth.

"You added too much milk."

Jaskier rolled his eyes. Ciri crossed her arms.

"Told you," she huffed.

"I'm sure it's delicious. You lot-" he pointed between Geralt and Lambert. "-just like to make a fuss whenever the moment seems opportune. A right spoiled pair of witchers, you are."

"You were nearly inconsolable when the sole of your slipper ripped open last week," Ciri giggled.

"They were a gift from a countess who is a very dear friend of mine," the bard huffed. "Whose side are you on, anyway? You helped make this!"

"Just shut up and try it, bard," Lambert grunted.

In one fluid motion, Jaskier scooped some of the stew out of his bowl and shoved it into his mouth. He flashed them a triumphant smile once he pressed his lips together, but it didn't last long. His eyes widened and it was clear he was holding back a string of coughs, or gags (Geralt couldn't be sure which) as he swallowed the stew.

"You're right. That was rotted," he cleared his throat and tugged on his collar. "Pass me some of the roast. I need help washing that down," he said and pressed his cup of ale to his lips.

"Too bad we can't cook up the elk we caught. That plump bastard would make a good steak," Lambert leaned back in his chair.

Geralt didn't really care what they ate. Food was food, and after traveling the path for more years than he could try to count, he wasn't picky. Anything cooked in a kitchen was better than having to dig for roots or hunting frail rabbits when he had been kicked out of inns that were only close to barren forests torched by war.

"Where did you go hunting?" Ciri asked.

"Near Kraeger's valley, about two hours south of the keep," Eskel said after he'd swallowed a large chunk of meat. "Most of the elk head down that way for the winter and graze near a wide lake there in the spring. It's a nice place."

"That must be lovely. I'd love to see it," Ciri said. Geralt caught her bright green eyes glancing over at him out of the corner of his eye.

"Someday," he said. Once you can fight off the monsters that stalk the narrow paths on the way there.

Ciri seemed satisfied enough with that answer. At least she didn't pester him about it further. She'd already hinted at wanting to hunt with them or explore the forests beyond the keep several times this week alone, and asked him directly once the week before.

Geralt didn't blame her for wanting to see what was beyond Kaer Morhen's walls. He remembered daydreaming of hiking up the narrow passes and climbing the giant trees he could see from his window when he first arrived to the keep as a boy; to see more of the place that had become his home. He remembered dreaming of the forests even more in the week's after his trials, when he had been confined to his bed to recover from horrible poisons that he almost wished had killed him.

That pain was the worst Geralt had ever experienced. It felt endless, and the only thing that was able to pull him away from the throbbing jolts of agony in his limbs and numbing grief pulling at his gut was the sight of the mountains' rocky cliffs.

"Catch anything other than elk?" Jaskier said as he shoved another slice of meat into his mouth.

"No, but we found werewolf markings near Haggard's cliff," Lambert said.

"Grandmother said werewolves weren't real," Ciri said, her eyes widening with curiosity.

"What kind of stories did you hear in that pretty palace of yours? Of course they're real," Lambert said. "One nearly got me near Vizima when I first started out on the Path."

"Did you kill it... er, him?" Jaskier asked.

"Her, and no. Led her down to a swamp, where she got stuck in mud. Was a pretty thing when she wasn't a hairy fucker trying to claw my arm off," Lambert grumbled as one of the hall doors opened. Geralt and Eskel nodded when they saw Vesemir come in.

"How do you help a werewolf? If they're really human, you can't just kill them, right?" Ciri said.

"Most can be saved with a potion, if their transformation is recent enough," Vesmir answered, catching her attention. "But some become more beast than man as the years go on and some stay in that state forever, if they're forced to live isolated in the wild long enough. Most are cast out of their villages as soon as their neighbors find out they've been turned."

Ciri furrowed her brows. "Surely, they could do something to help them? Lock them up in a basement during a full moon or something? They're still human, even if they don't always seem it."

Geralt saw something soften in Vesemir's eyes. It was just subtle enough that it would only be noticeable to someone who had known him as long as he had. The older witcher took a seat beside Lambert as he answered.

"You would hope, but humanity often fails to lend any of its kindness to others. Especially those who don't seem human at first glance."

Ciri looked down at her bowl thoughtfully. Her pale skin and even paler hair faintly appeared in the reflection of her untouched stew.

"Enough with that depressing shit. I need a proper drink," Lambert grunted and stood up from the table. He walked across the room and opened a cabinet in the corner that contained bottles of different ales that were distinguishable only by the slight difference in their shades of brown.

"How deep are the passes? I feel another storm coming. Wouldn't be surprised if you couldn't get to Vel Tarek by the end of the week," Vesemir said, referring to clearing farther down on the mountain that was dotted with old, crumbling foundations of an elven village that had been abandoned long before witchers ever stepped foot in Kaedwen.

"You'd be right. We had to clear a whole section near the river of snow before we could go any further," Eskel said. "If Coën was planning on coming, I'd say he missed his chance."

"He wrote not three days ago. He's gotten tied up with contracts in the south," Vesemir said. Geralt noticed Ciri turn her head toward the older witcher.

"I wouldn't mind spending a winter or two down there. It would be a nice break from freezing my balls off with you lot," Lambert said as he came back to the table with a pitcher. "Want some gull?"

Geralt pushed his mug forward. Eskel and Jaskier did the same.

"Uh-uh bard. This stuff isn't for humans. Not unless you want to be on the floor watching the ceiling turn pink," Eskel said.

"Doesn't sound like such an unpleasant experience," Jaskier shrugged with a smile. It quickly faded when he saw the glare Geralt sent him. He pulled his mug away, and Geralt was glad of it. The last thing he wanted to do was drag a drugged-up, likely paranoid bard off to bed after dinner. It was bad enough having to do so when he was just a stumbling drunk.

"It's a shame he couldn't make it," Eskel said. "Though I don't blame him. I crossed paths with him in Gael over the summer. He said he'd had trouble finding contracts that paid anything more than 50 crowns."

"He's found good work in Nilfgaard. With all the men away fighting, he said there are fewer swords around to ward off any beasts threatening villages," Vesemir said as he took a cup of gull from Lambert. "He's getting paid handsomely, by the way he spoke."

Ciri set down her spoon against the wooden table with a soft clink. Her face was more serious than Geralt had recalled seeing it in weeks. "Why would he help Nilfgaard?"

"He's not helping Nilfgaard, child. He's doing his job; killing monsters for hopefully good pay," Vesemir said. "It doesn't matter where or when."

"It should. They kill innocent people," she frowned.

"As do monsters. A Nilfgaardian child that gets plucked out of his mother's garden by a wyvern is no different than the child it snatched away from Temeria," Vesemir said. "Or the one from Cintra."

Ciri flickered her eyes back down to the table.

"It's not our place to decide who to help based on politics. Witchers don't get involved in wars or courts," Geralt said, setting down his mug of gull next to Ciri's mug of water. She turned and looked up at him with her brows set in a hard line.

"You did."

Geralt tensed. He didn't quite know what to say to that. You didn't mean to, he thought. But even then, he knew that wasn't totally the case

"We all have in some way or another," Vesemir said. "Every witcher was human once, and we still are in many ways. But if we allowed ourselves to take sides and fight with those who try to rule us, we'd be used as weapons and destroyed. Our way of life would be lost forever."

Ciri looked back down at the table. "Wonder what that's like..." she muttered. Something in Geralt's chest tightened at her words.

"Ciri-" Jaskier started before she cut him off.

"Can you pass the bread, please?"

Jaskier's expression tightened but he did as she asked. Ciri grabbed the bread from him and ripped off a piece before shoving it in her mouth. The room was quiet, and for the first time Geralt could recall in a while, too quiet, at that.

"Well, I'd still like a fucking vacation at some point," Lambert said. "Maybe to the coast, if the south's off limits."

Eskel kicked him under the table. Lambert jerked and glared at the scarred witcher.

"What? The coast is nice," Lambert argued. "Went there to clear out a cave of horned grents once. It took three days and I nearly lost an arm, but the views were great and the food was even better. I even took another contract just to stay at an inn that had a sort of clam soup. The shit was to die for."

"Apparently," Eskel shook his head.

"Like you didn't take contracts outside Novigrad for a month so you could stick around the same whorehouse not three summers ago," Lambert snorted. Eskel glared at him.

"If you want a good place to visit, Toussaint is absolutely lovely in the spring. The flowers are gorgeous and the wine there is simply delightful," Jaskier said. He looked around the table, frowning slightly after.

"Looking for something, bard?" Vesemir said in his gravelly voice.

"I don't see the salt. I'll go grab it from the cupboard," Jaskier said and made to stand up. Geralt beat him to it.

"I'll get it," he grunted and pushed his chair back. Geralt felt like he needed to move; to do... something. Sitting silently next to a sullen Ciri was making him more uneasy by the moment.

Geralt watched Jaskier sink back into his seat with a surprised look while Eskel and Lambert started chatting with Vesemir about a patch of prickly brush they were planning on clearing out from beside the pasture tomorrow. He stepped back from the table and moved across the room.

He opened the dark cabinet and grabbed a jar of salt from the bottom shelf, before shutting the door and turning to walk back to the table. Just as he was about to pass Vesemir, he saw a mug that had just been pressed against Ciri's lips slip from her hand and hit the ground with a clang. The witchers snapped their attention to the girl just as her eyes glazed over and she fell from the chair. Geralt felt himself go stiff when her body hit the floor and grew completely still.

"Ciri?" Jaskier said with wide eyes as he jumped up from his seat. The other witchers quickly followed.

The salt fell from Geralt's hand and he was at the girl's side not a moment later. Ciri had landed on her side and remained unmoving, her ashen hair soaking in a dark brown liquid that had spilled from the mug that had fallen from her hand.

Geralt grasped Ciri by her shoulders and turned her body toward his. He felt his heart start to both speed up and sink deeper into his chest when he saw how white her skin had become.

"Ciri," he muttered, shaking her slightly. It didn't seem to do anything to wake her. "Ciri!"

Geralt felt Jaskier and Vesemir crowd around him, with Lambert and Eskel stopped not far behind. Vesemir knelt beside him and picked the mug up from stone floor.

"She drank your gull. Must have thought it was her mug," Vesemir muttered.

"How the fuck would that do this to her? It's not toxic to humans," Geralt said, his voice rising with each word.

"Is she allergic to something?" Jaskier said quickly through shaky breaths.

"Not sure," Geralt's grasp on her shoulders tightened. Fuck, he thought. Should have known that.

"Lambert, get a bezoar and smelling salts from my stores down the hall," Vesemir called out to the younger witcher, who disappeared from the room within seconds.

"Has this happened before?" Eskel asked. A worried look pulled at his scarred face.

Geralt shook his head, not bothering to look at his brother. He shifted Ciri so her neck was nestled in the crook of one of his arms. He used his free hand to press two fingers against the side of her neck. Her steady heartbeat thrummed against the tips of his fingers. It settled some of the panic inside of him, even though he had already been able to sense her heartbeat even before he reached her side.

"Maybe it's nothing?" Jaskier said, a hopeful yet still uncertain tone to his voice. "She's been training a lot recently, maybe she's just tired?"

Geralt felt some anger bubble in his gut at that. He hadn't pushed her so hard that she would be this exhausted from their lessons, and he'd been keeping an eye on her to make sure he wasn't running her too ragged. After all, he knew what it was like to be pushed too far needlessly. He did his best to make sure he wasn't doing the same to her.

He went to growl a response in his defense but the words stopped at his lips. A creeping sense of doubt tugged at his mind. Maybe this was somehow his fault - he couldn't be sure that it wasn't. Geralt didn't know if he'd been giving Ciri everything she needed. Hell, he didn't have the slightest idea of how to properly care for a 13-year-old girl, especially if she was royalty and had a power unlike any other he'd seen, save for Pavetta.

Just as that thought crossed his mind, an icy wind swept over the room and blew out the candles lining the walls. Small puffs of white clouds came out with their breaths and he sensed Jaskier wrap his arms around himself for warmth.

"Geralt?" Jaskier shifted beside him. The witcher didn't look up at him. Instead, he stared down at the girl in his arms with wide eyes as he felt her body grow as cold as the air around him.

Ciri's eyes suddenly flashed open. She sat up with a jolt and focused a wide, empty gaze on the wall in front of her. She didn't look like someone who had just came to after fainting. Geralt didn't even think she looked quite like herself.

Jaskier reached out toward her but stopped when what sounded like a hundred screeching voices started pouring from her lips. The noise bounced off the walls with such ferocity that Geralt could feel its vibrations run down his spine and vibrate between his ribs.

"The world will die amidst frost and be reborn with the new sun. It will be reborn of Elder Blood, of Hen Ichaer, of the seed that has been sown. A seed which will not sprout but burst into flame."

The last note scraped against Geralt's ears and left a faint echo that didn't seem to fade from the room until Ciri had collapsed back into his arms as the candles around them reignited.

For several long moments, the witchers and Jaskier were completely still. Lambert stood frozen in the doorway, with a hand clutching the supplies Vesemir had sent him after so tight that his knuckles were white. Eskel's mouth was slightly agape and Vesemir's brows were furrowed together so tightly that the creases on his forehead looked as if they would never smooth out. Jaskier was breathing heavily and clutching the fabric of his pants, while Geralt felt frozen in his spot, worried that whatever came over Ciri would return if he moved her even the slightest bit.

Ciri ended up being the first to move. Her tired eyes opened and stared up at the ceiling as they refocused. Geralt's chest tightened when her gaze flickered over to met his own.

"Geralt?" she croaked. "Wh-what happened?"

His lips stayed firmly pressed together as he tried to find the words to explain something he had no idea how to describe. Vesemir moved closer to them and put a hand on Ciri's shoulder. His face was still tense but seemed to relax when she looked up at him.

"You fainted, child. How do you feel?"

Ciri looked down at her body, like she was still trying to determine just that. "Tired," she finally decided.

"Can you stand?" Vesemir asked. Ciri nodded slowly.

"I think so," she said and leaned forward. She pressed a leg into the ground to stand with Geralt's help, his body moving on its own while his mind tried to catch up. He loosened his grip when she was on both feet, but tightened his arms around her again to catch her when she swayed backwards and nearly fell.

The girl was fighting to keep her drooping eyes open when she looked up at him. Despite the tired look that glazed over her green irises and how close she seemed to be to passing out from exhaustion, Geralt could sense fear prickling off of her skin; the same fear she'd had after her nightmares.

That, at least, he was familiar with. Starting to feel like his mind was moving back into his body, his tense muscles loosened a bit and he finally spoke.

"It's alright," he grunted quietly. Ciri nodded and leaned into him. Gently, he put an arm under her legs and kept the other around her shoulders. She was asleep only seconds after he had lifted her up and cradled her against his chest.

"The fuck was that?" Lambert said after a moment.

"The end of the world, apparently," Jaskier said, his voice just above a whisper. It made Geralt's gut pull tight.

"Bring her to her room," Vesemir nodded at Geralt. He turned to Eskel and Lambert. "Can you two clean up supper?"

The witchers nodded.

"Good. I'll meet you upstairs in a moment, wolf," he said to Geralt. Vesemir moved across the room and walked through an archway, leaving the three witchers, bard and sleeping princess in empty silence.

Lambert walked over to the table, glancing at Ciri as he passed her on his way to pick up the pot of stew. Eskel lingered a moment longer before he moved toward Geralt's half-empty plate. Neither witcher picked up the mug that laid on its side on the floor.

Geralt took a step forward. He didn't look back at his brothers or puddle of gull by where Ciri had sat, and walked away from the table with Jaskier in tow.

The echoes of Jaskier's heavy footsteps were the only sound in the hallways as they moved through the keep. It stayed that way even after the bard pushed open Ciri's door and Geralt laid her down on her bed.

Ciri hadn't straightened her blankets out that morning, despite Vesemir's stern reminders to keep her room in order. Geralt grabbed one of the corners of a heavy pelt and pulled it over her. He sat on the edge of her bed with a sigh stuck in his throat and stared down at her.

The girl was powerful; much more powerful than he would have guessed when he first laid eyes on her trembling form in the forest. He always knew there would be a chance his child surprise would have the same gift as Pavetta, and he had been prepared to deal with that if, for some reason, he ever decided to claim the child.

That was back when he still had Yenn, or could have at least asked Triss for help if he couldn't track the fiery, violet-eyed sorceress down. She had shown him a rare kindness back in Foltest's court and again during the few times they had crossed paths in the years after. He saw no reason why she wouldn't help a child who needed magical guidance as much as Ciri. But if the rumors were true, neither woman would be able to help him now.

The thought made a rare jolt of raw fear run through his chest.

Jaskier cleared his throat. "She looks peaceful. Whatever that was seems to have passed," he said softly. He moved one of Ciri's bunched up dresses from the chair near the bed and plopped down in it. "I just hope we never have to see it again."

Geralt didn't move, nor try to form something to say.

The door creaked open and Vesemir stepped inside the room. He stopped at the edge of the bed and stood beside Geralt, leaning down slightly to place a hand on Ciri's forehead.

"She's a bit cold, but seems alright," he said and straightened back up.

"What do you think brought that on? She was completely fine one moment. It was so... sudden," Jaskier said.

"Gull has hallucinogens in it that can be especially strong for humans. My guess is that's what triggered that prophecy," Vesmir sighed.

Geralt pulled his suddenly sharp gaze away from Ciri and looked up at the witcher.

"Don't give me that look, boy. You know as good as I that what came out of her mouth wasn't a rhyme from her nursemaid," Vesemir grunted. "I assume neither of you know what she was talking about."

Jaskier shook his head. Geralt stayed silent.

"Hmm," Vesemir grunted. "She said a name during it, at least. I'm going to see if I can find any mention of it in the library. In the meantime, here's a restorative potion for her when she wakes up, if she needs it."

Vesemir placed a vile on the crooked table next to the bed. Geralt thought it would tip over and roll off, if the right wind hit it. The witcher left the room without another word, leaving Geralt alone with Ciri and Jaskier.

The bard was unusually quiet as he went to spark a fire in the hearth, and when he occasionally got up to poke the logs to keep the flames burning. Geralt almost wished he would speak. He needed a distraction from the screeching voices that still churned in his head, especially the last line Ciri had uttered before she collapsed against him. Those words clutched at his heart more than any of the others, and played in his mind over and over again as he watched his child surprise sleep.

"... a seed which will not sprout but burst into flame."

Phew! Another 5,000+ chapter. Hope you all enjoyed! I love writing some good angst, especially if it revolves around Geralt's perspective! Also, the prophecy was directly taken from the books. I also used a piece of it a few chapters ago. Some parts of this story are based off the show/books with some minor stuff from the games (though most of it is just one big head cannon), so there will be some spoilers ahead. I'm sort of cherry-picking, since I love all three.

Thanks for sticking with me through a bit of a wait! Let me know what you thought in the comments! I love hearing all of your feedback :)