The Marquis of Guleta pored over the battle map as though it were a chessboard. Tiny flags marked out the plan for his impending campaign. One of the plans, that is–he had several. War was unpredictable and the surest path to success lay in redundancy. Backup plans, and backups for the backup. The plan he was currently ironing out would likely never be used. But it didn't hurt to be prepared.
The war-room doors flew open with a BANG. Heels clopped against the stone floor. The Marquis looked up, frowning. He'd never met the woman who now approached him. She wore a luxurious outfit of black and white, accessorized with a bejeweled choker and a stony expression. Her dark curls bounced with every purposeful step, framing eyes as cold and hard as amethysts.
"Yennefer of Vengerberg," the Marquis guessed, summoning a smile. "I expect you're here about my proposal."
The sorceress's expression soured. She swiped her arm across the table, scattering the meticulously-placed markers. The battle map itself she crumpled up and tossed over her shoulder like rubbish. The Marquis bit back his outrage. Let her throw a tantrum if she wanted; the fact that she was behaving this way meant his information had been accurate. He had her right where he wanted her.
"Did you think," she hissed. "That your foolish plot would work? That I'd bow to your whims over any man, much less one I haven't seen in months?! Did you think I'd believe for a moment that you could best a witcher, or contrive a prison for him that he could not escape from himself? It's an insult to my intelligence that you'd make such a poor attempt at puppeting."
The Marquis met her glare, unfazed. "You won't accept my commission then?"
"I'm not your assassin. If you pester me ever again, I will set your treasury ablaze." She turned on her heel and strode for the door as confidently as she'd walked in.
"I'll gouge his eyes out tomorrow," the Marquis said off-handedly. The witch's step faltered. His lips twitched up. Success. He continued, keeping his tone casual as though he weren't discussing mutilation. "Hideous things, he'll look better without them. I'll send them to your home packed in ice. His toes will be next–did you know it's impossible to balance properly without toes?"
The sorceress had stopped walking now, lingering at the threshold. He sauntered forward to close the gap between them.
"I'll take his thumbs after that. He'll never hold a sword again." The Marquis whispered. His leer was no longer subtle. "He might beg for death at that point. Pain he's used to, but helplessness? What good is a witcher who can't see, or swing a blade, or even run away when danger appears? He'll be dependent on others for the rest of his life. That prospect… that can break a prideful man like him."
Force flared out from Yennefer. Stone cracked beneath her feet and every window in sight splintered into a patchwork of cracked glass. As the Marquis reeled from the force, the sorceress turned to face him, her expression as foreboding as a distant stormcloud.
"Let's pretend, for a moment, that Geralt of Rivia is indeed in your custody." The fire was gone from her voice, but the smooth calculation that had replaced it was somehow more unsettling. "Let's also pretend that if he was, I'd be inclined to accept your demands. I would first demand proof that he is currently alive and well. A scrap of hair won't satisfy me. Handwriting can be forged. Even a living, breathing body could easily be a dopler in disguise. Anything less than touching him with my own hands would not convince me that the real Geralt is at your mercy."
"You think I would allow that?" The marquis scoffed.
"You'd be a fool to. Therefore, I cannot be convinced that your threat is real. Therefore I will not comply with your demands." She paced a slow circle around him, her amethyst eyes seeming to pierce his soul. "So then what? You carry out your threat. Now you have a dead or crippled witcher whose blood is on your hands. What happens when his brothers, the other witchers, learn of his fate? When they learn what you did to him–and I will ensure they know it was you–do you think they'll shrug and move on? Do you think they'll hold you guiltless?
"No. They will descend on your lands like locusts. They will make an example of you, a message to every other fool who thinks they can abuse the witcher guild. And I–" Her voice was poisonous. "–I will happily assist them in their vengeance. Free of charge."
The sorceress smiled nastily as the Marquis fought to quell his unease. She's bluffing, he told himself, but his certainty wavered as his gaze slipped to the splintered windows. She touched his arm and he flinched without meaning to.
"Let your wisdom overrule your cunning," the sorceress advised. "Drop this scheme. Leave magic folk out of your politics. And I will forget this ever happened, and you will spare your people and yourself a great deal of pain. Consider your priorities, my lord."
She patted his shoulder in an empty gesture of friendliness. Then she left. He heard the clopping of her heels fade down the hall. His eyes flitted to the crater she'd left in the floor. He glanced again at the windows, every single one of them spiderwebbed with cracks. They weren't in pieces yet, but the damage could never be fixed, he knew. He'd have to consider them a loss.
No sense in trying to salvage what wasn't salvageable