Geralt stood in darkness, bound in cold steel that held him suspended against an equally cold wall. Even his witcher vision couldn't pierce the gloom; no light filtered through the door, and very little sound. He could occasionally hear someone outside, but not a soul had entered the cell since they'd chained him here.

Whoever "they" were. Not mere bandits, that was certain. They'd gone to some trouble to lure him to this place, under the pretense of dispatching a leshy. It'd been even more troublesome to subdue him alive once he'd realized their ruse. And now they'd left him here like an abandoned dog to stew in his thoughts. Why? What was the point of this?

Footsteps outside. Then the grating of door hinges, deafening after so long in relative silence. Light streamed in as the door opened, silhouetting an unfamiliar figure. Geralt squeezed his pupils to the tiniest slits to avoid being blinded. Even so, the light stung.

"Master Witcher! Thank the gods you're all right!" The silhouette bustled forward, far too cheery for a prison. Geralt's vision adjusted enough to see the keyring in the figure's hand and the heraldry openly displayed on their tunic. "The brigands who assaulted you have been dealt with. Fear not, you're safe now."

Geralt looked them in the eye. With one swift yank, he snapped the chains trapping his arms.

The silhouette backpedaled quickly, eyes bulged in shock. Geralt shook the numbness out of his limbs. He gripped the iron bar they'd wedged between his teeth and eased it free. An unpleasant metallic taste lingered in his mouth. "Who are you?" the witcher rasped. Blast it, he was thirsty…

The silhouette stammered, still in shock. "I…the Marquis… heard… sent to rescue–"

"How kind." The silhouette flinched as Geralt gripped their collar, but the witcher only tugged them close enough to pluck the keys from their hand. He set to work unlocking the remaining chains around his neck, his knees, his ankles. The silhouette stared.

"Do you… need help?"

"No." Geralt tossed the keys back. The silhouette fumbled, barely caught them. "Tell your marquis that his efforts were appreciated. Give him these as a token of my gratitude." He shoved the broken manacles into the silhouette's arms and strode out without a second glance.

The marquis' servant stood frozen, staring at the manacles' warped chain links. Solid steel half an inch thick, and the witcher had snapped it with his bare hands. A wave of relief swept over the servant, the horrified relief that comes when a disaster is narrowly avoided. His lord had made a wise choice.

It was incredible, truly, how generous the Marquis of Guleta was. That was apparently the name of Geralt's benefactor–the men who openly bore his heraldry had repeatedly reminded the witcher who he had to thank for the rescue. Geralt had only been imprisoned for a few days, and somehow in that time, the marquis had heard of his plight, organized a search, and found the remote hideout of an unnamed criminal gang. Not just that, but he'd had the foresight to fetch Roach from the stable she'd been housed in. She was waiting outside the prison ready to ride, his gear in her saddlebags where he'd left it and his coin pouch mysteriously more full than before. A generous "rescue" indeed. Geralt ignored their bad acting and flimsy excuses. He had no interest in pursuing revenge. Right now, he just needed a hot meal and a stiff drink and a decent night's sleep in a proper bed.

But first, there was a matter to address. Geralt led Roach into a copse of trees near the prison that provided some cover. There he stopped, sniffed the air. His nose confirmed what his instincts already knew.

"I know you're here, Yen."

No response. Just the crickets in the underbrush.

"I smelled you in the cell," Geralt continued. The scent of lilac and gooseberries had entered when the marquis' servant did, and followed the witcher through the rigamarole of leaving. Why Yen stayed invisible the whole time, Geralt didn't know. He rarely understood her whims. "I presume you're responsible for their sudden change of heart. …Thank you."

A dry laugh. "They ought to be thanking me for saving them from you."

Geralt turned and found himself instantly lost in a pair of vivid violet eyes. He dreamed of those eyes often, but dreams did not do them justice. How long since he had seen them up close…? Too long.

"Are you hurt?" Yen asked. Her gaze flitted to his lips–or more likely, to the bruises left by the iron gag.

Geralt shook his head. "I'm not." Not in any way that mattered. Yen hmm'd and accepted the answer. Tenuous silence stretched between them for several long moments, a hundred questions going unanswered and unasked

"...How did you break the chains?" Yen asked.

"Igni."

"You melted them with igni?"

"Weakened them. Igni's not strong enough to melt metal, but I'd yank on the chains while they were hot, put as much strain on them as possible. Stretched and weakened them bit by bit. It was tedious, but I knew eventually they'd warp enough to break."

Yennefer scoffed, letting her exasperation show. "Of course, how clever of you. You always have a plan! No one can outsmart the genius Geralt of Riva, I don't know why I bothered worrying!"

"You worried for me?"

Yen's lips pursed tight. "...You need a bath, And a haircut. Your bangs are crooked."

Geralt barely resisted the urge to run his hand through his hair. "Thank you, madam sorceress, for the advice. I shall be sure to avail myself of it at the next town I find that will tolerate a witcher as a guest." He swung himself up onto Roach's back, taking a moment to settle into the familiar perch before twisting back to face her, hand outstretched. "Would you care to join me, madam sorceress?"

She was already gone. Truly gone this time. The scent of lilac and gooseberry was already fading. Geralt let his hand fall. He closed his eyes, savoring the remnants of her perfume and the image of her face while it was still fresh in his mind.

And then he spurred Roach onward. Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, journeyed forward to his next adventure. And Yennefer of Vengerberg returned to her home, where a lock of white hair lay magically preserved on her bedside table.