Chapter 1

I wake before the sun to gather eggs and carrots and lettuce from the garden. The guests need a fresh, hot breakfast at dawn. Two months have past since I foraged my way to this small tavern inn. The cuts on my calves from scraping through dense forest still sting when I sit in the sun.

I carefully pluck the eggs from each nest, careful not to awake any hens.

"Shorsha," I hear a whisper. I turn to find Nim, the tavern owner. His moppy blond head is even wilder in the mornings, his eyes fully covered.

"Morning," I say with a smile, handing him a heavy basket of potatoes.

"How do you get them so fast?" he laughs and takes it. He stops to grab my fingers and inspect them closely.

"See, a lady like you should not have dirt under her fingernails like this," he teases and I slap his hand.

"I like my fingernails dirty," I reply with a smirk.

"Sure, sure," he leaves.

When I return to my room I let my hair out of my night braids, and it falls to my waist in soft waves. I am still mesmerized by the bright, orange color it turned from dying it with carrot juice night after night – to hide my corn yellow hair. Even still, I would wrap it sometimes when I felt the golden hue peeking through.

Some days I would attempt to braid my hair the way my maidservant would, an intricate waterfall, or delicate milkmaid dutch braids. My soft, unworked hands made it nearly impossible. Now my fingertips were harder, the skin on my hands less pale. My cheeks now had a glowing brown about them, my lips a cherry red from the burn. I hoped no one would recognize me now that I looked like any other tavern maid.

A guest was supposed to be coming this afternoon, so I wrapped my apron around my olive green dress and headed to prepare the room. It was a simple task, sweeping and dusting, making the bed, then checking under the bed for anything.

I knelt quickly, my stiff cotton skirt catching on the rough floor boards. I cursed to myself, ducking under the bed to check for mice.

"Hello," a low, rough voice startles me. I jump and a dull pain spreads over my head. I curse again, rubbing the spot where my head collided with the bedframe. I suddenly remember myself and look up.

"Oh," I say, both surprised and in pain.

A large, white-haired man stands before me, his eyebrows raised in both amusement and…is that anger? I can't tell. He is dressed in dark leather, head to toe, sporting larger than normal weapons slung at his waist and back. If I didn't know any better, I would say he is an assassin, or a bounty hunter. His mouth is closed in a tight line.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't think you were coming for hours," I mutter, picking myself up and wiping my skirts. He doesn't respond, weirdly. All around him the air seems colder, perhaps because his hair resembles fresh snow, his eyes gold like sun. He merely stares at me, his expression wholly unreadable.

I search my apron pockets for the room key, trying not to assess more deeply. Something about the way he refuses to speak – or perhaps how his voice soundly almost godlike, thundering yet quiet.

"Here," I squeak, feebily handing him a black, nearly rusted key.

"Thank you."

I quickly make my way to door.

"Also, we offer a free drink to first time guests, down at the bar. Can I start anything for you?"

"I'll be down," he replies without looking, instead slinging a sword longer than my arm down onto the bed. I leave before he shuts the door.

"A Witcher," Nim spits, pouring liquor shots.

I feel a tinge in my stomach. A monster hunter. He was bred for it, made to be an elite beast tamer. The way he methodically thinks, walks, only speaks when needed – this was a frightening man.

"The most handsome Witcher I've ever seen," another maid adds, licking her lips as he walks down the tavern stairs across from us. I blush, hoping he did not hear her as he strolls toward.

She was right, of course. This man was slung with muscle, nearly ripping the leather that he donned himself in. His face was carved, like pale stone, a light stubble on his chin.

"What can I get you?" the other maid leans across the bar, her eyes traveling to the Witcher's hips, her breasts nearly pouring out of her bodice. I quickly retreat to the back, too embarrassed to watch the encounter. I am thankful, once again, that Nim never made me flirt with customers, or wear dresses a size too small. Besides, I always was wary of showing guests my face – too afraid that one might recognize me from before.

When I return from the kitchen with steaming meat pies, I see the Witcher sitting at the end of the bar – a secluded corner that the light couldn't find. I feel a wide hole in my stomach when I realize he is staring at me intensely. Does he recognize me? I had never seen him in the castle, nor in the court. But perhaps he has heard of me – the runaway princess with golden hair and long legs. His shiny yellow eyes seem to cut right through the peasant dress I am wearing.

As I serve pies throughout the night, I watch him simply order drink after drink. He doesn't approach anyone, only entertains the advances of our seductive maid and then turns her down. Finally, as the last guest leaves to sleep, he still remains.

"A pie, over here, please," he calls, and the ground practically rumbles at his voice.

"Go on," Nim nudges me in the elbow and I jump. The last thing I want to do is get any closer to the man who hunts for a living. And now he might know me as Princess Leyiana. I wrap a meat pie, now lukewarm, in a cloth and bring it to where he sits – the lack of light causing me to trip on a stray nail. I curse under my breath.

"This the third time you have cursed. If you spin and spit on the ground, perhaps you can bring good fortune." He is…smiling?

"If that worked, I wouldn't be serving you a meat pie right now, would I?" I smile back, weakly.

Before I can turn, he stops me.

"Do you know what I am?" He takes a bite of the pie, then washes it down with a heavy gulp of whiskey. My eyes widen, I nervously tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. I can't tell if he even wants me to answer.

"I hear some call you a Witcher." I angle my face away from the candle flame, trying my hardest to be shrouded in darkness. At this point, the other maids and Nim have all gone back to their quarters. Only my voice and his echo in the empty tavern room.

"I am Geralt," he states, looking at my face. If I were dressed in a silk gown, my cheeks pink with wine, and it was two months ago – I know I would look at him very differently. He was the kind of man I'd flirt with, dance for two hours with, sneak away to my quarters with during the ball. But no, instead I feel very small – like a mouse in a cheap costume performing for a hungry cat.

"Shorsha," I reply, grabbing his empty cup with shaking fingers. Again, I attempt to walk – with a task of cleaning as an excuse.

"Where are you from, Shorsha?"

I wish he didn't smell of magic, look of intrigue, talk like he was hiding something. Perhaps then I could lie like I had been the past two months. No one had suspected a thing, it was easy to lie when no one knew the truth. I didn't believe I could lie to a Witcher.

"Jevshire," the word fell out of my mouth – a little town an hour's walk away. The easiest answer I could give.

"Family there?" He takes a final bite of pie, unbothered by the fact that I'm eager to leave.

"A few." I turn definitely now, driven on walking away from this conversation.

"Shorsha," he says again – this time with a little anger, as if I jilted him by walking away too soon. I stop, but only turn my head.

"I rise early, Geralt, so if there is nothing else you need, I will go to my room now." I surprise myself with the heat in my voice. I shouldn't have sounded so upset. I should act calm, unaffected. If he wasn't suspicious before – he certainly would be now.

"There is something." He stands, slapping a bag of coin on the table.

My body is tense now, I am clutching the hem of apron to stop from shaking. Yet slowly, I turn, attempting to look curious, hoping my hard green eyes will soften his suspicion.

"I acquired a wound on my forearm while traveling. I will require a bowl of hot water and clean bandages before I go to sleep. Bring them to my room, please, when you can."

"Certainly."

He smiles, again. It is so strange that I wonder if it is merely an expression he thinks humans do.