Summary: A sorceress contracts a witcher to capture a djinn, and everyone who has read The Last Wish collectively cringes at my lack of originality.

THE LAST WISH

IX

"You did," repeated the golden-haired man. "You told me about the djinn, you told me where it was. Why did you do that?"

Hermione hesitated, and only spoke once Lockhart made a show of reaching for the bottle's stopper. "I needed it. I still do. You and your damned partner were to get one wish each, and I the last."

"Oh, there's still one wish left, don't you worry, Lady Granger."

"So that's how you knew who killed the sorcerer. What of all that evidence of yours? The hairs, the charms... Why involve me at all?" Harry asked, to no answer from the sorceress. Her jaw seemed to have wired shut.

"Made up, an elaborate fiction to keep you on her side. For what reason, I cannot possibly fathom. Perhaps you were a convenient patsy for some plot she'd dreamed up, or perhaps she's simply grown fond of you. I can see why, she's an incurable romantic that one, forever attracted to strays and lost causes."

How had he missed it? He thought back to the time they met in Oxenfurt, and investigated the Chancellor's office at the University. Then, it struck him. He had surmised that Fudge had been promised a wish from the djinn in exchange, and the other sorcerer had confirmed it. Had that been a lie, too? Or did he truly think Fudge was to be given a wish?

The witcher shook his head. Nevermind, he thought, the man is dead, likely killed by the partner he 'loved like a sibling'. The two conspirators, alive in front of him, were the only people he could judge now.

The sorceress must have thought her wish was stolen from her and given to the Chancellor, so she hired a witcher to help her track down the thieves. Not to help anyone, not to prevent the misuse of a dangerous spirit by raiders, but to help her find recover something she goaded another person into stealing, and to unknowingly help hide the evidence of her own involvement in the crime while maintaining the appearance of being on Lockhart's side, if her spell on Harry was anything to go by.

Harry nearly laughed. He had spent weeks with her, thoroughly charmed. In the end, there was no great mystery to Hermione Granger: she was a snake in a nest of vipers, not the first, and certainly not the last. A smug, consummate conwoman, just like the rest of her ilk.

Hermione reached out to Harry, who jerked away before her hands could touch the fabric of his kontusz. "I know this sounds bad," she said, with genuine sorrow in her eyes, "but there was a good reason for it. Just give me the chance, and I swear I'll prove it to you."

"Can you believe this? Even when she admits what she's done, she refuses to admit wrongdoing. She's just as much a scoundrel as the rest of us. And that Baron of yours? If, if you manage to steal the djinn back from me, he'll stab you in the back and take the damned thing for 'his country'. In fact, the only one here that is any way clean, is you, Master Witcher. Ah, poor, noble Witcher Harry, thrown into a den of wolves, with no one but the wrong people to trust."

"If she can't explain herself, then I'll deal with her," Harry started, drawing himself up. "But whatever Lady Hermione is, it doesn't change what you are."

"I see," Lockhart laughed, "so she's exchanged one lackey for another. You sure do go through them quick, Hermione dear, quite a mortality rate."

"A pity you weren't one of those statistics."

The sorcerer ignored his colleague's barbs, and refocused on Harry. "So, what then, you think you'll stop me? The witcher who has been fooled by anyone and everyone involved in our expedition! After all this, do you really think you're capable of anything?"

"Maybe I was taken advantage of, but there's one thing I excel at."

"And what's that?"

Harry didn't respond. He didn't need to. He thought the words, and he was certain that, somehow, both Hermione and Lockhart had heard them.

"Bold words, witcher," said the sorcerer, and blue flame wreathed his free hand. "Bold words."

Harry readied his blade in the classic defensive stance, readying himself for the battle to come. But Lockhart, it appeared, had no such ambitions. For a moment, instead, he looked mildly nonplussed at Harry, and then he cast the blue flames down in front of him. Harry had expected the spell to do many things; however, as great sheets of ice rose from the ground of their own accord, creating a great wall of clear frost between Lockhart and the two. A bolt of lightning lanced off the barrier impotently, sent from Hermione toward Lockhart to prevent him from raising the barrier, and arriving only a moment too late.

"Really, Harry?" Lockhart shouted whimsically from behind the ice, though there was no real humour in his tone. "Did you really think I was going to stake my life on a punch-up with a witcher? I've already told you, I have one last wish. And there's an old story, a wives' tale, really, about djinn curses. I do very much want to see if it's real."

A manicured hand reached for the stopper on the bottle.

"Gilderoy," Hermione said, the faintest edge of desperation seizing at her. "You can't use that. Not here. You know what it will do to you if you can't control it!"

"I have control of it, Hermione dear."

"Are you sure about that?" Harry interrupted bluntly, "I saw the Headmaster's office at the University. That's some fine control you've displayed."

Lockhart's eyes hardened and his tongue clicked, fingers settling around the stopper. Harry felt satisfaction, but only for a moment, when his mind sagged with a second presence:

"Are you trying to get us killed?" Hermione's voice clattered around his head.

Harry didn't respond.

"You're only making it more likely that he'll open that damned bottle!"

Good. Let him. It'll be a treat when the djinn's final wish backfires on him.

"And when the beast is freed and turns on us?"

Harry shrugged, not particularly caring. You'll teleport us away. Or better yet, teleport in there now.

"I can't teleport past the barrier, it's a spell specifically designed to block magic users from attacking you easily."

Then we stick with the first plan.

"I can't simply let that djinn get away."

You will, if you want to live.

The sorceress withdrew from his mind when she understood that his words were a threat, not a warning, and Harry could feel a vague sense of genuine hurt in her place.

"So," Harry said, unwilling to look in her direction. "Are you going to open it, or not?"

Staring deep into the other man's eyes, through the clear wall that separated them, he could see unease creep into them. No longer was Lockhart sure he had the upper hand, and no longer was he sure that he could control the spirit that swirled within the bottle he held. But desperate men often weren't wise men. And his fingers pulled up just as Harry crossed his fingers and sent the strongest igni sign he could muster at the barrier, with another fireball following closely behind from Hermione.

The wall stood intact at the end of the inferno, nary a chip or crack in it. And beyond it, the bottle was opened, and Lockhart stood in front of a great silvery mass that screamed in a language Harry couldn't understand. The crystalline wall shimmered with an unknown force that hadn't been there before the djinn was released Soon, he realised, Lockhart, too, was speaking in that same gibberish language that was neither common nor the dialect of elder speech he was familiar with.

Hermione seemed to understand, as her attempts to break through the wall became wilder and more frenzied. She threw fireball after fireball at the shield, succeeding in cracking it, but never quite blowing it open.

"Hermione!" Harry shouted, as the shrill screeches of djinn threatened to drown out his own voice, "What's he saying? What's the wish?"

Another great flaming gout erupted from her hands and fell limp against the wall, and Hermione fell to her knees, exhausted. "I don't know! It's an old curse, but no one truly knows what it does! I doubt even Dumbledore himself knows!"

"Not to be dull, but shouldn't we be running, then?"

Hermione looked up from the ground, and glared at him in a way that suggested he truly was a dullard. "It's a curse! Running away from it won't do anything! Only stopping Lockhart will!"

By the time Hermione had finally apprised Harry of the situation, Lockhart had already finished speaking, a triumphant smirk on his lips. The djinn growled loudly behind him, and a pulse of white force emanated out from it. In an instant, the wall Hermione couldn't get past shattered all around them.

There was nothing between them and the djinn now, save Lockhart, who didn't look at all in the mood to help them. For a very long moment, time stood still. Then another gust of energy flew out from the silver sphere, faster this time, and Harry didn't have the time to blink as the gust struck him and sent him over on his back, into the black.

But, in a moment, he was conscious again. Alive and well, and looking into the storming sky above Wezyn. He sat up, and saw Hermione struggling to her feet. Their eyes locked, and suddenly when locked in an amber gaze, Harry felt a great deal different, but still very much alive. It took some effort to tear his eyes away from her, but in the end he did, facing forward and finding Gilderoy Lockhart staring dumbly at them, with djinn motionless behind him. He was no longer smiling."

Slowly, he turned back to the djinn, and shouted some more at djinn, which responded in a way that sounded oddly smug to the witcher's ears. Presently, Hermione began laughing softly. She had a lovely laugh, Harry thought dazedly.

"What are they saying?" Harry asked, shaking his head to clear it.

"Lockhart thought the curse was going to destroy us. Fire and brimstone and the like, I suppose. It turns out djinns have a very different idea of what destruction is."

"And what's that?"

Hermione's smile faded, and her eyes met his once more. Harry felt something stir at his soul, and immediately, he knew what had changed. He quickly thought of Susan, and felt nothing. Harry knew she was thinking of someone, too, and he knew that she, too, felt nothing. Presently, he too, began laughing.

In a way, they had been destroyed.

Not that would satisfy Lockhart. His shouts became louder and angrier, and the djinn's replies became terser and terser. Harry already knew what was coming, but he was far too weak to stand. Hermione seemed to be doing only marginally better, but she managed to stand, only to draw a rod from the inside of her jacket, hidden within the stitching. Harry vaguely recalled it from their time in Oxenfurt. A binding rod, she'd called it.

"Really," Harry tried to laugh, but it came out as more of a gasp, "even now?"

"This has to be done, Harry."

She limped over to Harry as a rumble came from up the mountain, and one side of the sphere turned into a claw, that slashed at Lockhart with speed, grace, and poise of a career swordsman. The man fell over, in a heap of expensive robes, now sullied with his own blood. He was still breathing, if only raggedly, but it appeared only to be the beginning of his suffering. From the peak only a few hundred feet above, a great flood of snow half-packed with water bore down on the precarious patch of level rock.

"Honestly," Hermione murmured, and then spoke in the elder tongue. Momentarily, a bright orange barrier encircled the two, held aloft by one of her hands, while the other held the binding rod pointed at the djinn, who looked ready to race off. Only now did she spare the witcher a glance. "I know you don't have much of it left, but, please, just trust me."

After all that had happened, she still had the nerve to talk of trust. If he was capable, Harry would have run her through then and there. But, he wasn't. Whatever the djinn had done to him left him feeling boneless and tired. And, now that the only thing between him and certain death by avalanche or djinn was Hermione's barrier, any harm to her would only be further detrimental to his health.

A light blue arc burst out from the rod and raced toward the fleeing djinn, eventually capturing it and holding it still.

A great roar enveloped Harry's senses, just as he was beginning to get to his feet, and sent him crashing back down to the ground once more.

"I know a tiny bit about your kind," Hermione said in Common, though by the way the djinn reacted, Harry surmised it could still understand her. "You may look like a spirit, but you can still be harmed, whether by the blade of a witcher in front, an avalanche above, or a bottle below. It makes little difference. So, if you wish, you can do nothing, and even though we'll all be crushed underneath it eventually, I will use the last of my strength and imprison you in that bottle once more, so that you will never be found," Hermione said, pointing a small, stoppered bottle, that had fallen from Lockhart's hands just inside the far reaches of Hermione's barrier, which the first bits of snow and slush peppered.

Harry scrambled on hands and knees over to the bottle, grabbing it and uncorking it once more, ready for what was coming next. He just hoped there was a point to all of this, and he hadn't simply been satisfying a sorceress's vanity this whole time.

"But I can let you go, if you promise to fulfill a wish of mine. Two of them, actually."

There was more roaring, and a great boulder of ice crashed against the barrier, causing it to sag only for a moment, before the ice rolled harmlessly off the barrier and down past the edge of the ridge they stood on. Hermione remained unfazed, and began muttering archaic elder speech under her tongue. She slowly pulled her outstretched arm in toward her. To the djinn's visible fury, its spherical body drew in toward the bottle in tandem with Hermione's arm. It struggled, to no avail, even as the more ice and snow poured down onto the ridge and further below. Harry watched with dark amusement, between the battle of wills between woman and spirit, and the still body of Gilderoy Lockhart quickly being buried under the racing snow.

Eventually, it spoke, and Hermione smiled grimly. Now faced with the very real prospect of being imprisoned for another eternity, it seemed to have become quite amenable.

"I don't think I need to warn you that it's obviously trying to trap you?" Harry asked pointedly.

"No, you do not," Hermione said, lowly, but just as pointedly.

The djinn spoke again, appearing to have accepted its fate. Though Harry couldn't understand the exact words that were spoken, he knew it was asking Hermione what she desired.

The sorceress's grim smile widened only the slightest bit. "I wish only for you to leave the kingdoms of men; you may go wherever you wish, so long as it is as far from this continent as you can possibly travel. There you will neither help nor hinder another being again, living or otherwise, until the day of your destruction. And for the second wish, be a dear and stop this avalanche at once."

A loud screech, like that of a sword scraping against armour, but multiplied tenfold, escaped the djinn and reverberated around the valley powerfully. It was the sound of despair; it was the sound of defeat. In a heartbeat, the avalanche that had been beating away at their shield had disappeared, and there was only the djinn and Hermione. And the sorceress remained rigid until she heard the beast agree to the first wish. And when the words came, the archaic elder tongue that signaled the djinn's compliance, Hermione finally let go.

Without wasting a moment, the airy sphere fled the ridge, fled the valley, and fled The Continent as fast as it could.

And for a few blessed seconds, all that was left in its wake was a great and beautiful silence. Hermione turned back to him, her cheeks were ruddy, and the smile she gave left him giddy inside.

But the silence ended all too quickly, and slowly, Harry got to his feet. He drew his blade, and the smile faded from his companion's lips, a grimace of resigned acceptance forming instead. He stalked toward her, moving past without a word. He continued, unerring, to the rumpled mass of robes fallen by the ridge's edge, and turned the man over. There, he crouched stared into unseeing crystalline eyes.

"He's dead," Harry called out curtly.

Hermione's grimace deepened. "Witcher—Harry—you must believe me when I say I didn't intend for this to happen."

"Everyone here that's died, even this miserable wretch, they all have you to blame for their deaths. That's how it looks to me," Harry said. "So, what did you intend to happen, then?"

The brunette made to speak, and then paused, as if to gather her thoughts. "There was only ever one reason for this farce," she said, at length, "and you just saw it."

"To capture a djinn, only to tell it to leave?"

"Yes."

"That's your reason."

"Yes."

"I've had to kill a lot of men these past few days. And I don't make it practice to kill men. That doesn't strike me as a reason good enough for what's happened here."

"It's not," Hermione shrugged. "It wasn't supposed to happen like this. Lockhart was supposed to take the djinn with his accomplice, and take it somewhere safe until I could take it off their hands. No murder, just a heist. In return, they'd both get one wish and leave the last for me. Lockhart wasn't a smart man, but given some of the things I'd discovered about his past, I surmised he could be quite the clever thief. It seems I was wrong. Then, they tried to cut me out and offered my wish to the chancellor at Oxenfurt, and fled in a panic when the djinn murdered him."

"And when they wished for their gold, the djinn left it in this valley."

"And many died, simply because they couldn't hold to our agreement."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Is that you absolving yourself?"

"No," Hermione answered, "I'll carry the guilt of this place. But this was a preventative measure, a necessary one. One to ensure that a rogue djinn cannot be used against us."

"Against whom? Mages?"

"Against The Continent, and everyone in it from Lan Exeter to Nilfgaard," Hermione said, to Harry's consternation. "You're a witcher," she said, by way of explaining, "you've told me yourself that you have no interest in the affairs of kings, and perhaps even less of mages, so I'm not surprised you don't know."

"Know what?"

The sorceress sighed, and raked a hand through her hair. "There's a man. A sorcerer. He was very powerful once, and threatened to control the whole world from the shadows. He was defeated, at great cost, but we're not sure if he really died."

"Did this sorcerer have a name?"

"He did, once. No one remembers it; I don't even know if Dumbledore does. I remember knowing the name, I remember saying it. But now, I can't recall what it was. It's very powerful magic," Hermione paused. "And there have been... disturbing rumours of late: rumours of wandering hermits, and horrors in the woods, and monsters multiplying, and the old blood."

"You're not making any sense," Harry said, shaking his head.

"It doesn't make much sense to me, either. What I do know is that he's out there, half-human, half-creature, and mostly powerless. But a djinn, a djinn can grant great and terrible power back to him, and any free djinn must either be sent away, or destroyed."

"The djinn was safe, under the supervision of your man, Dumbledore," Harry countered, and Hermione snorted in derision:

"Hardly. It didn't even take a minute's convincing from Lockhart for Fudge to betray Dumbledore. Dumbledore is a powerful wizard, and a good man, but he trusts the wrong people consistently."

"On that," Harry said pointedly as he stood up from his squat, "we agree."

Hermione's expression told him that she'd caught the double meaning to his words, but it very quickly hardened. "I don't care much for being judged as a murderer, by a murderer," she said. "Men did die. Maybe some of them weren't very good men, but they were men. And I'll remember that for as long as I live. But if these dead men ensure that that man never returns, I'll sleep quite easily at night."

She was convinced of her justice. Her eyes dared him to disagree. And, like hers, Harry's mind was now made up.

He returned his sword to its scabbard.

"So, am I to take that as proof that you won't attack me?"

"What would be the point?" Harry asked sharply. "Everyone here is already dead. It'd be a waste of effort. All it would be, is a question of price: there isn't a soul to pay me for it, and unguarded treasure a mile away. I'd rather that than take my chances with you."

"Oh, so that's what it was about, then? The money?" A philosophical little smile made its way to Hermione's lips, and she moved closer to him.

"Isn't it always?"

"And you'll go back to wandering the countryside for loose crowns?" Another step forward.

"It suited me just fine before you came along."

"You're a bad liar, Harry," she said softly, once she was within touching distance.

Her hand wrapped around his. It was warm and lovely.

Harry exhaled through his nose. "And I suppose you'll do better when you see Dumbledore?"

"Lying is one of the few things I'm good at, Master Witcher," Hermione said, and the absurdity of it made them both laugh. "You should come with me, Harry. Even if you don't trust me, the djinn did something to us. Regardless of what happened here, we need to find a way to reverse it."

"You could have reversed it. When you captured the djinn. But you didn't."

"It was a dangerous situation. I didn't know how much I could get away with."

Slowly, he pulled his hand away from hers, and walked toward the ridge that led back down into the valley below.

"There are more djinn to be found," said Hermione distantly, and Harry did his best to pay her no mind. Leaving her with this would be his small betrayal, after all of her many betrayals.

Suddenly, there was a curtain of sound, and the sorceress's voice was fainter than ever. "So be it. If you ever change your mind, you should seek the counsel of Aen Saevherne. Ask her about the Old Blood, and she will show you the way."

Harry didn't reply, but kept walking forward. At the precipice right before the path narrowed, he turned around, but the sorceress was already gone and he was left with nothing but golden silence. Aen Saevherne, she had said. Harry gave it a moment's thought, and then shook his head.

He'd had enough of sorceresses and their ilk for a lifetime.

Epilogue

Dusk came, and the rain fled.

Harry stood over the unconscious man. Two fingers reached down and pressed into the side of his throat, just under the jaw. Still alive, thought Harry, with some relief. His attention turned to the other three.

The first down had lost his head. A good strike, clean and painless. The aforementioned head laid five feet away; Harry recognised the face but nothing else. Not much further away was the jolly old baron, his eyes open and glassy. Harry clucked his tongue. Maybe, had Hermione not sent the djinn away, Harry might have ended up being the one to kill him. Regardless, on some level, he had felt kinship with the man, and was bitterly disappointed to see the state of him.

The sound of ragged breath disturbed Harry's silent vigil, and the witcher's eyes turned upon the last of the group, a brown haired man sat against a tree trunk, with a Zerrikanean sabre in his hand and an Ofieri kilij embedded deep in his gut.

"Master Dorcan," said Harry, folding his arms once he stood under the long shadows of the tree.

Dorcan smiled weakly. "Ah, yes, of course you'd survive. What rotten luck."

Harry shrugged. "You should be glad I came along: that's a cruel wound you have. Through the liver, this far from civilisation, it's a very slow death."

"It was the fucking Redanian of course. I kill him quick, but he gets this fucking thing in me and I've been sitting here for the better part of an hour now." He wheezed and spat out blood. "Where's a mage when you need one?"

"He's dead. She's had the sense to flee."

"Ha. Mages are always around to ask you for help, but never there when you need it."

"Too true."

"Do us a favour then, Witcher," Dorcan said, and Harry raised an eyebrow in interest. "Make it quick."

Harry made it quick. A good strike, clean and painless. And then, he took his sword back.

He made his way back to Viktor, still alive and still unconscious. Cursing his lot in life, Harry hefted the man up onto his shoulders, and struggled through the forest with the dead weight on his back. Eventually, he made it back to the cave where he and the Baron had stayed the night before. Harry dropped Viktor onto a pile of Novigradian crowns, which scattered in every direction. Most of which Harry picked up, and dropped in his coin pouch.

He set about stitching and bandaging a wound on the sellsword's torso with a kit he carried in a pouch on the strap of his scabbard and strips of fabric from the finery scattered about the cave, and worked tirelessly for the better part of an hour. When the hour passed, and the work was down, the crushing wall of weariness hit him. Exhausted, the witcher limped away from his charge and sat on a throne that was more stylistic than functional. Sleep came for him in an instant.

Hours later, he woke surrounded by black smoke, and the soft giggling of a young girl. He stared at the wisp, dumbly, for a moment, and then a grin ate at his face. Reaching into the pouch on the strap of his scabbard, Harry pulled out a small, stoppered bottle.

"How would you like to see the world with us, Sylvie?"

The decision wasn't hard, even for a child.

Somewhat renewed, Harry emerged from the cave while dawn was a long way off, and found himself surprised by the large form of Sleipnir, the horse he had bought with Hermione some weeks earlier. Next to him stood another horse, who whickered softly. Both of them were tied to a tree, and Harry had no illusions as to who was behind this. Patting the beast's long snout, he walked to its side, and in one swift motion, pulled up onto his back, where the saddle had already been fixed, ready and waiting.

There was much to recover in the wreckage of the Kaedweni camp: his armor, his silver sword, his potions and bombs. He only found the armor and swords, stashed away in Dorcan's tent, along with a few rations for the road. Still, Harry counted himself lucky, witcher's armor and weapons cost a fortune, and though the kaftan was torn and the silver sword might need sharpening, now he'd no longer have to spend his minor newfound wealth on replacements.

Satisfied with the haul, Harry returned to the cave, and found Viktor awake and sitting.

"Are you well enough to ride a horse?" Harry asked bluntly.

"I should think so," Viktor said slowly, as he moved his arms and flexed his muscles. "Vere is she?"

"Gone," Harry replied, and the burly man smiled humourlessly. "Mages are different, you know. Simple sellswords like us don't leave much of an impression, I'm afraid."

"Ve're not alike," Viktor snapped, but there was little venom in it.

"Sure we aren't," Harry said. He reached into a pack on Slepinir's saddle and pulled out some food he'd pilfered from Dorcan's tent: a loaf of crusty bread and cheese. He gave them to Viktor, along with a full canteen of water. "You'll eat, and then we'll ride."

Viktor looked at the rations with annoyance, and then, perhaps realising beggars couldn't be choosers, he ate ravenously. "Ride vere?" he asked, mouth full.

"I intend to go to the nearest port and sail for Lan Exeter. I imagine that'll be far enough from the business of mages for now. Once we get out of the mountains, you're free to go wherever you wish."

The sellsword took a long drink of the canteen, and then sighed when he swallowed it down. He stood, and picked up his scarred armor, laid in neat pile near the gold he'd used as a bed.

"Okay," he said. "Let's go."

A/N: Sorry for being super late, but you know how it goes.

Chapter Notes:

- I struggled forever (months, actually) on how to properly write this chapter, particularly where it came to Hermione. I wanted to strike a balance between between writing her as sympathetic person who wants to do the right thing, and contrast it against the her "ends justify the means" philosophy. I'm still not sure if I succeeded. Some might see this as a departure from her character in the original series and instead more parallelism with Yennefer's greyer morality, but I also think this is a fair evolution of Hermione in a world much more brutal than ours, and without the influences of Harry and Ron in her youth. Honestly, all three characters are in a way deficient compared to their canon counterparts—mainly because they weren't around to change each other for the better.

- To showcase what a problem this chapter was to write, I had to entirely rewrite the ending of this chapter. It originally ended with Hermione convincing Harry to come with her to reverse the djinn's curse, and the epilogue would have put them in Novigrad. But, Harry agreeing to that felt wildly out of character as I got further and further into the chapter. And eventually I decided that while his disgust and attraction toward Hermione sort of warred with each other, the disgust won out, and he put up the "greedy witcher" facade to hide that he had no desire to pile more misery atop an already miserable situation. Killing Dorcan was a mercy, but fighting Hermione solves nothing and helps no one.

All in all, I think this arc might have suffered from a fair bit of scope creep. It was originally only intended to be slightly longer than The Lesser Kindness, but I definitely might have bit off more than I could chew by widening the scope of the arc so early into the story. Next arc will almost certainly be something shorter and simpler, much closer to The Lesser Kindness than The Last Wish.

Thanks for reading guys, the next interlude with Harry, Geralt, and Dandelion should be out fairly soon,

Geist.