A magnificent tune eradicated the blanket of silence that encompassed the forest. Soft melody emitted from a wisely crafted flute. Expert fingers blocked openings then hastily shifted to other holes to achieve different pitches. The instrumentalist sat upon a tree trunk with his left eye closed and at an inclined position. His sharp features, crimson headscarf, which covered an unsightly scar on the right side of his visage, and attire was a dead giveaway that this man was the commando of the infamous Scoia'tael, Iorveth. Removing the wind instrument from his lips as he rose to his feet, carefully positioned in the middle of the sturdy trunk. Small group consisting of four people approached the clearing and tilted their heads up at the suspicious man.

Satisfied sigh escaped the witcheress' lips as the corners curved upwards. Utterly aware of the source of the harmonious melody, yet she still marveled over the man's natural talent. The witcheress began, voice but a simple murmur, "All forms of danger reside in these wilds." Golden optics latched on to the Special Forces commander standing at her right. Coquette gave a daring smirk as she returned her attention to the man standing upon the thick trunk.

"Vernon Roche," Iorveth bellowed, "commander of the Blue Stripes, hunter of elves, and murderer of women and children!"

"Iorveth—a regular whore-son," Vernon retorted.

"I've long waited for your arrival. Premeditated ways to lure you into my forest…yet you came on your own volition."

"You aided the man who slew my king!" Vernon responded once more.

"King or beggar—I don't care—one d'hoine less!"

As the two bickered amongst each other Geralt mumbled, "We need him alive."

"Keep him distracted," Triss followed up as she covertly prepped a spell.

The commander of the Blue Stripes then shouted, "Climb down and we'll finish this."

"I will not duel you, Roche, for you lack honor. You're an insect waiting to be crushed underneath the weight of my boot."

"Seems like you spout the same old elven drivel," Geralt interjected.

"…What do you mean witcher?"

"I've witnessed your kind before, proud Aen Seidhe concealing themselves within the stomach of the forests. You mask your helplessness with increasing acts of cruelty."

"I aided the assassination of Roche's king. How could you possible consider that helpless? Or, maybe in your eyes you see me as a terrorist. No one else will grant us rights. No one else will see our constant struggle…our plight, so we must take our freedom. We must take it for ourselves!"

"Ooh," the witcher began, "but it's truly not about race, is it? You're only here because someone more powerful told you to be. You stand in this specific juncture because someone else is pulling the strings. Before it was Nilfgaard…and now it is someone else. Your clever words will not mask this obvious truth."

"That was in the past, witcher. No one will ever use the Scoia'tael again!"

"Are you addressing me, yourself…or the archers hiding in those shrubs?"

That was the signal. An electrical current flowed from the palm of her hand and shot at the elf's feet as he stumbled down the wooden trunk. Several arrows followed suit, coming from multiple angles and threatened to claim the quartet's lives. Without hesitation and quick thinking, Triss muttered a series of incantations and a bright orange barrier formed around them. The arrows dispersed into celestial butterflies.

"Heh, nice," Valeska stated as one of the Scoia'tael charged within the barrier but was quickly disarmed. Long appendage rose as the tip of her boot violently collided into his skull with an unsettling crack as he flipped backwards and out of the orange sphere.

Though Triss was a powerful sorceress, her usage of magic still took a toll on her body. Blood dripped from her nose as she became lightheaded and Geralt caught her from falling.

"We need to get her up...Geralt, draw your sword. I need your help," Valeska ordered calmly.

Vernon Roche slung the woman over his shoulder as they continued to fend off the Scoia'tael.

The sound of swords clanking and bloodcurdling shouts echoed behind the commander of the Blue Stripes and the sorceress who dangled upside down complaining about the hand, which he placed on her rump.

Valeska tumbled closer to Geralt, sweep kicking one of the Scoia'tael members who threatened to back-stab her comrade. She then followed with a swift punt to the man's side as he slid across the ground.

"Seems like you're a little rusty," the witcheress teased as she rose her hand up; an invisible force blasted one of their attackers back. The opposite arm was tugged harshly as she was forced behind her male counterpart, a mixture of orange, yellow, and red engulfed the Scoia'tael members. Vibrant flames leaped and dance across flammable surfaces, melting off flesh.

Physical contact sparked a brief glimpse of something. Clearly, he was no seer capable of having visions...so; it must have been an event that occurred in the past. Inkling in the pit of his stomach hinted that he was missing something extremely important.

The woman's fingers fully extended and touched the spherical barrier, solidifying it. As several Scoia'tael members approached, they were immediately repelled backwards by an unseen force.

What is this feeling, Geralt wondered.

Quartet reached the edges of Flotsam before the Scoia'tael finally retreated once hearing the sound of bells ringing.

"Squirrels!" a man shouted.

"Why the hell are they here?!" a hint of panic resided in a woman's voice.

The remaining Scoia'tael members retreated back to the forest when the quartet reached Flotsam. In the distance a large man, fitting the description of the king slayer stood atop a cliff beside Iorveth.

"Do you know him?"

"Yes, we met once before, but his memory is lost to him."

"...And the woman?"

"The sorceress?" the witcher said quizzically.

"No, though I'm pretty sure she has been traveling with our new friend," he paused. Uncertain of whether the king slayer truly had no clue as to whom or whether he was playing coy.

"Ah..." the king slayer began. "You mean the witcheress. We have met, in fact."

"What do you know about her? Will she throw a wrench in our plans?" Iorveth inquired.

It was difficult to answer. As he watched the quartet usher into town, there was a brief moment when the female witcher peered into the distance and caught glimpse of him. In that moment a ton of baggage on both of their shoulders, and almost as if they were synced felt chills running up and down their spines.

Things just became a bit more interesting, was the unvoiced consensus.

Years Ago

Sizable hands planted themselves on flawless skin and gradually moved up long toned legs that traveled for miles. Clear beads dripped from the woman's silver strands. She leaned forward, medium hands placed on the sides of the man's visage, making eye contact. There was no doubt in her mind that this man was beyond engrossed by her, as she was to him. She needed to maintain control.

"Letho," she uttered huskily. Every fiber of her being was at war with the spontaneous decision, but she would be completely free. The sorceress wouldn't need her blood anymore. From a single act alone it would lose all forms of purity and her use to the sorceress, who strung her along for so long. Exposed back made contact with the damp ground as the large man hovered over the woman.

This won't change me, she thought, attempting to reassure herself. In truth there were doors closing at her back and new ones opening that she was incapable of seeing.